My Mom Is a Hot Mom

The morning light, streaming through my bedroom window, woke me from a deep sleep.

I was a slow riser, most of the time. I usually did not get out of bed right away, and it often took a few minutes after I awoke for me to get my bearings. This morning, however, I was awake for no more than five seconds before I remembered what had happened the night before: sitting on the sofa with mom, taking photos of her, and masturbating to a photo of her in my room, later, when I realized that one of the photos I had taken showed off her pussy.

I bolted out of bed -- something I never do. I was wearing black boxer briefs, nothing more, and a raging morning hard-on formed a big tent in front. I raced over to my desk and hit the button to turn on my computer monitor. I was reasonably certain the events of last night were not a dream. But I had to be sure.

They weren't. The photo of my mom popped up on the screen, in her gray top and loose gray shorts, her pussy on view in the gap in her shorts in the center of the photo.

My God, I thought.

A light knocking sounded at the door.

"Randy, are you awake?" my mom called softly through the door.

"Yeah, mom, I'll be out in a minute."

"O.K. I'm making some breakfast."

The clock on my computer said it was 7:30. Mom would be leaving for work before long, but I didn't have a class until 11, so I was in no hurry.

My cock had pushed through the fly of my briefs and stood straight and steel-hard above my lap. I couldn't leave my room and face my mom like this. Fortunately, the solution to my problem was spreading her legs on the computer screen in front of me.

I opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of lotion and some tissue I kept there for, well, occasions like this one. It had taken me a while to clean up the mess I had made at my desk the night before, and I didn't want to do that again.

I pulled the briefs off and held and squeezed the lotion bottle over my cock and watched as the lotion squirted out, making a faint plop, plop, plop sound. Then I stared at my mom on the screen and started stroking up and down my shaft. It took no longer than the night before to release, but this time I was ready and sprayed into a wad of tissues I held over the tip of my cock with my left hand. I tossed the result in the waste basket next to the desk. I turned the computer off -- I didn't want mom see what was on the screen -- and then I pulled on shorts and a t shirt and walked out of my room to see mom in the kitchen.

Mom was at the stove, scraping a spatula over a skillet. The smell of frying bacon lay thick in the air. A few cereal boxes and a carton of milk perched on the counter to the side of the stove, along with bowls, plates, spoons, and forks.

Mom obviously had showered, because her hair fell straight and slightly damp behind her. It looked like hair that had been dried only partly with a few vigorous rubs with a towel. Mom wore a white cotton bath robe. It wasn't the long, plush kind of robe you expect someone to wear after getting out a shower. It was short, hitting about mid-thigh. The material looked thin, and it was imprinted with a waffle pattern. I recognized it as the kind of robe you might wear at a spa—I'd seen that in a magazine somewhere. I thought I recalled dad having bought it for her as a gift. It was a warm morning, and mom had no need to wear anything heavier. A sash was cinched tightly at her narrow waist, accentuating her curves. As far as I could tell, mom wasn't wearing anything beneath the robe. Her feet and legs were bare. The whiteness of the robe accentuated her summer tan. A V of skin showed on her chest where the robe parted between her breasts. She looked good.

Mom looks hot, I said to myself.

"Good morning," she said, turning to me with her big smile.

I walked over to her and wrapped my arms around her and gave her a big hug. She hugged me back tightly with one arm while the other hand still held the spatula. I felt her breasts mashed against my chest, and I knew that she wasn't wearing a bra.

Mom's mood was light and happy. I liked seeing her like that. She was light on her feet and nearly bouncing from one place to another in the kitchen as she made breakfast. I couldn't figure out why her mood was so good, though.

She asked me if I wanted some coffee, and I said no, because I don't drink much coffee. I pulled orange juice out of the refrigerator, poured myself a glass, and started drinking it, all the time watching mom as much as I could, cooking the bacon.

The little white waffle cloth robe accentuated, rather than hid, her body. The tightly cinched sash made the bottom part of the robe flare out, teasing me with the possibility of seeing something I wasn't supposed to see. Or was I? I wondered why mom had decided to wear such a short robe, and, as far as I could tell, nothing else, in front of me. Whatever her reason, I was glad she had done so, because she looked magnificent. The robe exposed a lot of her legs, and with her back turned to me while she was tending to the bacon, I saw a lot of her smooth and lightly muscled thighs. She stood with her legs apart just a little bit. I looked at the gap between her legs where the hem of the robe hit her mid-thigh, and I couldn't help but think that just a few inches above that gap was her pussy, probably uncovered and bare. I didn't know why I thought she wasn't wearing panties -- the robe, though thin, was thick enough that it wouldn't reveal a panty line in any case -- but I had a feeling she wasn't. I felt sure of it.

Mom's pussy. I'd seen it last night, in person, and again last night and this morning on my computer screen. It was the most arousing and exciting thing I had ever seen. And last night I had thought to myself that I wanted to see it again.

I still did. I wanted to see mom's pussy again. I had no idea how it would happen. But I couldn't let go of the vision of it in my mind.

As I mused over my fantasies about mom, she set her spatula down and walked over to the refrigerator.

"Randy, could you grab a couple of plates out of the cabinet over there?" she asked me. She pointed to the opposite side of the kitchen.

"Sure, mom," I said. I moved toward the drawer but I kept my head turned around and focused the other way. I couldn't take my eyes off my mom, who was turned away from me in front of the refrigerator.

She opened the door and leaned over to grab something from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. And she didn't bend her legs. They remained straight, and when mom bent over at the waist the back of the robe rode up her legs -- up, up, up -- exposing more and more thigh. She paused for a moment in that position while she was fishing around for whatever it was she was looking for, giving me time to savor the view. The back hem of the robe was far up her thighs, so far that it must have been no more than an inch below her pussy, if that.

Then mom very quickly reached a little farther into the refrigerator and grabbed something, and before she moved back I saw it, again -- her pussy. It was just the briefest of flashes. A quick glimpse of just part of her lovely slit under the white robe, and then the glimpse was gone.

I'd seen mom's pussy again, from behind this time.

It's hard to describe what I felt. It was like a clap of thunder shaking my body. It was that powerful. Just the briefest glimpse of a small part of the body, one I had seen many times, in movies, on the Internet, and, less often, in person. But it stirred me down to my bones. The sight of my mom's sweet pussy, brief as it was, had that effect on me. My cock hardened immediately while I pulled the plates out of the cabinet.

Uh oh, I thought. I don't know how I'm going to hide that.

I would do my best.

When the cooking was done, I took my plate of fruit and bacon and bowl of cereal, and a glass of orange juice, to the table. Mom joined me. We sat at the end of the table near the window, and the morning light through the window lit the dining room.

While I ate my breakfast, I snuck glances at mom's figure, and particularly her legs, while I tried to pretend I wasn't looking at her. Mom crossed and uncrossed her legs a lot while we ate, and I kept hoping that the robe would part enough to give me a really good view between her legs. But this time I was disappointed. I saw glimpses of her supple thighs under the robe, but nothing more.

After ten minutes, she got up and said she had to get ready for work.

I watched her butt under the short robe as she walked away, toward her room.

With mom out of the room, I thought about what I had seen. Once again, mom's pussy had come into view. It almost seemed too good to be a coincidence.

Is mom trying to show off to me? I wondered.

It was hard for me to believe that could be true. Although mom had never been shy about wearing skimpy bikinis or athletic outfits around the house, I had never had the sense that she was trying to show off for me. But now, in the span of less than 24 hours, she had exposed her pussy to me three times. I wondered if she was playing a game with me -- if she wanted to show off, without being obvious that she was showing off.

Mom dressed and left the house a little later. With the house empty, and with time to kill before I had to get ready to go to my class at 11 a.m., I had time to think. I couldn't get the image of mom's body, and of her pussy, out of my mind. I wanted to see her pussy again. I couldn't stop thinking about it.

But how would I do it?

Mom's birthday was the next day. She had told me that some of her friends were taking her out for a birthday lunch, but she would be at home with me, just the two of us, in the evening. I had told her I would make her dinner. I liked to cook sometimes, and so long as I stuck to the recipe I usually didn't mess it up too badly. But I hadn't bought a gift for her yet.

That was it. The gift. I had to buy her something that would take this little game to the next step. I started to form a plan.

After thinking more about what I would do, I got dressed, got in my car -- mom's old Hyundai mini-sedan -- and drove to school. My classes were boring. Economics, and then art history. My attention perked up briefly in art history when the professor showed an image of Manet's painting Olympia on the white screen behind her. The image of the nude woman reclining on the bed made me think, Mom would look good like that.

Even in class I couldn't stop thinking about mom being naked.

After two hours of class I was done for the day. Next up was a stint at Best Deal. I had to work until 6.

I liked going to work. I enjoyed the job. It suited me. The Best Deal store was a vast, modern cavern filled with expensive appliances and teeming with people who needed a little convincing to buy them. My job was to convince them they should. I worked mostly in the television department; I'd been selling TVs for the previous four months, and already I was one of the better salesmen on the floor.

When I got the job, my boss, Mario, explained that my job wasn't to sell TVs. My job was to talk to customers and help them see what they needed. The TV was just the thing to fulfill the need.

Some guys never got it. They never figured out how to connect to the customer, so no matter how well they knew stuff about the TVs, they couldn't sell them. But I did figure out. It came naturally to me. Instead of just talking about the TVs, I'd chat them up and figure out what motivated them to want a TV. Once I did that, selling the TV was easy.

Just the week before, a guy in a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt had come in. I found out he wanted to get a bigger TV for a Cowboys game he'd invited a bunch of friends to his house to see that weekend. We didn't talk about TVs; we talked about football. We talked about the type of artificial turf Jerry Jones had installed in the stadium. By the end of the conversation I had convinced him there was no way he could enjoy the game without being able to see every artificial grass blade, and every crease in the cheerleaders' uniforms, with the highest resolution possible. I ended up selling him a 70-inch ultra- high definition model with dynamic range and the home theater speaker package. It sold for a lot of money. My boss was pleased. I made a nice commission, too.

Today, though, I was a little off my game, because I was so distracted with thoughts of mom. I sold two TVs, but I also let a customer get away. I kept thinking about how I could see more of mom.

It occurred to me that I could put the principles of my job to work: I needed to find out what motivated her. I had to find out what mom needed, what she wanted.

I had to figure out if mom wanted to show off to me. And, if she did, why she did.

I got off work at 5 p.m. By that time I knew where I wanted to go before going home. I drove to another store not far away. It was a high-end women's sportswear boutique. I knew what I was looking for, more or less, and it didn't take me long to find it. I stopped at another store next door, and purchased something there as well. My birthday shopping was done. I headed home.

I entered the front door carefully to make sure mom wouldn't see the bags from the stores at which I'd shopped. She wasn't there. I scurried to my room and hid the presents under my bed.

I left my room and walked to the kitchen, and I saw mom walking from her room as well. She must have finished a yoga routine in her room, because she was dressed for it: form fitting pale blue shorts that stopped high on her thigh, and tight-fitting t shirt with abbreviated sleeves, and nothing else. She was bare-footed.

She stretched her arms up and out to hug me, pulling up the little hem of the t shirt, and exposing a band of her taut, smooth tummy to my view. The shorts lay very low on her waist.

"How was your day, sweetie?" she asked me.

"It was fine, mom. Sold a few TVs." We hugged briefly.

Mom turned around and walked into the kitchen to make some dinner. My eyes strayed to her butt. I saw no sign of a panty line, but since mom wore thongs (I'd seen them often enough in the dryer), it was difficult to tell whether she was wearing anything under the shorts or not. Panties or no, her butt was a delicious sight: perky, firm, and perfectly rounded. At the sight of it, my cock started to swell under my pants.

Nothing exciting happened that evening. I helped mom make dinner, and we chatted about life and movies and her turning 41. My birthday was coming up soon; I would be turning 20, and we talked about what a milestone that was, too. I confirmed with mom that I would be making a birthday dinner for her the next night.

Throughout dinner, whenever mom turned away from me for whatever reason, I snuck peeks at her legs, her breasts, and her thin waist. I tried to be discreet; I didn't want her to see that I was ogling her. I couldn't tell if I was fully successful. A few times, she turned back quickly, and I think her eyes caught mine looking away. I couldn't be sure.

I helped her clean up dinner, and I walked off to my room to finish work for my classes the next day. I wanted to get everything done so that I could devote the next day to preparing for mom's birthday. When I finished my work, I went to bed.

The next day passed quickly. I had three classes in the morning, but no work that afternoon -- I'd made arrangements with Mario beforehand to get the day off so I could prepare for mom's birthday. I wanted everything to be right for her. I wrapped the gifts, signed the card, swept the floors and straightened up in the kitchen and dining room, and, finally, cooked dinner.

Mom got home from work in early evening, at the expected time.

"Happy birthday, mom!" I called to her as she walked through the door.

I kissed her, innocently, lightly on the side of her lips, and gave her a vigorous hug.

"Dinner is just about ready," I told her. "Why don't you freshen up and I'll have things ready when you come out?"

"This is so nice of you, Randy," she said. She scampered off to her bedroom.

Dinner was nearly ready, and needed just a few touches to make it complete. I turned off lights and lit candles already set in place. The dining room table was set.

I didn't have a lot of experience in the kitchen, but I knew how to follow a recipe. I felt pretty good about the meal I'd cooked for mom.

My preparations were done, so I walked to her room and knocked on her door. "Mom," I called softly. "Dinnertime." I thought about how many times she'd made that call for me and felt good about having returned the favor just a little.

I heard movement behind mom's bedroom door, and then it opened and mom came out.

She was dressed casually but elegantly, in a simple white sleeveless dress that fit snugly on the top but flared out a little at the waist and stopped a few inches above the knee. Her legs were bare and she wore white, low-heeled sandals that matched her dress. The mold of the dress to her breasts made me think at once that she probably wasn't wearing a bra. Her blondish hair fell around her shoulders.

I offered my arm and she took it and I escorted her to the dining room. I showed her her place and pulled out her chair for her.

When I set dinner in front of her, I was pleased to see that mom was impressed. I had set a bouquet of red roses in a glass vase on the table.

"Randy, the flowers are beautiful!" she said. "You didn't have to do that.'

"I didn't have to, but I wanted to," I said.

I set the plate with the food in front of her. I was no chef, but I did well that night. I'd pulled the recipes from one of mom's cookbooks. Dinner consisted of slices of roast lamb, garlic mashed potatoes, and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. The sauce had been tricky, but I pulled it off, and when I set the plate in front of mom I could tell she was impressed. Her eyes widened and she let out a long "oooooh."

I had turned off the overhead lights; our dinner was lit up only by candles burning on our table and on a side table in the dining room.

I wasn't old enough to buy wine, but I'd taken a bottle of red wine from mom's pantry and brought it out, and before we ate I poured some of it into her glass, and then into mine.

I sat down for a birthday dinner with my mom. Mom was a beauty in any light, but in the flickering candlelight her beauty was magical. I raised a glass to toast her.

"Happy birthday to the best mom in the world," I said.

"Thank you so much, Randy," she said, her eyes shining and watery. I thought she might cry. "I'm overwhelmed. I can't believe you did this."

"I enjoyed it, mom," I said. "You do so much for me, it seemed like a little thing to do this, and it was kind of fun to cook the food."

I've always liked food. I mean, who doesn't like to eat? But until that night, I'd never thought of food, or eating, as something sensual or sexual. But watching mom slowly and carefully cut a slice of lamb and raise it to her full lips with her fork changed the way I thought about food forever. It was as though every one of my senses, for the first time in my life, had been turned on and amplified to the highest pitch possible. I noticed the squeak of the knife on her plate as she cut a piece from the lamb. I noticed the twinkling of light reflecting off her knife in the candlelight, and the contrast of mom's tanned skin and her white dress. I noticed the way the aroma of the food wafting up from the plate mixed with the smell of burning candle wicks. Most of all, I noticed the way mom's eyes widened with pleasure when she tasted the food I'd cooked for her.

Dinner was quieter than I expected, but in a good way. We didn't say a lot, but that was because we were both enjoying eating. I knew mom enjoyed it, because while she didn't say a lot during dinner she did praise the food I had cooked for her.