After lunch, we went upstairs to look at the website. I had created a page listing all her pieces with associated email links identifying the work if someone was interested. I didn't have enough information to create a proper shopping cart but could do that later if this first bit produced any results. I had put the photos in place but needed names and a short description for each piece. Mom proved to be excellent at dreaming up catchy names and artsy bits to say about them. It came naturally and it dawned on me that this was what she was thinking when each piece was created. She was simply recalling how she felt during that process. I marveled at the inspired look on her face while this happened, though I must admit, my eyes strayed downward several times to appreciate the heart she had put into it too. Mom's shirt was open to just below where her breasts swept off her chest and the sides were alternately covered and revealed, sometimes in quick succession but other times mostly covered and then mostly exposed. I even managed to glimpse the side of her right nipple several times.
Mom was ecstatic when we finished and asked when the first sale was likely to happen.
"It will take a while Mom, maybe a week or two before the site even gets noticed. We have to market it first."
Mom responded with a simple, "Oh," but quickly recaptured her enthusiasm. "Well, I should get back to work."
She started to get up, then turned back to face me, twisting her chair toward me a little.
"I know you're still worried about me, sweetheart, but I really am ok."
I started to protest but Mom interrupted. "I saw that you were worried a few times."
I guess staring at Mom's tits was evidence of me being 'worried'.
"Look, honey. Would it make you feel better if I checked myself several times a day? It isn't necessary, but would it make you feel better?"
I nodded as if greatly relieved. I had better act really worried or I would sure as hell be in deep shit.
Mom pulled her shirt apart, almost exposing her right tit in its entirety. She felt underneath, her fingers searching for and finding the little lump. I stared at her exposed nipple which, as Mom's fingers lifted her breast, pushed magically upward. My mouth dried and I found it difficult to breathe. I guess I looked pretty anxious along with sucking in my breath because Mom reacted right away. She sat up straight and smiled encouragingly at me.
"Would it make you feel better to check it yourself, honey?"
I looked into Mom's face, thankful for my slow comprehension and the blank look it provided for my face to wear.
"Check it myself?" I finally managed to say, afraid to believe what I thought I was hearing.
"Yes. Here." Mom grabbed my hand, as she had the day before, and placed it on her breast. "Go ahead, honey."
My fingers tentatively closed around Mom's beautiful globe, capturing the meatiest part, and slid underneath in search of the little lump. I wasn't as adept at finding it as Mom and she had to interrupt my search.
"It's here, honey," she said, guiding my finger to the right spot. "See how little it is? It's even hard to find."
Mom pulled my hand away in hers. A sense of disappointment welled up in me but it was squashed by the sheer joy of handling Mom's tit and the knowledge that this could be a daily event if not more often. I was thrilled. I was in heaven. Could it get any better?
"Here, honey. Check the other one to satisfy yourself it's ok too."
Mom dragged my hand under her shirt to her other breast and held it there. Immediately, I slipped my fingers around its orbit, gently searching for telltale little bits of hardness. I couldn't find any but Mom didn't interrupt me this time, instead letting me check longer to assure myself that she was safe. The feel of her skin made my fingers tingle, a sensation that ran up my arm and made it tremble.
"Well, I guess I'm good to go until tonight," Mom joked as she got up to leave.
"Until tonight," I repeated, not meaning anything.
"Tonight," Mom repeated. "I usually check myself before going to bed."
Belatedly, I turned to watch her go but only managed the briefest glimpse of her shapely bottom. Could women get lumps there, I wondered. I turned to the computer and opened Google.
Mom came downstairs and presented herself to me in the living room that night after she and Dad had gone upstairs to go to bed.
"I almost forgot about my check-up," she explained her reappearance.
She stood expectantly in front of me in her bathrobe, still cinched tight by a bow in the terry cloth belt.
I got up and stood close to her. Mom smiled but didn't make a move to take my hand like she had before, or to offer her breasts for inspection. I glanced up the stairs.
"Your father's in bed," Mom said.
"Oh," I responded. Tentatively, I stretched out my hand and tried to pull the lapels of Mom's robe apart without success.
"You have to undo the belt, silly."
I pulled one end of the belt, expecting it to come completely undone but was left in a knot as often happened when I rushed to get my running shoes off.
"Damn," I muttered.
I struggled with the knot while Mom waited. Nervously, I glanced several times up the stairs but Mom didn't say anything, nor did she look impatient.
Finally, I got the bloody thing undone and pulled Mom's robe apart. Underneath, she wore a long nightgown with a long V open to her waist that was held together by three sets of laces, the uppermost already undone. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to check through the thin material or try to get my hand in through the top. I debated for several seconds while Mom continued to wait patiently, then abruptly tugged the end of the second lacy bow. It came apart easily. There was now plenty of room for my hand to slip inside but I moved to the final bow instead, picking up its ends in my trembling fingers, now overly eager upon the realization that Mom was going to let me get inside the nightgown. Could I undo the whole thing? Mom's smile widened but I still chickened out.
I released the last set of laces and moved my hand up. With a final glance upstairs, I slipped my hand under Mom's nightgown onto her right breast. I knew where the lump was now and went directly to it, grunting in satisfaction that it was still small, but then moved on, ostensibly searching with prodding fingers for other lumps. I felt Mom's right breast for as long as I thought I could get away with it before moving to the equally exquisite left and checked it out for just as long, managing to brush my palm over Mom's erect nipple.
When I was done, Mom said, "Thank you, sweetheart," and re-tied the laces, muttering under her breath as she did so, "It's nice to see at least one man in this house concerned about my health." Then, she smiled sweetly, leaned forward to give me a kiss, and said, "Nighty, night," like she used to when I was little. As she climbed the stairs, she cinched her robe up tight.
The next day, I asked about the sculptures hidden under the tarp in the corner. Mom hadn't heard me step into the studio so I was able to watch her preen in front of the mirror, arching her back, pushing her arms up and bending them so she could play with the hair behind her neck, and, best of all, thrusting her breasts upward. She twisted her torso to and fro and glanced often between her refection and the piece she was sculpting. I startled her when I spoke.
"Can I see them?"
"Oh, Ben. You gave me a start for sure. See what?" Mom's lashes dipped. Had she glanced down at her chest?
"The ones you're hiding from me." I nodded toward the corner.
"Oh, those. I'm not hiding them," she said, defensively.
"Then, I can see them?" I walked toward the tarp.
"No, Ben. Don't."
I stopped. "Why, what's so terrible about them. If they're not up to snuff, we should move them to make room for the stuff you're doing now. It's great."
I started for the corner again.
"They're not duds, they're nudes," Mom explained.
I was astonished. "Nudes?"
"Yes, nudes. Well, bare-breasted, anyway." Mom looked down and blushed.
"You don't want me to see them because they're bare-breasted? Mom, I'm twenty-two." I started to move again.
"Wait. It's just that, it's just...well, they're of me."
"Mom, they're just statues."
"I know, but still."
"Mom, I you let me check your breasts for lumps last night, the real ones, not replicas."
"I know but that's a medical thing. This is different."
"Ok," I put up my hands, relenting.
Somehow, it didn't seem appropriate now to ask Mom if I could check her breasts which is what I'd come out to the studio hoping to do. I hung out for a bit, then quietly slipped away. I think Mom was relieved to see me go.
I was surprised when Mom slipped downstairs that night to present herself to me again. She wore an enigmatic smile the whole time I loosened and parted her robe and also while I slipped the second lace apart. This time, I quickly moved to the third and last bow and undid it too. Mom gave no indication of whether she approved or disapproved. As soon as it was done, I spread Mom's nightgown apart, peeling it back to her arms. I didn't need to open it that wide but Mom didn't object. My mouth dropped open at the unimpeded beauty of her perfectly shaped breasts jutting with surprising firmness from her chest. I slipped my hands over them, both at the same time, fingers first, followed by sliding palms, a whole hand check-up. My fingers strayed lightly all around Mom's tits before I used my palms to press them against her chest.
"I did a little reading," I explained. "You're supposed to flatten them so the smaller lumps will show."
This was bullshit of course which I suspect Mom knew but I felt I needed to provide an explanation and that was the best I could come up with. Squishing them for a mammary exam was one thing but squashing them with your palms was quite another. Still, Mom let me get away with it. She let me check her out for the longest time yet and when I was finished and stepped back, I thought that Mom's nipples looked more stimulated than when I had started but I couldn't be sure because Mom closed her nightgown quickly.
When she leaned forward to kiss me, she whispered, "I guess I'm ready for your father, now."
Those words reverberated around my skull for hours that night, 'ready for your father now'. Was she teasing me? I pictured her presenting her stiff nipples to my father, nipples I had prepared, the lucky bastard. I strained my ears for the sound of love-making but I didn't hear anything definitive which both pleased and disappointed me. Eventually, I satisfied myself by rubbing my dick until I spilled my seed in my shorts.
The next day, Mom wore the old designer jeans again, topped by a loose shirt. The shirt had been buttoned right up until Dad left for work but when Mom returned from kissing him goodbye at the door, it was half undone. I tried to initiate a check-up but Mom spurned me, saying she had to get to work right away. When I tried again at lunch time, she flatly refused, saying that once a day should be enough. I was crushed. What had I done? She seemed to be okay with my extended check-up the night before, even pleased, and possibly excited. Was that it? Had I crossed a boundary that betrayed the sexual nature of my 'medical' examination? I hoped not.
Later that afternoon, Mom called me out to the studio. She was in the corner, holding one end of the tarp.
"Help me move these, will you Ben?"
I moved quickly to comply, not questioning her change of heart. A dozen miniature statues were revealed, all of them of a woman in various sitting poses, mostly with an arched back and uplifted arms and breasts, and hair that fell to barely graze an elegant pair of shoulders bracketing a sleek neck. The breasts were well-matched to the woman's slender form and perfectly shaped except for a tiny lump underneath the right breast, almost like a flaw in workmanship, or a signature.
"Mom, these are great. We've got to get them on the website right away."
"Oh, no. These aren't for sale."
"Not for sale? You're kidding?"
"I couldn't. It would be too embarrassing."
"Mom, these will sell. The website isn't getting any traffic and this will attract lots of viewers."
"But that's so... pornographic."
"Mom, come on. All the great sculptors did nudes. Some of them, nothing but. You have to let me put these up. You need to earn enough to at least partly pay for all this or you'll eventually have to go back to selling insurance."
"Ok, but I don't want see anyone who wants to buy them."
"Don't worry, I'll look after that."
"And the wheeling and dealing."
"And I'll take care of the business too," I agreed.
It was harder getting the names and stories for these new pieces from Mom but I was glad I pushed her. The stories were incredibly touching. This was good stuff. I took great pain to get the pictures just right but I wasn't completely satisfied. As an avid amateur photographer, I wanted the lighting to be just perfect but the conditions weren't right. Still, I managed to get a sufficiently decent interplay of light and shadow for each piece to show well.
Mom noted my disappointment so I took great pains to explain it to her lest she think it reflected her workmanship which was superb. She understood in the end, leaving the discussion with a portentous comment.
"Too bad you can't put the light and shadow right on the statue. Then it wouldn't matter where you took the pictures."
I worked on the website that afternoon adding a bit about the shock of cancer and mentioned the tiny lump lest some mistake it for poor craftsmanship instead of a signature.
That night, Mom was late coming downstairs. Given what had happened that morning and afternoon, I figured the check-ups were over. I was mildly surprised and greatly relieved when I saw her descending in her robe. I got up to meet her so stopped in the middle of the living room to wait for me with that strange smile on her face.
She spoke as I untangled the belt on her robe, "Your father's fallen asleep already."
The fact that she pointed that out to me made the hair on my arms tingle. Why had she felt it necessary for me to know that? Perhaps because I was thinking so hard about that, I was slower than the night before to get Mom's robe and nightgown undone. When I finally had her breasts exposed and my hands enveloping them, Mom whispered, "If you're only going to do this once a day, you'd best do it carefully."
I nodded but didn't look at her for I was already busy checking her breasts. In the interests of thoroughness, I allowed my fingers to slip up onto the top of Mom's breasts and even let them brush over her nipples, which were indeed stiff. My examination turned into an extended, continuous caress, barely disguisable as anything but. When Mom finally stopped me, at least five minutes later, we were both breathing more rapidly and swaying unsteadily on our feet. Mom pushed my hands away but she didn't step back or force me away.
"Did you know women can get lumps on their bottoms too?" I suddenly blurted out.
That had just popped into my head.
"No, really?" Mom whispered, still swaying on her feet, as was I.
"Yeah, especially if you've had a lump on your breast."
This was pure bullshit and I was sure Mom likely knew it as such but I still said it with conviction.
"Have you checked yours?" I asked, my hands already sliding down her shoulders and then jumping to her waist, inside the robe.
"No, I didn't even know about it," Mom replied.
"I better check, then," I mumbled, my hands slipping around the curve of Mom's waist, sliding easily over the silky material of her nightgown.
Gently, I urged Mom closer to me, pressing my hands into the small of her back. When she was almost touching me her arms lifted until her hands clutched my shoulders. I moved my hands lower, palms flat on Mom's back, sliding down until each was poised at the top of her buttocks. I paused for a moment, scared to continue without permission, then, when it didn't come, proceeded anyway.
Oh, what a gentle, erotic slope my hands traveled, a curve as magnificent as the underside of her breasts and just as perfect. How magically her buns filled my cupped hands, how sensuous they felt, soft yet firm, quivering with a life that couldn't be contained. Oh, if only I could touch them directly, sense their bare skin, I would be in heaven. I reached the bottom and curled my fingers underneath, testing the heft of each slightly sagging swell and, sighing, lowering my head to Mom's shoulder. I squeezed and pulled them closer, bringing Mom into full frontal contact.
"Ben," Mom whispered.
"Ben," she repeated, more firmly.
"Yes," I replied groggily.
"I think, perhaps, we should finish this tomorrow."
Mom's hands were gently urging me away.
I brought my left hand up to Mom's waist, preparing to part, but the right lingered. Slowly, I allowed its fingers to curl completely around Mom's left buttock until the tips were pressed into the base of the divide between her cheeks and then, just as slowly, I deliberately raised my hand, dragging my fingertips up the crevice that stretched above.
"Ok, tomorrow," I whispered.
Thankfully, Mom wasn't angry. She stretched up to kiss me on the neck, then lifted higher to kiss me on my ear, her slightly moist lips leaving a hot trail between.
She was gone and I was left with the smell of her hair and her perfume. It filled my nostrils for hours after that as I dreamed of her and eventually squeezed my fluid out into my shorts for a second night.
"You're not serious?" Mom was aghast. "You don't really think I'm going to let you smear that mess all over me, do you?"
"But you're the model. You look at yourself in the mirror as you work. It has to be on you."
"Why can't you just paint the statues?"
"Two reasons," I explained. "First, nobody wants a painted statue."
"I guess," Mom concurred. "And second?"
"And second," I continued, "it's what you see that counts. You'll see a different array of light and shadow and that will change what you create. Don't you see?"
"Yes, Mom," replied, her fingertip in her mouth, eyes narrowing as she thought. "I do see."
Mom stood up. "Go ahead, then, paint me," she said, holding her arms out at her sides.
"Not here, and not wearing all those clothes."
"Where, then? You can't put that on me in the house. It will ruin the floor if it spills."
"Right out there then, on the grass."
"On the grass? I'm not taking my clothes off in the back yard."
"Just your top, and your jeans."
"I don't need to take off my jeans. I only do women sitting."
"Yes, but the tops of the thighs and the sides of the hips are showing. They need to be painted too."
"What if someone comes?"
"Who ever comes here during the day?"
Reluctantly, Mom acquiesced. "Alright, but just down to my bra and panties, or maybe I should put on a bathing suit."
"No, Mom. We don't have time. We need to be finished before Dad gets home. You can imagine what he'd say if he knew you were painting yourself."
Mom walked out to the middle of the yard, kicked off her flip flops and loosened her jeans, then pushed them down her legs. She kicked them off, undoing the buttons on her blouse and letting it fall to the ground as she sank to her knees wearing only a brief pair of panties. Not a thong, mind you, but a nice small triangular pair of black panties with narrow ears that rose up and over the swell of her hips. The fleshy part of her ass bulged out a bit under the edge of the black panties.