Who's Your Daddy?

A "broken home" means just one thing to most people, but I come from one, and what it means to me is a broken mom. A terrible divorce and the realization that my pig of a father had been having an affair, shook my mother's world. The last thing that I heard my father say to mom, before he walked out of our lives forever, as they were screaming at each other outside of the lawyer's office, was that he had a young bitch now who would do anything that he wanted.

That was almost seven years ago. I was fifteen then, my mom was holding my two year-old sister in her arms, both of them crying. I didn't even have a driver's license yet but I drove us all home, because mom was inconsolable. That day sticks in my mind for the misery and heartache that he caused her, but I didn't discover until much later, the deep emotional scars that he inflicted. She sat next to me sobbing, and asking quietly what she had done wrong. I had never seen her look so disheveled. Strangers had stared and pointed.

Her beautiful hair was tangled from where she had pulled it. Her faultless make-up was smeared and blurry on her normally sunny face. The baby was crying on her shoulder, and mom seemed lost, tiny and worn-out. The outer effects were easily remedied, but the inner turmoil caused by that awful day changed my mother from that moment to this day. She carried the load for the three of us, outwardly appearing strong and decisive, but her psyche was forever shaken. She was unsure of herself emotionally and though I didn't understand it then, or saw any signs of it, the manner in which she saw herself sexually was altered in a very unusual manner.

It didn't even occur to me at that time, that she was barely thirty-two years-old, and isn't forty yet. But though she redoubled her efforts to support her family, she had almost given-up on her own happiness. Or atleast the part of it that belonged exclusively to her. Since then, she slaved to help put me through technical school, where I became a programmer. And she made certain that my little sister always had pretty clothes and a packed lunch and got to the bus on time. But she lost all interest in her own life or future. Or so I thought. Actually, she was battling demons. It seems that she was examining her sex-life, and what exactly would make her feel the best, though ofcourse I knew nothing about this until much later.

Recently, I've had occasion to take a closer look at our evolving family dynamic. My mom's name is Angela but friends call her Angie. She is an office manager for our local dentist, so she dresses conservatively and speaks in a kind but formal manner. She is about 5'9" with coal-black hair that had lately shown some greying streaks, until as a gift on her birthday, I sent her on a Spa day.

A professional colored her hair and convinced her to update her make-up routine to highlight her round cheeks and add some gloss to moisten her pouty lips.

The resulting changes made her feel better about herself. The lovely woman who strode back through our front door looked closer to twenty-five than to forty. If I were to assess her feminine features as an observer, not just her loving son, I would start with her figure. I've seen her in nightgowns and when sunbathing, and my mom is what you would call a real MILF.

Angie's had two children so her hips are wide and full, with a cushiony rear-end, and her bustline is a robust 36C that sags just a bit, but when gathered into tight-fitting tops has a hypnotic bounce and very generous cleavage. She is long-waisted, so in a two-piece or a cropped-top, though her belly is round and soft, there are no extra rolls and she has enough to grab hold of.

Her long legs are shapely and the people at work don't know what they've been missing when she is hidden in scrubs and sneakers or attends meetings in pant-suits and flats. But at home when she is in shorts or only undies and a long tee, or when I've finally gotten her to wear slit dresses with heels, she can turn anyone's head.

My name is Pete and over the years, I've stretched-out and filled-out too. I have dark hair and eyes, and a black stubble when I grow lazy. And I was forced to grow-up in a hurry. With my mom hurrying home from work to raise my sister, I graduated high school, tech school and got a job. Now, she works part-time and attends to the house, while I work overtime to help pay for the extras, and we often collapse on the sofa at night to watch TV after my sister is bathed and put to bed.

I sowed my wild oats early, learning about money, women and booze in a short time and determined that I could experience most things that I needed for the moment with a six-pack and internet porn, in the privacy of my home. It just never crossed my mind that I was following mom's example. And like most males when they reach a certain age, when I would casually observe my mom lounging around or preparing for bed, those innocent glances would often turn into voyeuristic peeks at her curvy shape, hoping to catch a furtive glimpse of a braless chest or a tight bikini bottom.

I'll admit that my crotch has felt that tingle, and I'm sure that she has noticed the blushing cheeks and the mountainous bulge in my shorts, when I'm caught sizing her up. I've seen her cheeks redden too, and her dark lashes flutter until she drops her head entirely and walks away. In the past few years, it seemed to me that her sex-drive was sublimated to the care of our family and upkeep of the house. While mine was in overdrive, fueled by endless internet fantasies but bridled by incestuous taboos of living with and thinking about, a closeted MILF. Apparently, I couldn't have been farther from the truth. The recent past has also shown me that our average mother/son relationship was entering a metamorphosis of epic proportions. Roles were changing in dramatic ways.

When my sister needs school supplies or someone to watch her extracurricular activities, I draw the assignment. Due to my computer skills, I've been tasked with aiding her in her homework and put in charge of her social media usage. Mom says I'm like the father that she doesn't really know. And Angie tells her to ask me for advice or to help with her upbringing. Mom is often worn-out after dinner and after watching some TV through sleepy eyes, she retires to her room for the night. I have arranged for her computer to project images on to the big screen and set her passwords so that she doesn't need to bother with anything, so she can just enjoy her shows.

I merely assumed that she watched You-Tube videos or emailed pictures to co-workers until she fell asleep. She would sometimes ask me to teach her how to clear the memory or open separate accounts so that my little sister "doesn't see things that she is too young for." I felt bad that she didn't date because of us, and that her failed marriage may have affected her desire for intimacy.

One night last year I asked mom if I could take her out to a nice dressy dinner to show her how much she means to us. Usually, eating out meant finding a place with a children's menu or with crayons on the table. But for this night, my sister would be sleeping at a friend's, so we could have drinks and not need to worry about rushing or having a curfew. Angie seemed unusually excited about the extra attention plus a chance to socialize in a "mature situation." Even if her escort for the evening was her twenty-one year-old son.

It was about this time that I noticed that Angie paid an increased deference to my opinions and when I made certain suggestions about things, she acted as if they were commands. She would often remark that it made her feel warm and secure to know that I was in charge of situations around the house. Her arm would rub my back as we talked or she would perch on the arm of my chair and kiss me after we agreed on something. Even things like her clothing, which I knew nothing about other than what I liked. And we even discussed the "appropriate" roles that a "couple" should assume to insure domestic tranquility. I found it exceedingly strange that she should value my choices or confide in me on "adult" topics.

Angie had a big smile on her face the day that she showed me the dress that she planned to wear on our "date." She was almost like a little girl seeking her dad's approval when she modeled her outfit. But her big smile quickly faded when she read my lukewarm expression. I tried to hide my frown, not wanting to hurt her feelings, but it was too late. She wasn't wearing it at the moment, she simply held it up, but I had seen her in it many times. The dress was nice and suitable for any occasion but to put it simply, it was dowdy. "Mom," I murmured as her lips quivered and questioning lines of disappointment wrinkled her forehead. "You are far too pretty, to dress like a librarian. I want you to enjoy yourself, and I want to show-off my beautiful mother."

"Honestly Petey," she demurely stuttered. Her eyelashes fluttered and that 100-watt smile flashed again. "You make me blush. Ofcourse I want to look nice for you. Not like your frumpy old mom." She was dancing on her toes, and inspecting the dress that until a second ago, she thought was perfect but now didn't measure-up to her intentions. "But I just don't have anything special to wear. Its been so long since I've been out with someone that I want to impress, and I've gained so much weight. (All women must say that.) I look awful and feel so fat. Maybe I could still squeeze into that blue dress that I wore to your graduation. It might hide some extra skin."

"Mom," I protested, I finished school three years ago, and that dress had no particular style, then. And besides, I don't want to hide you. I want to announce to everyone, just how lucky I am. Something changed for both of us at that moment. Her demeanor became a bit more flirtatious and I saw her thrust her chest forward and flex the muscles in her thighs and calves. And I was seeing more than just my mother. I took a thorough, though discreetly appraising look at the sensuous woman standing innocently infront of me.

She was tall, even bare-footed. And her legs drew my eye while she pranced in her cut-off shorts, the dress being tossed on the sofa. There was the slightest roll of flesh protruding above the waist band, but her olive complexion and lean build evened that out. As my scan continued upward my eyes caught those full, bouncing breasts. Under a thin cottony, concert tee, and a comfortable, old bra, those bodacious orbs wobbled delightfully and provided ample cleavage. She was not exactly a "bunny," but for a fortyish homemaker and mother, she had the stuff to star in anyone's wet dreams.

"It's time," I said, "for a new wardrobe beginning with a new dress, and I'm buying." I blurted out, starting to think with my small head instead of the one on my neck, "you have a terrific figure mom, and you're gorgeous. I think you should really let your hair down and just have a blast, let's do something crazy." I also realized at this time, that I was acting and sounding like this was a date. I could feel my erection stirring against my thigh, and her sexy brown eyes caught mine, as I was surveying her abundant bosom. I was only a little ashamed as I imagined a naughty scenario with my half-naked mom, on her knees sucking my cock. I know that she saw me with a glassy-eyed stare, as my fantasy danced in my brain.

But there was something else in the air. She had caught me admiring her shape, with an obvious bulge in my shorts and practically drooling from the mouth. I expected a stern reprimand or if nothing so harsh, a withering look as she hurried to cover herself or strowed out of the room. Instead, noticing where my eyes were directed, she actually cupped her breasts and spied her image in the mirror; turning sideways, she balanced on her toes pretending to wear heels, then ran her palms down and around the curvy mounds of her butt, watching the reflection as she bounced, her hands again rose to her firm tits seeming to weigh them in her hands and judge their appearance as she lifted them and then let them settle.

There was something odd and out of place, about the way that she measured herself, and then looked my way hoping, I suppose, for an approving nod. "I don't want you to be embarrassed of me," she softly giggled but I know that she was serious. "Maybe this afternoon you can take me shopping and tell me how you would like me to look. If I'm going to be on your arm, I want you to be proud. Afterall, you're my man now, and I'm lucky to find someone so handsome and caring. And I can see that you like what I have." Her face took-on a crimson glow and she had a childish tone to her voice that seemed incongruous with the way that she licked her lips and the pointy nipples jutting at the thin material of her shirt. Angie had a devilish grin when she caught me leering at her chest. She smiled as she spoke, but I detected a strange vibe, that wasn't like your average mother/son moment.

Later while shopping, we were looking at two different types of clothes. She fingered textures and searched for designer labels, everything in good taste and style, but more business or social oriented. I let her browse because obviously she knew what she was most comfortable in, and much more about women's styles. I was drawn to brighter colors and more form-fitting or festive attire. Angie gradually worked her way towards me and taking an apprehensive breath, asked if this was how I wanted her to dress. Shorter, tighter and more sheer.

She blew-out a deep puff of oxygen that caused loose strands of her raven locks to flutter in the breeze. She spied some of the fashions that I was holding out and gave me a disbelieving, wide-eyed sneer. Then she held a few outfits against her body and judged how they might make her look. She frowned almost apologetically and without any spoken words, I could see what she was thinking, "You want me to wear something like this, and go out in public?" She riffled through the first rack of dresses, watching me out of the corner of her eye, and then stopped.

"Honey," she started in a conspiratorial whisper as other young women milled around. "I don't think I could fit in some of these outfits. You know that I'm not twenty-one any longer?" Her hands tugged the stretchy material of one outfit over her upper chest, and her head wagged in defeat. "In those tight dresses I would look like a sack of potatoes. And in these blouses, either my tits would hang-out or a button would pop and put out somebody's eye." Angie laughed a bit and I reminded her, that though she was well-built, she was not Dolly Parton. She continued searching.

"I'll wear whatever you pick-out but remember that I'm your mother. I want to make you happy to be seen with me... I mean, it's not like I'm your date, though that would be sexy." She glanced at more "stripper-wear" that I pointed to, "Do you want me to look like a slut? Really Petey, you can see right through that one and I think it's made of plastic." I attempted to reassure her that her figure was fantastic and that I did not want her to look slutty, (though I could've easily imagined her in fishnets, a push-up and crotchless undies.) But she was right.

A couple of things puzzled me. I never dreamed that she might wear anything that I picked-out, and I never heard her refer to her buxom breasts as tits. And earlier in the day while she judged her own appearance in the mirror, she knew that I was ogling her. She not only continued, but was apparently excited to tease me like that, by rubbing and patting various parts of her sensuous form. Finally, she seemed to appreciate that her son was appraising her figure and found it to be very sexy.

Her tits were nicely large and heavily-rounded, and they swayed lustfully when she moved. No bra would totally harness them. She was a solid C-cup and was built for pleasure. Just unfortunately, not mine. I watched her big tits when she held blouses to her chest, and I could tell that she was watching me as she moved. Her tits were held tight in her shirt, but there could be no hiding them. Maybe they sagged a bit after almost 40 years, but anyone who would find fault with her ample front porch, must be surrounded by teenage models. Her hips were wide but she was a grown woman with two kids. From behind, the pleasant jiggle of her ass-cheeks as she walked-especially in heels- or the relative firmness as she bent forward in shorts or bathing suit, could be mesmerizing.

I was learning to appreciate and admire her curvaceous anatomy, and not as a son should. My cock learned to spring to attention whenever my mind conjured her image. And those images could take the form of her long legs wrapped around my neck as my cock drove into her honey-hole. Or having her on all-fours while I took her from behind. I would grab her long hair in my fist to arch her back, so those big tits would bang together as I banged into her tight little ass. And I always envisioned her on her knees with one hand gliding up and down the length of my shaft while she fed it into her hungry mouth. I was having trouble keeping eye-contact with my own mother because I so often imagined an obscene, incestuous tryst, every time that I thought of her.

Those long, nicely toned legs were tanned and shapely. When I mentioned the other day, just how sexy they looked, her smile lit-up her face. And around the house I soon noticed a lot more short-shorts and bare legs. The pink paint on her toenails set-off the luscious coffee-cream complexion of her European heritage. And that thick mane of black locks, which at work was normally in a ponytail, once I told her that I prefer it long, was now loose and bushy. It bordered her heart-shaped face and hung down to the middle of her back. While in the front, the ends of her hair would sit atop the firm globes of her upper torso. She would have made a spectacular Lady Godiva.

It seemed that I was dreaming about her for an hour, but it was only a second. She asked if she could try on a few other things, I snapped-out of my erotic reverie. "Mom," I hesitantly offered, "Your tits look great, and I wouldn't want a skinny, shy mom. I want you to be proud of your looks and anxious to reveal your charms. It's time that you opened-up to your own desires." I was talking fast because I realized that I sounded slightly ridiculous speaking to my mother like this. But I also realized that I referred to her chest as "tits", and she didn't bat an eye, infact I believe that she enjoyed the compliment. Her face took-on a sublime, dreamy look and I saw goose-bumps form on her frame.

I swear that she shivered as if an orgasm passed through her. She looked at me with a sensual, suggestive, sideways glance and remarked something vague about my being in charge. Angie was fingering some clothes that she found. I was still blathering about her coming-out or expressing herself more fully. I know that I sounded like a self-help commercial, but she smiled broadly and grabbed an armful of clothes. She gave me a big hug, pressing those meaty boobs into me, and skipped towards the changing room. The feel of those warm, firm tits against me, sent a rush of blood to my cheeks that colored my face and an additional surge to my groin that engorged my cock. I'm glad and embarrassed that she saw me like that and it only produced a mischievous smile.

Once more, I was perplexed as to why she would suddenly value my opinion so dearly. And the unfamiliar openness concerning her body or how I might be allowed to admire her as more than just my mom. I used that time that she ran to the dressing room to "rearrange the jewels." My cock was throbbing in my shorts and laying rigidly like a cucumber on my thigh. I tried to sneak a hand into my pocket and casually reposition my rod so that I wasn't walking so stiff-legged and my hand settled on the firm shaft. I was compelled to roughly handle it as I moved it into a more relaxing position, but my hand continued to squeeze the mushroomed head and glide across the smooth, hard pole. I was picturing Angie with her big cheeks bulging as she took my erect pole deep into her throat, while simultaneously stroking my knob, it felt fantastic. Then from a fear of impending ejaculation, I was forced to compute batting averages and look at argyle socks. The tightness in my crotch eased and I could breathe again.