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I have only the vaguest memories of my mother and father being together. They married in their teens, and broke up when I was about five. Dad, who got custody of me, decided he wanted to move back to the country town where he had grown up. Eventually he took up with Wendy, a local girl who became my stepmother. I never lost contact with my real mother though. She made sure she rang me on my birthday, and every year she would come and stay with us for a few days.
To a country boy like me, my mother seemed to epitomise everything smart and glamorous and sophisticated about the city. I told my friends she was a movie star, and with her long blonde hair, lovely face and great figure she certainly looked the part. And I wasn’t lying completely – she did do some acting (I once saw her saying a few lines in a cop show on TV) and some modelling. On a few occasions I found her photo in newspaper advertisements, which I would cut out and keep in my diary. My favourite was from a lingerie ad, which had Mum reclining on a couch wearing a bra and panties. This was one of the first images I can remember masturbating to. And then there was her famous appearance of a few seconds, running along a beach wearing a bikini, in a TV commercial for some soft drink. Now THAT made my schoolfriends jealous. That Mum dressed so differently from the women of our town – wearing short skirts, low-cut tops, leather boots – only added to her sex symbol status in the playground.
Of all the times she visited, two memories stick in my head. The first was from when I was very young, and sick with the flu. I remember her sitting beside me on my bed, reading to me and putting her arm around me, one of her big round breasts brushing against my cheek, and the smell of the perfume that she always wore. I remember Wendy fussing around me too – while she was always civil to my mother I could sense even then the tension between them – but it was my mother I wanted there. I wished she could always be there. The next day she was gone again.
The next memory came years later, after I had started to take a healthy interest in girls. I was sitting on the lounge room floor watching TV when Mum came in, fresh from having a shower and wearing a green bathrobe. There was a book on the floor that I’d been reading and talking to her about. As she bent down to pick it up I happened to glance up. The image remains burned into my brain as clearly as if it happened yesterday: the curve of the bathrobe fallen open and one plump, white, breast hanging down, a pinkish brown nipple just visible. She straightened up again, oblivious to what I had seen. I remember feeling my face flushing, and getting tongue tied when she spoke to me.
Later I told my best friend Peter about it. He got very excited too. “Did you see her cherry?” he asked me.
Following in my father’s footsteps (he was a commercial photographer in the town), I had taken up photography as a hobby. Whenever Mum came to visit, I would ask if I could take some photos of her, and she was always happy to oblige. I took some great pictures of her, including a series of her posing by the creek near our place. She told me I would make a great fashion photographer and travel the world. That sounded pretty good.
After a while my mother’s visits became less frequent. I thought that Wendy, who had become more religious and conservative as she got older, probably had something to do with this. Whatever the reason, I hadn’t seen Mum for a while when I rang her up to tell her I had finished school and I was coming to the city for a few days – the first time I had gone there by myself. She said that she couldn’t wait to see me and asked if I would like to stay in her apartment. I said I would love to.
Though Dad and I had sometimes met up with her when we visited the city, I had never been to Mum’s apartment. Arriving on the train that morning I managed to find my way to the address which, having sent quite a few letters to it over the years, I knew off by heart.
The apartment turned out to be in a large art deco apartment building in the inner city. It was 11 o’clock when I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder I went downstairs and found a café, where I sat for an hour sipping orange juice and reading a newspaper.
Returning to the apartment an hour later, I knocked again. This time I could hear noises inside, then I heard Mum say, “Just a minute!”
I waited until the door opened. Mum stood there, her hair a little untidy and wearing a dressing gown, with a look of surprise on her face. “Richard!” she said, “Was that you before? I completely forgot you were coming.” She gave me a hug and swept me into the room. “You’ll have to forgive me – I’m a terribly late sleeper, you know.”
“Hey, that’s OK,” I said, dropping my backpack on the floor.
“Look, you go into the kitchen and make us some coffee while I go and freshen up.” She kissed me on the cheek and disappeared through another door.
I went into ataşehir escort the kitchen and put the kettle on, then returned to the lounge room. It was a small, sunny room, the walls decorated with pictures and posters from old Hollywood movies. There were lots of framed photos scattered around, mostly of Mum, alone or with friends. I recognised some of the people in them as minor celebrities, actors in soap operas and so on. In one she was wearing a low-cut evening dress and standing next to a quite famous singer from overseas. And a few of the photos I had taken myself, on Mum’s visits to the country.
Mum came in about 10 minutes later. She had brushed her blonde hair, which was now shoulder length, and put on make-up, and wore a cream coloured blouse and a navy blue pleated skirt. For 37 or 38, she looked absolutely gorgeous. I felt so proud to have such a beautiful mother.
For the next couple of hours we sat and talked about this and that. I told her my plan to enrol in a photography course at a college in the city, and she thought that was a great idea. She said I was welcome to stay in the apartment whenever I wanted. “That’s your room there,” she said, pointing to a doorway. “The couch in there folds out into a bed.”.
Then she looked at her watch and said, “Oh, I’ve got to get to work!”
“Where do you work?” I asked. I realised I still knew virtually nothing about her life.
“Oh, in a club just down the road. It’s only temporary – I’m about to be in a play.” She bustled about getting ready and, finding a spare set of keys, dropped them into my hand. “I’ve gotta dash – don’t wait up for me.” And then she was gone.
I hadn’t slept much on the train coming over, but I was excited to be in the city again, and spent the afternoon wandering around exploring. I met up with some friends that evening, and we went and had dinner, then to a bar for a few drinks. I didn’t get back to Mum’s until after midnight. I expected her to be home but she wasn’t. I made myself a cup of coffee and watched TV for half and hour, but when she still hadn’t arrived I went to bed.
I was woken by the sound of voices. I looked at my watch and saw it was just after 1am. I could hear Mum’s voice, and a man’s, coming from the lounge room. The man was laughing and Mum was trying to get him to keep quiet. I got out of bed and went to the door, which was open about an inch, and peered into the lounge room, just in time to see Mum leading the man – I could only see the back of him, he had broad shoulders and longish brown hair – disappearing into her bedroom. A few minutes later I heard the unmistakable sounds of them having sex. I listened to it for a while, then went back to bed.
When I woke up the next morning, just after nine, Mum was already up. I found her in the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading a magazine. “Morning,” she said cheerfully, “Hope I didn’t wake you when I got in.”
“No,” I said. “Didn’t hear a thing.”
“Want some coffee?” She stood up to get it. She had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and wore a loose, pale blue T-Shirt and black leggings. She wasn’t wearing a bra, I noticed, and I could make out the outline of her big breasts through the T-shirt material. I wondered if I would have a chance to see her naked during my stay. I certainly hoped I would.
Mum asked me what I had done yesterday, and I told her. She asked if I had any plans for tonight, and I said I didn’t. “Good,” she said, “because I’m going to take you out for dinner. There’s a really nice Italian place just up the street. I’ll be home by eight.”
She went into her bedroom to get dressed. I went and had a shower. As I was drying myself I heard her call out goodbye and shut the door behind her.
I wrapped the towel around my waist and walked back into the lounge room. The sight of Mum’s breasts under the T-shirt had excited me, and I needed to wank. Looking around for some masturbation fodder, I noticed a wicker basket next to the TV and saw that it was full of magazines. I knelt beside it and began to pull magazines out of it. They were mostly women’s mags like Cosmopolitan, or fashion mags like Vogue. I put aside the ones I thought would be most likely to contain bare breasts. Then I found something altogether more promising – a copy of a men’s magazine called ‘Raven’ that I had seen a few copies of and knew featured pictures of nude women. Now I was in business. I lay on the couch, propped up on one elbow, pulled the towel up, grabbed hold of my cock with my right hand, and flipped the magazine open to the first pictorial. It was of a rather cute brunette in a white dress, posing on some stairs. In one photo, she was pulling the front of her dress down, exposing her small, pointy tits. In another, she had her skirt pulled up and her bum towards the camera. I liked her face and I got hard looking at her. I turned a few more pages and felt like an electric shock had gone through me…
I don’t know how long I was staring at the picture.
It kadıköy escort bayan was of a beautiful woman with long, wavy blonde hair, wearing a green bikini. She was sitting on a bench on what looked like a beach, smiling at the camera. She had also pulled the cups of her bikini top apart, so that her big, brown-nippled breasts had popped out.
It was a photograph of my mother, a few years younger, but unmistakably her.
I looked at the front of the magazine and saw the date – it was seven years old.
I returned to the photo of Mum. With a trembling hand now I turned the page. Another two pictures. In one, Mum, wearing just her bikini bottom now, leant against a tree. The other, less interesting, showed her splashing around in the water, bikini disappointingly on again.
I turned the page and, again, a shock went through me. Another photo of Mum on the bench, topless, but this time she had her legs parted and was pulling the crotch of her bikini aside, exposing pink, crinkly pussy lips surrounded by dark blonde hair.
I could hardly believe what I was seeing. How often had I fantasised about Mum, and imagined what she looked like naked, and here I was looking at a photo of her with her cunt showing.
I came with an involuntary shudder, my sperm spattering on my stomach and some on the couch.
I fell back on the couch, catching my breath. Recovering, I turned another page of the magazine, but found that was the end of the pictorial.
I sat up and looked around the room with a new curiosity. I knew Mum had been a model of course, but I had never expected she had been that sort of model. I looked at the magazine again. Could I possibly be mistaken? But then I noticed the photo of her in the bikini that was hanging on the wall, and realised it was the same one she was wearing in the magazine.
I picked up the magazine and examined the photos minutely. Mum’s breasts looked just like I had imagined. Turning to the last photo again, I held the page up close to my eyes, taking in every detail of her vagina. “God” I thought, disbelievingly, “that’s the hole I came out of .”
I stood up still a little dazed. If I had found this, I wondered, what else might I find in her apartment?
The bedroom was the obvious place to start looking. The door to it was open and I stepped inside. It was a small room, only a little bigger than the one I was sleeping in. It contained a dressing table decorated with photos in ornate frames and antique perfume bottles, which she collected – some of them bought as presents by myself; a large, sloppily made double bed; a wardrobe; a chest of drawers and a clothes basket. There were clothes and stockings scatterered around, and a cream coloured bra hung from the doorknob inside the door.
I walked over to the chest of drawers and began looking through it. The top drawer contained Mum’s underwear. I picked up a bra of white lace and held it up, noting the cup size. I imagined my mother slipping it on, her big tits supported by it, the straps digging into her shoulders as they held the weight of them. I picked up a pair of orange satin panties and held the smooth material to my face. Then I had a thought. I went to the basket, which was full of dirty clothes, and rummaged around in it till I found a pair of Mum’s panties, white cotton with a distinct yellowish stain on the gusset. I brought the panties up to my face and breathed in deeply, getting a faint cunty smell.
Then I turned my attention to the wardrobe. The first thing I found were three plastic folders full of professional photos of Mum – her modelling portfolios. The first two seemed to date from her early twenties, while the other one was more recent. Scattered through them were lots of bikini and underwear shots, and a few of her topless.
Going through a pile of mostly boring papers and letters at the bottom of the wardrobe, I found another two girly magazines which I flicked eagerly through. Sure enough I was delighted to find that Mum featured in both of them. In one of them she was dressed as a Victorian maid, whose household duties are interrupted by a leering fellow with a handlebar moustache. In the last photo of the spread he is standing behind her, lifting up her petticoat and cupping her tits in her hands. That was enough to give me another hard-on.
But the most exciting thing I found by chance, right at the bottom of the pile. I opened a small brown envelope and out fell a letter and some Polaroid photos fastened with a rubber band. The letter, written on a small sheet of notebook paper in a very messy hand, said something along the lines of “Thought you might like to see these.”
There were about ten in all and I laid them out slowly on the floor. The first few showed Mum posing on a bed in what looked like a hotel room. She wore a black bra, a short black skirt and stockings and suspenders, and was smiling cheerfully at the camera. Then there was a shot with her just wearing the stockings, her legs escort maltepe spread, playing with herself.
My hands were shaking a bit as I laid the next photo down. In this one mum was seen from the side, sitting on the edge of the bed. There was a man standing next to her, his face out of shot, and she was fumbling with his zipper. In the next photo she had drawn a long, veiny penis out of the trousers, and in the last of this series she was sucking it, the head of it making her cheek bulge, her eyes on the camera.
There was one last photo. Mum, facing the camera, straddling a man who was lying on the bed. Only his legs could be seen, and his cock which was buried in her pussy.
For a long time I just stared at the photos, taking in images which I could never have imagined I would see.
I realised, because they were Polaroids, that a third person must have been there to take them.
Seeing the pair of soiled panties lying on the floor where I had dropped them, I raised them to my face again, taking in their smell, then wrapped them around my erection. Kneeling with the Polaroids spread out on the floor in front of me and my cock gripped in both hands, I thought about what it would be like to fuck my mother, until her panties were wet with my cum.
Sated momentarily, I put everything back where I had found it, with the exception of the Polaroids which I hid in my backpack.
I spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly, taking the odd photo. I ran into some street kids and gave them a few dollars and they posed for me, some photos I would use in a project I was doing, but my mind wasn’t really on it. The only photos I could think about were the ones I had discovered in Mum’s apartment.
Mum was already home when I got back there. “I won’t be long, hon,” she said from her bedroom. She emerged about twenty minutes later, wearing a low-cut, sleeveless, tight-fitting dress of shiny, dark blue material, her hair out over her shoulders and looking quite lovely.
We walked to the restaurant, which was only a few blocks away, with Mum chatting about her day. I was still a little unclear as to what she did at the club and asked her about it. It seemed she did a bit of everything, from booking acts to serving behind the bar. The club’s owner was a man she had known for years, she said. I would have to come down to the club and meet him while I was here.
Arriving at the restaurant, Mum was greeted effusively by the waiters. She was obviously a regular here. She introduced me as her son and they made a fuss of me too. We got a table tucked away in a corner and Mum ordered a bottle of red wine. She was in a very good mood, and happy to answer questions about her past. She told me about some of the plays she had acted in, and a modelling job she had scored which involved her travelling around Asia for six months. She told me about some of the photographers she had known, and asked me what sort of photography I wanted to do. Photograph you, I wanted to say. As she spoke, the images of her naked kept flashing through my brain. I stole surreptitious glances at her cleavage – the dress really showed off her breasts nicely – and now I knew what they looked like bare. I realised I was a bit nervous, and drank my glass of red quickly.
The meal I hardly remember. I’m sure it was very good. When we finished the first bottle of wine Mum ordered another. I told some stories about my school and Mum laughed at them, her face becoming a little flushed now. We ended up being the last people to leave the restaurant, with the head waiter joining our table at the end and giving us some complimentary glasses of port.
I can only vaguely remember the walk back home. We were both laughing and helping each other along. I had never felt so close to her before. The next thing I recall clearly was standing in the kitchen, opening another bottle of wine, white this time, that Mum said she had been keeping in the fridge for a special occasion, and she didn’t have to start work till midday tomorrow so what the hell? She was in the lounge room, smoking a cigarette, listening to a CD she had put on.
I handed Mum her glass. “A toast,” she said, clinking her glass against mine, “to your career in photography.” She stood up, swaying to the music.
Putting my wine down, I walked over to my backpack, which was lying inside the door where I had left it, and got my camera out. Checking the settings, I pointed it at Mum and snapped a picture. She laughed, raising her glass to me, and immediately began to strike poses. I walked around her, taking shots. I was obvious how much she liked to be photographed.
When I went to change the cartridge in the camera Mum sat back down on the couch. She was telling me about filming the TV commercial she had been in, the famous one with her in the bikini. I approached her with the camera, and when I was a couple of feet from her sank to my knees, all the while taking photos. Mum was lying on the couch with her legs slightly apart, and from this angle I could make out a shadowy glimpse of her panties.
“Mum, you look great,” I said. I realised my voice was a little shaky. “I used to cut photos of you out of magazines when I saw them, and keep them. I thought you were so sexy. All my friends did too.”
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