Mom is Son’s Slave

It was ten years ago when I first noticed the welts on my mother. Being so young it didn’t mean anything to me at the time but I was worried about the obvious injury on her legs, high up on her thighs. So I asked her, “What happened to your legs?”

She just smiled and said, “Oh Timmy, don’t be concerned, they are just love marks from Daddy.”

Mom handled the incident so deftly that I forgot about it, until a few months later, when I saw them on her again. She reassured me that I need not be worried and once more I put it out of my mind. But the welts kept showing up, only I didn’t say anything about them any more.

Then ten years later, a bizarre situation occurred, at that time my mature, eighteen year old body and mind travelled beyond mild and innocent curiosity. I became a changed person overnight.

At eighteen I was a nice kid, got average grades, but I was kind of shy and still a virgin. How embarrassing to admit for an eighteen year old, but then so was my best friend Fred. I’m sure that some would say that we were a couple of losers. We were just shy, not losers.

It was a Saturday night and I had been sick for two days. Although I was feeling better, I decided to go to bed early, and mom seemed happy that I had made that decision. As I slowly went up stairs I heard mom tell dad that tomorrow was Sunday and they wouldn’t be able to buy liquor, so he should go get some wine for the Sunday meal. Then, in a low and sultry voice she said, “I’ll need some special treatment when you get back.” Dad said that he’d be back in a flash.

I closed my bedroom door behind me, but my curiosity was seriously piqued. What did ‘special treatment’ mean?

I turned out the light in my bedroom, but I was no longer weary. I heard mom’s footsteps coming down the hall and stop at my door. She stood there for a long moment before she rapped lightly and said, “Night honey.” I waited a moment and mumbled, “Uh huh,” as though I was almost asleep. Her footsteps carried her away so I crept to the door to check out the situation.

I waited to be sure that she wasn’t still in the hall, then cracked open my door. I gazed up the hall to see that her bedroom door hadn’t latched and in fact had opened up a bit, about six inches. Staying in the shadows, I slowly made my way to her doorway, and then peered in.

As I peaked in I could see that she had started to undress. What a sight! I’ll remember it as long as I live. Her skirt and blouse were off and as she turned completely toward the door, I took in the full image of my mother in black garter belt, stockings and high heels.

At thirty-eight years of age she was a remarkable beauty. Her breasts were large, full and firm. (At the time I didn’t know the difference between a mature woman’s bosom and young woman’s bosom)

My curiosity had me staring at my mother’s big tits without much thought to anything sexual in nature at first, but my interest was powerful none the less. They sat proudly on her chest with a beautiful tan line from her bikini top. As I looked more intently I noted how the weight caused them to sag a little and I could make out some of the blue veins that ran across them. The nipples were an incredible attraction and huge, although I had no sense of what normal should be, they were certainly bigger than any I had seen in a few magazines. Her pendulous breasts were dark tipped, with areola three to four inches across, topped off by her long plump nipples.

She was my mother, and I felt some small guilt at sneaking around to gaze with growing lust at my own dear mom. But I just couldn’t help myself; she was a babe. I realized that she looked like some of the women I had seen in an adult magazine that Fred had taken from his dad’s office. Mom was every bit as pretty as any of the great looking babes in the magazine and I never thought of it until then, but I had to admit she was a hottie.

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