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.
