Fat Mom Pole Dancing Ch. 05

"I want it all," I said, pressing against his back, my hand holding his growing erection.

He laid the bacon on the countertop and turned to me, smiling.

He took my hand, brought it up, and guided my fingertips across his eyelids.

"These are your eyes," he said, "Please allow me to use them to admire you."

I giggled and said, "You may."

He moved my hand to brush his ear.

"These are your ears," he said, "Please allow me to use them to hear your words, hear your heartbeat, hear the sounds of your body."

"Oh, shit," I thought, "that one got to me."

"You may," I said, not giggling now, serious. I realized we had crossed a line here although I wasn't sure what the line was.

He was smiling, a happy smile, as he moved my hand so my fingers brushed his nose.

"This is your nose," he said, "Please allow me to use it to smell you, to enjoy your scents."

The pressure in my belly was building now as this weird inventory went on.

"You may," I said, trying for some imperiousness in my voice. It felt like that's what he wanted right then.

He moved my hand again.

"This is your mouth," he said, slowly dragging my fingertip across his lips, "Please allow me to use it to tell you you are beautiful and to give you pleasure."

I suppose, on some level, I knew what was coming.

"You may," I said.

"You are beautiful," he said, and kissed me.

"You are beautiful," he said, nuzzling my neck, kissing my throat, kissing the stretchmarks across the tops of my breasts, sucking each nipple quickly, and then easing to his knees, kissing my belly, my beautiful belly, as he did.

"You are beautiful," he said, gently pressing my chubrub to get me to part my legs and then kissing.

And right there, in the middle of the kitchen floor, he brought me to orgasm.

I tried to hold back but, well, this was new to me. I came, and I just could not release his hair where my fingers were entwined in it. And his educated mouth kept me going.

And going.

And going until with one final push I came in an explosive gush of release.

"Oh JESUS," I cried.

And I realized my knees were weak. It's a good thing his hands on my ass and his mouth buried between my legs were there or I might have collapsed.

But they were and I didn't.

Instead, I came again.

Not as powerfully, I was too spent for that, but it was sweet.

He pulled away and stood, smiling through his mask of my love honey. Christ, he looked like I had rubbed a thick layer of Vaseline on his face and then poured a few containers of yogurt over his head.

"I am yours," he said, "and I'll prove it every chance I get."

I started to reply but he shushed me with a finger to my lips, gently turned me, had me sit at the kitchen table, and then said, "Relax. Let me make your breakfast and then feed you."

"Feed me?" I asked.

He grinned.

"Your dieting days are finished," he said.

I got a shiver deep in my belly but it was a pleasant little shiver.

So, I watched.

I sipped coffee and watched as he moved around the kitchen.

And I felt a warmth in my loins, and then giggled as I had that thought with that archaic term in it, as I watched him beat the eggs making for interesting wobbles and jiggles.

I watched as he laid the bacon strips on the flat, round griddle and then pressed down the lever to drop the English muffins into the toaster poured the eggs into a frying pan, and started adding little cubes of ham and cheese before folding the omelet.

My son is better at making breakfast than I am. The various components were ready in a quick sequence. He popped the English muffins out of the toaster buttered them, plucked the bacon, done but not crisp off the griddle, and then lifted the omelet out of the pan onto a plate.

It hit me that there was only one plate.

I guess I wasn't surprised when he scooted the other chair around so we sat side by side.

And there was that damn quiver in my belly again as he used the edge of his fork to cut the first bite of the omelet and offer it.

I opened my mouth, closed my eyes, and savored the perfectly done omelet.

"You are beautiful," he said as I chewed and I couldn't help the tears that started flowing.

My feeding, what turned out to be my first feeding by my son, was a sybaritic delight. I savored every bite and got that rush in my belly every time he told me I was beautiful.

And he told me I was beautiful between just about every bite.

And I believed him.

I hadn't eaten that freely, without worrying about calories or fat or protein or anything, in years. I just relaxed and opened my mouth when he would brush my lips with the next bite. My eyes were closed for much of the time. I was reveling in the pure indulgence of eating until I was full and then eating some more.

It hit me that I could easily tip over into gluttony, but this wasn't that. This was a joyous act, almost a religious act. I thought of Robert Heinlein's novel Stranger in a Strange Land and realized that this was near to "sharing water" with Valentine Michael Smith and thought I was on the verge of grokking.

David took a bite to every third or fourth of mine, and again the "water sharing" aspect hit me as I watched him chew.

Finally full, well, a little beyond full but fully sated for the first time in memory, I leaned back, burped, a nice ladylike burp I thought, and said, "Thank you, Baby."

He offered his hand. I accepted it, stood, and followed him into the bathroom. I giggled as he stayed while I sat on the toilet and then relaxed and enjoyed the special intimacy as he wiped me.

We showered together. I enjoyed the attention as he washed my face hair and body.

It felt natural, I felt like a wife, as I kissed him goodbye and headed for work.

Work was, well, work. I had long since passed the point where it was anything but work. I thought, when I took over the place from my mother, that I had found that perfect occupation. You know, the Mark Twain thing - - Do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life.

But it didn't work out like that. What I loved was nursing. What owning the damn place involved was administration and management and supervision, all things I emphatically did not love. So I filled out forms, met with regulators, discussed the expenses of a new fire suppression system, reviewed charts, and enjoyed maybe 15 minutes of a nine-hour day.

And then I got home.

David greeted me with a smile, an erection on display, and a strong screwdriver that he put in my hand as he took the shoulder bag that served as my briefcase/purse and led me to the couch.

I was giggling as I sat and took a long pull at my screwdriver.

And then I was sighing as he dropped to his knees, took my right foot in his lap, got my shoe off, and began massaging my foot.

"Oh, Jesus," I sighed softly, "this can replace sex."

He stopped what he was doing.

I laughed and said, "Oh, okay, I'll still accept sex."

He returned to the foot massage.

And I returned to sighing.

He did the other foot as I finished the screwdriver.

Feet done he grinned, still on his knees, and told me to stand.

So I stood and accepted what he was doing as he worked my panties and pantyhose down. I sat while he peeled them off.

I loved watching as he walked, naked, into the kitchen and then returned, his erection leading the way, to bring me a second screwdriver.

He got to his knees again as I took a grateful sip.

He had me scoot forward and started a slow, luxurious round of oral sex.

It felt so strange it was almost surreal. There was a news program on television in the background, the Fox talking heads blathering on about something, but I couldn't tell you a word they said. I was fully dressed except that my shoes, pantyhose, and panties were gone.

I giggled softly when he pulled my skirt over his head like one of those old photographers with a big wooden camera and a tray of flash powder.

I was relaxed from the foot massage, almost drowsy, and he took me so slowly that I stayed relaxed. Everything moved in slow motion. My nipples were so hard they ached, My breathing came in soft little puffs. My clitoris was on fire and then freezing.

Oddly, there was none of that pressure low in my belly I associated with an approaching orgasm. It was so gentle that when he sucked a little and I started flowing, it was like nothing I ever imagined. The pleasure he gave me was the distilled essence of physical ecstasy. Without the hard muscular contractions of an "orgasm," without that urgency, that demand, it didn't end.

Every separate nerve ending, starting at the soles of my feet and slowly spreading up, seemed to be firing. It was a combination of tickling and tingling and an arm waking after being asleep. I felt hot and cold in turns.

I was aware, but only sort of as a peripheral sensation, that I was flowing like a hose. Unlike every other sexual climax I ever had, what was going on between my legs, wonderful as it was, was secondary. By now, that tingly, burning, waking-up sensation had spread to my face.

And it went on.

Jesus, my son, the same boy whose diaper I had changed, played my body like a violin. He held me there, my scalp tingling, wondering if my hair was standing straight up, and then just as slowly, brought me back to earth. He eased the pressure, his lips kissing now, not sucking, his tongue teasing, no longer probing.

I released a breath I didn't know I had been holding.

He pulled out from under my skirt, smiling.

Unlike those times when he would have me squirting, this time when he smiled up at me he didn't look like he'd been hosed down with a quart of yogurt or had a big jar of Vaseline spread over his head. He did have a wide smile on his face.

He stood and then surprised me by not moving forward and asking that I take the erection that was pointing at me into my mouth. Instead, he offered his hand.

"You should be relaxed, now come on and let me show you what I did today," he said.

I reached for his erection, mentally corrected myself, and reached for my erection.

But he slapped my hand away.

"Easy, nympho," he said, chuckling, "a little self-control please."

So, I accepted his hand, stood, and followed.

In the bedroom, he surprised me again.

He undressed me, taking his time but not making it sexual. He got the blouse off of me, then the bra, allowing my breasts, my beautiful breasts I thought, to lay on the roundness of my belly.

He unbuttoned and unzipped the skirt and took the time to carefully hang it on the skirt hanger, smoothing it before he used the two little clips to hang it.

I stood, naked and proud, my chubrub slick and shiny with the residual excitement from what he did earlier, waiting to see what he had in mind.

When he came out of the closet he had a couple of small scraps of bright green material on a clothes hanger. It took a minute to figure out what it was when he handed it to me.

And then I got it.

There was a tiny skirt, almost Tarzan's loin cloth, and a ridiculously tiny bikini top.

He sat in the little chair at my makeup table, leaned back, crossed his legs, grinned, and said, "Well, try it on."

"Oh, God," I moaned, giggling, holding up the, well, the "costume."

I looked at David, and he was twirling his forefinger in the universal "Get on with it" gesture.

"Oh, God," I moaned again as I unhooked the tiny "skirt" and figured it out. There was a string, two small flaps of soft material that would not come within inches of covering my ass and pussy, and a string of pearls that served in the place of the crotch in a pair of panties or even a buttfloss thong.

The bra, well, the titsack had a matching string that went over my neck, a string that tied at my back, and the two, well, "sacks" of very soft material provided no support or, for that matter, concealment. The material was so sheer you could read the fine print on a prescription bottle through it.

He stood, swung the bedroom door, and, with his hands on my shoulders, guided me to the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the door.

I watched in the mirror as he moved slowly bending forward to nuzzle my neck and then breathe into my ear, "Say it."

My breath caught.

I looked in the mirror. I took my time, starting with my hair and slowly letting my eyes move down to my feet.

"I am beautiful," I said.

And I was.

Dammit, I was.

Oh, I wasn't a Playboy model and no one would ever expect to see me walking the runway modeling the latest thing from Dior or Armani. But I was more than that.

I was Gaia. I was Earth Mother. My breasts were a woman's teats, fit to feed the world. My belly was a woman's belly, ready to give birth. My stretchmarks were a woman's stretchmarks, the history of giving life written on my skin. My pussy, peeking out from below the material, was a woman's pussy, there to give pleasure and open the way for a generation. My cellulite dimples just showed that I had reserves in case the crop was late or the hunt failed.

Even my face, my eyes red and tears overflowing, my nose running as I wept happy tears, was a woman's face, showing the maturity of motherhood.

I spun and threw my arms around my son, pulling him into a kiss, wanting him so badly right then I could feel the rush of heat between my legs.

He returned the kiss, cupping my big ass to pull me to him. It was a good kiss, hot and wet and a little slick with my runny nose.

But he resisted when I broke the kiss and started to pull him to the bed. Well, trying to pull him to the bed. He didn't follow.

Instead, he pulled me into the hall.

He led me down the hall and the stairs into the basement. The lights were out and he caught my hand when I reached for the switch.

"Trust me," he said, leading me down the stairs.

I followed, carefully, wondering what was going on.

He dropped my hand and said, "Stay put."

The darkness was almost perfect. I thought you could probably do darkroom stuff in here.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

The lights came on lighting a small stage in the corner of the basement. I guess I should add that our basement is finished, my husband's project over the years, with a small bar on one end, a pool table, and a couple of couches accumulated from thrift stores facing a big flatscreen television on one wall.

And now there was a stage and, yes, a damn stripper pole.

"Oh. My. God," I breathed.

He pushed a button on the old stereo rack that had been in the basement for a decade and that distinctive violin introduction to Etta James' At Last started through the speakers.

"Okay," he said, "Let's see what you got."

I watched myself in the mirror that covered the back wall as I took the step up onto the stage.

I just looked at myself in the mirror for several seconds, remembering how those women had looked Thursday night.

Then I picked up the beat, grasped the pole, and did a slow swing.