Edited by Femadorer
[ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER THE AGE OF 18. All characters are fictional and any resemblance to real or other fictional characters is coincidence and unintentional.]
Growing up in my house was about as interesting as white bread or vanilla ice cream -- bland and completely uninteresting. That changed four years ago when my mother kicked out my father. Mom had grown tired of his cheating and finally said, 'No Mas!' Out the door went dad. In a bizarre twist, my older sister blamed our mother for kicking out our father. In anger, my sister moved out herself. Since our father didn't want custody of either of us, my sister moved in with a girlfriend of hers.
At home, it was only my mom and I. The dynamics of my family changed overnight. Yesterday I had been an afterthought, today I was the only child. Fortunately, mom already had a successful job; with that and the child support, our lifestyle didn't drastically change. Financially, the only change was my getting a job as a nighttime stock boy. This allowed me to have some of my own money without having to ask.
The real change was that it would only be mom and I from now on. Beforehand, it was always her and my sister going out shopping; going to the movies for the latest chick flick or going wherever. Honestly, I didn't mind because the idea of spending hours shopping for shoes and clothes weirded me out. I was left to my own devices, which I favored over spending four hours trying on clothes and then another three hours in the shoe department to find the perfect of shoes to go with the outfits they just bought -- seriously?!
Yet, I also couldn't understand why my father would be a cheating bastard. I'll admit to being biased but I always thought my mother was gorgeous. She has that classic Spanish beauty being from Spain herself -- her padre Spanish and madre Moroccan. As such, mom has that long, sultry, raven hair, atop a 5'4" frame that she fought to prevent from spreading. I guess she was about 150 pounds, meaning she had a little meat on her bones but you would call her 'thick', unlike her sisters who were losing the fight.
I knew my mother was considered pretty. I had overheard the older males in my neighborhood call my mom a MILF. What was especially enchanting were those piercing green-flecked eyes. When she looked at you, you knew it. Mom one day told me about how important it is to remain as slim as possible in the business world. Although it's biased -- slim, in-shape women are equated to the perception of a successful businesswoman. So she'd be doing whatever the current exercise fad was, such as Pilates or Tai chi.
In fact, one day a friend and I saw my father with one of his whores. My friend said to me, "I don't get it, your mom's way hotter. She's a MILF." I didn't know if it was a compliment or if I should punch him out. "Thanks," I said and then delivered a right hook to his jaw.
It was to become just the two of us, Mom and I. At first, it was kinda awkward. In a way, we'd been two strangers living in the same house. My mother began taking an interest in me and we clashed at first.
"You should cut your hair. What boy has long hair nowadays? You should cut it short to something stylish and presentable." The tyrant was suddenly concerned about my long hair. My hair hadn't seen anything but trimmings since I was twelve! Now years later it reached down to my waist.
"I wish you would wear something other than black," she nagged. "Why are all your clothes black? Who bought you all these clothes? Why is it all black t-shirts and jeans? How come you have no nice clothes or shoes?" the tyrant demanded as she searched my closet.
"I don't think you should dress this way for school. You just dress for success, wearing shoes, slacks and sweaters to school." I was speechless; did she realize I attend public school not Snobbish Academy for the Spoiled and Pampered?
"I'll take you shopping for some new clothes and pay for everything but only if you dress as someone named Davis San Vitale the Third should." The tyrant offered. I passed on that offer. In my mind the first 2 Davis San Vitale's weren't champions to emulate.
One day the tyrant freaked out when a friend of hers told her that I listened to Goth music. Heaven forbid!!! Mom had heard my music plenty of times before but when she heard the term Goth there was a problem. Actually, it was this conflict that was the turning point in our contentious relationship.
"I know what Goth music is," she claimed. "What I've heard you listening to wasn't Goth. You only listen to that dangerous music when you have your iPhone and those damn earbuds stuck in your ears. You don't want me to hear those songs about killing people, committing suicide or doing drugs. You think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know what's going on?"
To prove her wrong I challenged her. "You're way off base. I dare you. Go onto any Internet radio site and to select a Goth station." We were arguing in the kitchen where she has her work-station/desk with a computer and speakers. She did and luck would have it the first song they played was, 'I Walk Alone' by Tarja -- a song my mother had heard before and told me she liked. The next song was with another female vocalist and a symphony behind the drums and guitars. For the next hour, we listened to song after song. As I saw her vibeing with some of the songs, I tried to resist getting too snug. Finally, the tyrant surprised me. "I was wrong. I'm sorry."
After this, we began talking instead of butting heads. I discovered that she was actually a pretty interesting person. I learned she was a baseball fan -- even able to do a scorecard. That as a little girl she used to go to ballgames with Papi, her dad. However, my father felt it wasn't appropriate for women to follow sports and to have harmony in the house she conceded to his will. [Obviously, my father has some strange beliefs.]
My own social awkwardness extended to being a stats junkie. I can get fanatical about fantasy baseball and football. I taught my fantasy girl how fantasy baseball worked. While she more enjoyed following a real team, she played with enthusiasm. It took a while to overcome my father's brainwashing but eventually we started going to games. Mom would do the box score and I was amazed at the pleasure she got from this.
At the game, she would pull her hair into a ponytail and through the opening in the back of a baseball cap. This would be the only time I ever saw her with a hat on. I thought it was exotic to watch especially since she was oblivious to how sexy any girl looks when they do that. She was clueless how hot she looked especially when while concentrating on her box score she'd stick her tongue out the side of her mouth. [I'd be secretly hoping for some bizarre play, such as a triple-play by a single fielder.] I found it charming when she'd start counting in Spanish without even realizing she was doing so.
In fact, I started to pay my mom more attention, a lot more. Even as I realized that she was more attractive than any of the other women in the neighborhood, I was actually able to hold conversations with her. This was something I was unable to do with the girls at high school. Oftentimes I found myself with some girl I found attractive. As long as I said nothing, I was fine. Yet when forced to say something I'd usually say the worst things possible. I had mastered the silent, brooding, dark image - yet even then girls expect you to say something. It was at that point they discover that you're not deep but just an awkward teen.
19 and in college, women were even more intimidating. Yet, mom and I were comfortable with each other. I knew that not only did I love her but was also in love with her -- I was in love with my mom! I figured that was a hopeless fantasy; a fantasy that I had to hide, keep privately locked inside. Still I loved watching her.
By now, she had started doing yoga. Without her knowing it her outfits were boner inducing. Mom had the yoga DVD's and she'd roll out her yoga mat and begin doing her exercises. It was seeing her in those yoga pants -- while supposedly loose fitting they had an elastic waistband causing them to conform to her hips and luscious ass. Even better was seeing her in one of those sports bras. Although designed to be unsexy, seeing it containing mom's abundant tit-flesh was enough for me. Sometimes, when I felt particularly bold I'd even join her -- my loose basketball shorts concealing my raging hard-on.
But the best was watching her iron. For some reason, I was always home when she would do her ironing - at night as she watched TV. I'd always join her in the living room but I wasn't in the living room to watch TV. I was there to watch her!
This was because she would stand behind the ironing board with her back to the wall -- thus facing me. She'd always take off her blouse. There was my mom standing there in her bra, ironing. Sounds boring and unsexy, huh? To most, it probably would be but to a lil deviant like me it was the greatest show on earth.
Unfortunately, she always wore those bras that are a yard of fabric and designed only for function. Still seeing mom's breasts squeezed into a 36B bra was mesmerizing. You could tell her breasts were in constant combat with those bras wanting to overflow over the top, out the sides, or just burst out completely. Throughout the years, I had been able to sneak two actual glimpses of my mom's breast. Those images were imprinted on my mind. They were big, full and jutting; her areolas were maybe 2 inches across, with little bumps; and her nipples were the size of small gumdrops.
Even with us spending so much time together, I still don't know how it had happened but a bunch of times we'd be at the mall. Somehow, I would be with her as she looked for bras in the full-figure section of a department store. Every time, I'd try to point out a red or black or some attractive bra in the brands she favored in a 36B size (this is how I knew her size.) Instead, mom always bought white or beige [which companies sometimes lie, calling them nude.] Still being surrounded by bras and panties with my mom was enough to give me a stiffie plus fantasies for later that night.
Finally, one day it happened!
Yet again, we were in a department store as she looked at bras. I saw a sign announcing, "Free bra fittings by a professional fitter." I suggested she should make use of this offer. The idea of another woman holding her breasts thrilled me -- even if it was just a fitting and I would not get to watch the show.
I could imagine it, my mom and some woman in the fitting room. Mom would take off her shirt and then her bra. The woman would be holding mom's tits, trying to get to wrap her hands around them, weighing them, judging their size. I was getting a woodie just imagining it.
At first mom said no. "What's the big deal? It's free! You might as well take advantage of it. What's there to lose?" I asked.
When she looked over to where they were doing the fitting, she saw no one in line. She asked, "You don't mind waiting?" I just shrugged.
We walked over to the fitting rooms. When the fitter saw us heading over, she lit up with a smile. She grabbed my mom and pulled her into the fitting room while a salesperson intercepted me. I was stuck at the register with an attractive 20-something year old woman in the lingerie section. I was paralyzed, unable to speak a sentence.
After an eternity, the fitter came out of the dressing rooms and said something to the salesgirl. "Excuse me," the salesgirl said and left. I was left standing with a 50-something year old overly made-up woman who may have just touched my mom's boobs - I stood there mute.
Finally, the salesgirl returned with a bunch of bras which she handed to the fitter. The fitter went back into the dressing room; the salesgirl resumed her post at the register; and I continued my mime impersonation. After another eternity, mom and the fitter came out of the dressing room. Oddly, they both were laughing and smiling. My over-active imagination kicked into hyper-drive; especially when I heard mom saying thank you. 'Could they have?' I wondered.
Mom walked away. In my daze, I had to hurry up to catch to her. She stopped at a rack of bras and started looking through the bras. When I caught up to her, she turned to me saying, "You were right."
'Huh?' I wondered.
Seeing the confused look on my face mom explained, "I'm not a 36B anymore. That's why my bras have been bothering me. I couldn't believe I could be that size when she told me [what size?] I'd always thought only porn stars and Wide-Loads like my sisters could be that big!" and she lightheartedly laughed.
"But when I tried on some of those bras, it was like, 'Wow! What a difference!'
"Not only did they fit better but they had more support. I've never worn an underwire before. I always stupidly thought they were somewhat slutty. That an underwire bra was just for push-ups. Do I need a push-up? But she said with my size I should start [what size?] and what a difference. They were so much more comfortable. Now I have to get a whole new set. I hope you don't mind..."
Finally, she paused long enough for me to ask the question that was killing me. I pleaded, "What size are you?"
"Would you believe I'm a 38D? God, I can't believe I'm a D cup," she merrily laughed. I was in ecstasy hearing her say that. She laughed again and teasingly looked at me, "Now that I'm a D-cup maybe I could star in some of those videos you like to watch."
I was dumbstruck - how could she know about that? My mouth must've been hanging open because mom punched me on the shoulder mischievously saying, "I was kidding. Come on, help me find some nice bras." Off she went searching through the racks.
After my senses returned, I wandered around attempting to help. We discovered that 38D wasn't a common size; plenty of 38C's and 40DD's. It was arousing to be pawing through rack after rack of bras, in search of a 38D -- for my mom!
In frustration, she jokingly called out to me, "Maybe I should get implants so I'm a 44DD? What do you think? I'd have really big boobs then, huh? You'd like that and I'd have no problem finding my size." Thank God she was a few racks away because as she said that I got so hard I had to reach into my jeans to adjust.
After getting my hand out of pants, I flippantly called back, "Wait, I'll get them for you as a Christmas present."
"You're such a wonderful son."
At one point, I was looking through a rack while mom was next to me; however, her back was to me with her facing the other direction. I found a bunch of 38D's that were hotter looking than mom wears especially this shiny pink one that I could imagine her in. Turning to her and holding up the pink one I humorously announced, "Here's some your size."
Turning and amused at seeing me holding that pink one, she chuckled. "Who am I gonna wear that for?"
With the silliness that had been passing between us, I joked back, "You can wear it for me when you're ironing."
"I'll think about it," my fantasy laughed. Putting the pink bra back on the rack, we continued looking. I was left wondering, 'Would she?"
After another ten minutes, mom called over to me. "Hey, I'm almost done. Why don't you go and get in line for a table at the restaurant. By the time I'm done here you should be seated."
Having spent more than an hour looking at bras, the fun had worn itself out. "Ok," I said.
"Thanks sweetie," mom called out to me as I left. Then she added, "I love you." Walking away, I thought, 'Boy, she must be in good mood. The last time she said 'I love you' to me was probably at my 5th year Christmas. That was 14 years ago, and because Grandma and Papi were there and she had to.' I wondered, 'what's her deal?' This left me to pondering an unanswerable question as I stood in line.
With a woman's sense of timing mom showed up just as I was being seated. She had two bags and I wondered just how many bras she had gotten. Playfully I asked, "Got enough?"
"Don't want me flopping about, do you?" she shot back. I was dumbstruck. Not knowing what to say I did the safe thing and said nothing. Thankfully, she asked about the upcoming draft. We ate lunch, talked sports, and laughed as we argued over who the Giants should draft.
When there was a lull in the conversation mom cupped her breasts, lifting them up and bouncing them. Devilishly she asked, "So what do you think about your mom being a D-cup? It's official, your mom has big boobs." Besides my cock screaming for release from my jeans I was too stunned to do anything.
"Ah, I'm just having some fun watching you squirm. Don't worry, I already know," she trailed off.
'Know what?' my mind screamed. I wanted to ask but didn't dare.
Finally, lunch was over and we left. Being a gentleman, I grabbed her shopping bags. As we began to walk in the mall mom put her arm in mine. I was peculiarly aware of her next to me, touching me. It wasn't from embarrassment but this was a first. Since I'm taller she had to almost skip along to keep up with me. Holding onto my arm, she seemed girlishly playful. It seemed as if she was bouncing along on purpose. I couldn't help but watch her bounce along, enjoying the show. I'd never seen my mother like this.
Our shopping ended with us visiting another department store that had a whites sale. We escaped having only bought new towels and soaps. Mom wanted to go look at men's clothes for me -- offering to buy, my choice. Having spent what seemed a lifetime in the mall I begged off. Instead, we headed off for the parking lot.
Reaching her car, I put the packages in the trunk. Closing the trunk, she handed me the keys saying, "I'm tired, you drive." Again, this was a first. Mom never let me drive her car not even when I was learning and needed practice. Now at 19 and a college student, I have my own car but it wasn't as nice as hers. I took the keys saying, "Thanks."
At the red light waiting to get out of the mall mom continued to surprise me by lifting the armrest that separates the driver and passenger seats. She slid over and hooked her arm around mine. She stunned me by laying her head on my shoulder. Trying to focus on driving, I was also ultra-aware of my mom right next to me. She smelled delicious and felt even better.
After a few lights, I realized she was asleep. The rest of the drive home was sweet and uneventful.
Upon getting home, my dream woke up as I shut off the car. With a yawn, she detached her head from my shoulder and stretched out her arms. As I watched it seemed as if she deliberately thrust out her chest as she stretched. My cock responded by stretching my jeans taut.
"That was great. I oughta let you do that more often," she mewed. We grabbed the packages from the trunk; mom her bags of lingerie, me the towels and other stuff. Entering the front door mom groaned, "I guess I'll get dinner started."
"Why don't you go take a nap. I'll cook dinner." I told her. My dream is great at many things; however cooking is not her forte. We both knew I was the better cook. Still, I was rewarded with a quick peck on the cheek and a, "You're the best." As I watched mom's form ascend the stairs, I tried to remember the last time she kissed me and couldn't.
For dinner, I made chicken breasts with pineapples, baked in a Greek vinegar sauce; yellow rice with pearl onions; and mixed vegetables in blue cheese dressing. As we ate mom seemed to be her more normal, more reserved self. We talked about politics and the upcoming basketball tournament. She'd resumed being the adult, with no awkward sexual comments being thrown my way. For which I was grateful; this afternoon was exquisite but a bit bizarre. As we finished dinner she inquired, "What do you have planned for tonight?"