Birthday Limousine Ride

My name is Henry Adams, a recent college graduate with a degree in Cultural Anthropology. I was always interested in people and what made them what they were. With my parents' indulgence, I got a degree in that field. While it did not pay well, it satisfied my cultural curiosity.

That curiosity arose from being an interracial child raised in the South. At 5' 8", my mother was the prototypical blue-eyed Swedish blond. The cross she bore through her high school years and into adulthood was her weight. Charitably, she was always chunky. Her bubble butt and large breasts were more typical of the Black women in our area.

My father was a hulking ex high school Black linebacker. Sadly, my high school classmates almost inevitably berated me for being the offspring of Beauty and the Beast...the Black beast. Add to that the subtle and not-so-subtle ostracization by both Black and White society in our small Mississippi Delta town, and you have a shy boy who clung to his protective mother.

Mom and dad are 48 years old high school sweethearts. Their marriage was controversial in our southern city. Dad was the star linebacker on their high school football team. He was tall at over 6' 5". His weight hovered in the 250-270-pound range. The assumption was he would be a major college prospect with a possible lucrative NFL career in the offing. That was before he blew out his knee. While he was rehabbing the knee, my parents discovered Momma was pregnant.

My sister was born five months after they married, followed eleven months later by my brother. I came along two years after that. Both of my siblings are married and long gone. My sister married an Australian fellow and moved there. My brother is a geologist. He works for a major oil company and travels extensively.

Dad is an entrepreneur. To support his family, he took a job as a limousine driver. Through arduous work, diligence, and a wife with a knack for accounting, he eventually bought the business. He grew it from a single car to a fleet servicing the county's elite. Just as he succeeded against great odds, he expected his family to strive and achieve.

A quick lesson in genetic diversity. My brother and sister were similar in hair and skin coloring to my mother. My father's genes gave them curly hair and a permanent light tan. I inherited my father's blue/black skin color. My hair was crinkly and black. I was 6' 4" 220 pounds. There was a period when I eschewed being in public with my Momma. The looks and whispered comments were just too much.

I flourished in the more liberal atmosphere of a university. Though only a short distance away in miles, it was a different world regarding interracial attitudes. I overcame my innate shyness. I lost my virginity and explored the carnal pleasures offered by college life. However, I chose to live at home.

Though immersed in the heady social and sexual college atmosphere, I did well enough that one of my professors offered me an internship. He suggested I work with a tribe with limited contact with the outside world. I would live among the natives and document their culture before civilization sullied it.

It was the chance of a lifetime to immerse myself in tribal culture. My professor assured me that at least a Master's thesis could come from my trip.

My parents' reaction was mixed. My father was sanguine about my departure. He saw leaving home as part of my passage to manhood. My closeness to my mother concerned him. He had misgivings about me being a mama's boy.

My mother's behavior concerned me. Initially, she appeared to take the news with equanimity. However, as the weeks wound down to my departure, she became clingier with me. At the same time, her relationship with my father deteriorated. It was as though she blamed him for me leaving.

She was always more than just a mother to me. She was my confidant, my port in a storm. When the bullying in school sent me home crying, it was she who dried my tears. She would hold me to her bosom until I stopped crying.

We played board games and, as I grew older, video games. During my senior year of high school, our games caused a few borderline inappropriate incidents.

We were playing a game where we had to work our way through the floors of a warehouse of ghouls to the roof, where a helicopter was waiting to whisk us away. My mother was lousy at it. Her avatar needed help to get past the lower floors. The ghouls would capture and eat her.

I unmercifully teased her about getting eaten for the umpty ump. In retaliation, she began tickling me. Now I'm not ticklish. However, Momma loses control when she gets tickled.

I retaliated by tickling her back. As we rolled about on the floor, her blouse became undone. Mom's big jugs were exposed for a few heady moments with my hands sliding over them. Her nipples hardened as she writhed on the bed.

When I finally stopped tickling her, my manhood tented my shorts. Mom shot a glance at my hard-on as she retied her shirt under her breasts.

My 21st birthday occurred the month before I was scheduled to leave for my internship. My parents treated me to an elegant dinner at a local Italian restaurant. It was a combination birthday and a going away party.

Dad arranged for one of his limousines for the night. He wisely assumed we would be drinking. Having a driver was better than risking his reputation by driving under the influence.

However, through a series of unfortunate mishaps: the driver caught flu, the original limo failed a safety inspection, and we were in a backup limousine with dad as the driver. Different from what we had planned, but it was working for us.

On the drive to the restaurant, Momma's behavior began to be, at a minimum, improper. And let me get this right out front; I fed into her impropriety. To have my sexy mother show other than a motherly interest was intoxicating. Like most young men, my mother was my ideal woman. She was the epitome of femininity and the star of my masturbatory fantasy.

We sipped champagne in the passenger cabin of the stretch Cadillac while dad drove. This backup car had a series of issues. The privacy window between the driver and passenger cabin would not open. The interior lights did not work. All we had in the passenger cabin were the very dim red mood lights. My father, a type A personality, fumed but took it reasonably well. I expected someone would catch hell the next day.

That left Momma and me in the passenger cabin alone. On her second glass of champagne, she began a series of surprises that culminated in a life-changing experience.

Mom wore a backless form-fitting evening gown with plunging décolletage. The scalloped hem with cutouts stopped an inch above her knees. The cutouts gave the appearance the dress was much shorter. The cleavage formed by her large soft breasts rivaled the Grand Canyon in its depth. The thinnest of spaghetti straps strained to support Momma's breasts. The dress emphasized her large but shapely behind.

Dad blew his top when he saw the dress. I heard their short, intense argument through the common wall of our bedrooms. It ended with Momma screaming at him that she would wear whatever she fucking well pleased.

The dress was a daring departure from what she usually wore. Mom was self-conscious about her size. Charitably, her figure was lush. Some might say she was obese. Large shapely legs expanded to full hips and a jiggly behind. Having three children left her with a slight belly pooch. Her breasts were large enough to jiggle when she walked.

She tended to wear neck to kneecap loose fitting dresses. Around the house, she was usually barefoot, her nails done in her favorite fire engine red polish, wearing baggy sweatpants and one of dad's old shirts tied around her prominent midriff.

The evening gown accentuated the contours of her Rubenesque frame. That is if Rubens was into big tits. The dress added emphasis. Mom was not a BBW. Yet! Eventually, her fondness for Dutch chocolate cake would make this dress obscene. Now it highlighted the curviness of her large-boned frame.

Mom was unaccustomed to wearing a dress of this design. She sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, her knees slightly spread. The dress kept riding up, exposing the tops of her thigh-high stockings. During the first glass of champagne, she self-consciously pulled at the hem of the dress. By the second glass, her dress had ridden so high I could see her creamy thighs above the tops of her thigh highs.

She was high and slurring her words. She leaned into me, resting her head on my shoulder with her hand resting on my thigh, inches from my cock.

"Whoa! I forgot how quickly champagne goes to your head."

As she leaned forward to set her glass on the bar in the limo, her hand slipped up my thigh, bumping the head of my cock. I flinched and scooted back in my seat.

"Oops! Sorry Junior," Mom blushed, the rosy color moving from her bosom to her face.

I thought the side of her hand lingered in contact with my cock.

By the time we arrived at the restaurant, her dress had ridden so high that only the dim mood lighting prevented me from seeing her panties. The hand on my thigh stroked high enough to occasionally bump the head of my tool.

Mom's overtly sexualized behavior was at once arousing and a little scary. Like most boys, my mother was my first female crush. For a period, she was the only female in my life. She suckled me at her breasts and nurtured me physically and emotionally as I grew to be a teenager. When puberty kicked in, she became my idealized sexual fantasy.

Dad went all out for dinner. The appropriate wine or cordial accompanied each course. A sweet Prosecco accompanied the spicy shrimp and angels on horseback. A Soave with the spaghetti and ramps, a nice chianti with the veal meatballs in red wine sauce, and so on.

Initially, Dad and I took turns dancing with Momma after dinner. By the time the after-dinner brandy was served, dad was no longer dancing with Momma, complaining of pain in his reconstructed knee. With full tummies and soused to the gills, Mom and I stayed on the dance floor. By this time, our effort was more rhythmic rocking than any recognizable ballroom dance.

My mother got increasingly handsy as the various dinner courses were served throughout my birthday dinner. She was always affectionate, given to the spontaneous hug or a quick buss on the lips. However, this time was different.

There were squeezes of my thigh and clandestine pinches of my butt. Yes, we were all drinking. This, however, pushed the limits of impropriety.

Fueled by alcohol and the endorphins released by our excellent meal, I bought into the impropriety. My hands slipped down to Momma's behind as we danced and reflexively squeezed. As though I had touched hot coals, I jerked my hands away.

Mom murmured something unintelligible and kissed my neck. A delectable chill moved down my spine.

My mother pressed the pliant warmth of her body into mine as we danced. The room spun slowly as Momma and I two stepped in place. Her head rested on my shoulder, and I could feel her warm breath on my neck, her breasts pressed into my chest. The faint aroma of Liz Taylor's Passion wafted up my nose.

"I hope you enjoyed your 21st birthday party," she whispered breathily in my ear, her warm breath sending chills through my body. Her crotch, pressed against my thigh, moved back and forth.

"I did, Momma! Thank you and dad for doing this."

Our hands rested comfortably on each other's hips. Mom's hands drifted down and flexed as we danced, squeezing my ass. Significantly, she did that each time she back was to my father. We danced like two old friends, not mother and son. Familiar enough to take a few liberties but reserved enough to maintain propriety.

All of this was out of character for her. She was affectionate. However, this was a sexualized affection. I charged it off to too much alcohol. And I'm sure that was part of it. However, her stance toward me changed when I announced that I was spending my summer in Africa.

For some reason, that shook her. Later, I discovered it was partly "empty nest" syndrome; the last egg was leaving the nest. Additionally, she was premenopausal. Her last child moving halfway around the world, combined with the physical changes, knocked her off kilter.

My father sat at our table with his face wreathed in smiles. He waved jovially, then raised his glass of sparkling water in a toast. The birthday dinner meant as much to him as it did to me. His southern upbringing saw it as my passage to manhood.

"Junior, I don't want to be a party pooper. However, I'm tipsier than I have been in years. Let's tell your father we're ready to go home."

" I'm glad you said it first," I laughed. "Come on!"

Being called Junior rankled. I saw myself as a man heading out into the world. The diminutive "Junior" was for the boy dependent on his parents.

Before I could protest, Momma twisted in my arms as she turned to walk off the dance floor. My hand slid around her waist and across her breasts. Alcohol being what it is, neither of us was particularly distressed. I apologized. Mom nodded, her hand briefly covering mine on her breast, holding it in place.

Dad retrieved his credit card from the waiter after paying his check.

"It's pouring rain outside. Give me 5 minutes to get the car. Then meet me outside."

Mom and I carefully walked out to the enclosed canopy in the parking lot. We were so drunk we had to lean on each other to avoid falling. Outside we waited for dad to bring the car around. The pavement glistened under the steady torrent of rain.

Mom stood in front of me, leaning into my chest. Her breasts rested comfortably on my arms, wrapped around her waist. She grasped my hands and pulled them up to cup her breasts.

"You should be careful," I teased, "a sexy white woman like you coming on to a Black stud like me could lead to interesting situations."

She snuggled her head into my chest while simultaneously wriggling her large butt into my crotch.

"Mmmm! Your father took my virginity, and I never had another man, so I have never had sex with anything but Black men."

With my mother now sharing intimate secrets of her sex life, the conversation became uncomfortable. However, our drunkenness lowered our inhibitions allowing mother and son to have this quasi-sexual conversation. My hands gently kneaded the underside of her breasts.

"TMI, Momma! But since you brought it up, Black MEN? Who was the other Black man in your life?

"I should have said Black man. You are the only other Black man in my life. And you're leaving me!" Her hands flexed on my hands, which were caressing her soft, pliant breasts.

We were silent for a moment. Mom's body swayed gently against me. In front of us, the rain cascaded off the canopy's roof, running down the transparent plastic siding in rills. Periodically, lightning lit the sky, and thunder rumbled.

"I love making love on nights like tonight. It makes sex feel so elemental, like the wind and rain."

"TMI, Momma! Again! Too much Information! The last thing I want to discuss tonight is your and dad's sex life."

She surprised me by pressing my hands, making them cup her breasts even tighter.

"That would be a short conversation," she said with rancor, "Hank is so wrapped up in that fucking limousine service that he has no time for me."

I ignored her comment. Like any long-married couple, Momma and dad had their issues. I knew of them and avoided taking sides.

"Careful, Momma," I laughed, "we'll scandalize the restaurant."

I tried to move my hands. Mom continued holding them against her breasts. Sober, I probably would have pulled away. Drunk, I continued flexing my hands, squeezing Momma's tits.

"Mmmm, this feels so good. I like the feel of a man's strong arms around me."

"Miss, are you flirting with me? I'll have you know that I'm not that kind of guy!"

"But I'm that type of girl," she said saucily.

Mom giggled and turned in my arms to face me. She stood on her toes and kissed me lightly on the lips. Tentatively at first, I returned her kiss, and I was surprised to feel the pressure of her tongue on my lips. I opened my mouth, allowed her in, and sucked gently on her tongue. She sighed, and the pressure of her hips against my crotch increased.

Mom broke our kiss. She leaned into me, looking up; our saliva made her lips moist. "You kiss good!"

"And you taste good!" The double entendre slipped out before I could stop it.

Mom continued looking at me. A mysterious smile played across her lips

A drunk's coordination is the second thing to go; inhibitions are the first. Instead of grasping her waist, I cupped her ass. Then again, I'm still not sure if it was an accident. Mom didn't protest, and I liked the feel of her soft, supple behind.

"You like my ass? Do you think it's too big for this dress?"

"Mom, I may be drunk, but men have needed to avoid that question since the cavemen days."

She looked up at me. Her eyes were wide and luminous

"Your father used to love my big ass. He said it was my best feature."

I squeezed Momma's butt again and lightly patted it with my open palm.

"Things will work out. They always do!"

"Mmmm, harder!"

"What?"

"Spank me harder. I love being spanked!"

Before I could react, the long black stretch Cadillac limousine pulled smoothly up to the curb. It halted a conversation that was moving into forbidden territory. Dad jumped out and ran around to open the door for my Momma and me.

"That's a sexy date you have there, young man," dad teased.

Mom leered at dad and wagged a drunken finger in his face.

"And, driver, we expect you to respect our privacy."

Dad laughed, took Momma's hand, and helped her into the limousine. The backseat was overstuffed and slightly wider than usual. A similarly stuffed bench seat extended along the left wall of the limo. Opposite was a fully stocked bar. Dad had poured two glasses of champagne in the cup holders on the bar. The seats were covered in red and black leather. With red LED mood lighting, it felt like a bordello.

Mom hiked her tight dress around her upper thighs to enter the passenger cabin. A flash of lightning illuminated the parking lot. I caught a glimpse of lacy black panties. Clumsily, she fell forward on her face. Her dress rode up over her substantial butt, exposing more of those black panties. She struggled to all fours and looked back over her shoulder.

"No fair peeking!"

"Pull your dress down, dear! Our son is getting an eyeful." Dad's tone was sharp, reproving.

Still on her knees, her luscious ass pointed toward us, I saw anger flash across her face.

"At least he's looking," she retorted.

Dad turned to me and lowered his voice.

"Your mother gets like this when she's drinking. Tomorrow morning she'll be okay. She'll be hungover with very little memory of what happened, but okay."

Mom turned and sat in the seat. She crossed her legs with one leg high on the other. Her dress pushed up until I could see the tops of her black patterned thigh highs again.

"Get in, Junior. At least you're not repulsed by the sight of my ass."

I opened my mouth to reply. In a flash of clarity, I realized either parent could construe any answer I gave to be an implied criticism of the other. Before I could reply, dad growled for me to get in. I climbed into the seat and scooted next to Momma. My head spun. For a moment, I thought I was going to be sick. I gulped down the saliva filling my mouth and slowly recovered.

Dad slammed the door shut and stalked around to the driver's side. He opened the door, got in, and slammed it shut also. The limousine lurched as he yanked it into gear and drove off.

The suddenness of his acceleration caused me to fall over on Momma's crossed legs. She quickly uncrossed her legs and grabbed me to prevent me from sliding to the floor.