My Mom Is a Hot Mom

After watching my mom masturbate from under her bed, a switch flipped inside me.

Before that day, I had wanted to see mom naked. But actually seeing her naked like that changed everything. What I felt now wasn't just a sneaky desire; it was a consuming passion. I could hardly look at mom without getting aroused. I spent hours and days tip-toeing around mom and retreating behind walls and counters so she wouldn't see the embarrassing tent that constantly filled my shorts.

I craved the next opportunity to see mom naked, or in her bikini, or in anything skimpy. But for several days, the opportunity didn't come. Either I was too busy, or mom was too busy, but for whatever reason, nothing happened. I had to satisfy myself with late-night stroke sessions to photos of mom on my computer.

At times during those few days, mom seemed preoccupied, even a little distant. I caught her looking at me a few times, like she wanted to say something to me, but when our eyes met she looked away and didn't say anything.

One night, she went on a date with a man she met through a web site. They met for drinks at a bar. Mom told me later that the guy was arrogant and pushy, and she left him after a quick drink with a lame excuse. So much for her first post-divorce date.

I felt bad for her that the date hadn't gone well, but I felt glad, too. I admit I felt a little jealous about mom dating. I liked having mom to myself.

One morning a few days later, I emerged from my bedroom, still waking up and in my usual morning attire of shorts and a t shirt, and I saw mom making coffee in the kitchen. She was wearing the short, white, cotton robe again. Her legs and feet were bare, as before. This time her hair was dry and combed. The sight of the bare skin of her legs and chest under the robe once again put my body in a state of high alert.

"Hello, Randy." She looked up at me and smiled. It was a half-smile, not her usual big smile. She poured herself a cup of coffee and handed me a glass already full of orange juice.

"Follow me," she said. "I think we should chat."

We walked to the sofa in the living room, which had become our place to have serious conversations. I sat down on one end of the sofa, and mom sat at the other. This time she sat with her legs folded under her, as demurely as she could in the short robe. With one hand, she gathered the edges of the robe together under her neck.

She seemed to take a moment to collect herself, and took a sip of her coffee, and then she looked at me.

"Randy, there have been some things going on lately that we should talk about. Things between us."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I think you know what I mean." She paused. "I know you've been watching me."

I didn't know what she knew and I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to play dumb and sound dishonest, but I didn't want to reveal everything I'd seen, either.

"Mom . . . what do you mean? What are you talking about?"

"Randy," she said. "I know you were under my bed the other day. Watching me."

Holy shit, I thought. I felt like sinking into a deep hole.

"How did you . . . when did you . . . " I tried to get the words out but was having trouble.

She interrupted me.

"You left the lens cap to your camera in my room," she said. "I figured you were taking pictures of me in the back yard from the bedroom. So, when you weren't around I checked your computer. You were careless. I just turned the monitor on and entered the password. You haven't changed it since you were a kid. You left the folder with the photos of me open on the computer. I saw the photo you took under the bed. I saw the other photos, too."

My jaw dropped. She continued.

"I'm sorry I invaded your privacy that way, but I was pretty sure you were spying on me and I wanted to know what you were doing. I also saw traces of . . . well . . . traces of you, dried on your desk, that you hadn't cleaned up completely. I figured out what you were doing."

I felt like I was a foot high, and shrinking fast. I wanted to sink into the ground, to disappear.

"Mom," I said. "The photos -- you saw ALL the photos I took?"

"I saw all of them," she said.

I let that sink in. If mom had seen all the photos, she knew everything.

"Mom, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I got excited and I got carried away. When I took that photo of you on the sofa, I didn't even know what was in it. And then I saw it on my computer when I got back to my room, and I got carried away, and I couldn't help myself. And since then, it's been . . . . I'm sorry, I'm really sorry."

"I know, Randy," she said. "You don't need to say it. I'm not angry with you."

That took me by surprise.

"You're not?" I asked her. I was relieved but also amazed.

"No. I'm not mad."

She seemed to be steeling herself to say something difficult.

"I think we should be honest with each other. I'm going to be honest with you. This is hard for me to say. But you are an adult, and I think I need to talk to you about this."

She cleared her throat.

"That night you took photos of me on the sofa, after we'd gone running together, I could tell you were looking at me in a different way, like you were sneaking peeks at me," she said. "I noticed you checking me out after our run together, when I was stretching, and then later in the kitchen. I'd never seen you do that before. And, I have to admit -- it's embarrassing to me to admit this -- I enjoyed it. It made me feel a way I haven't felt in a long time. You know the divorce was hard on me. I've felt old, and less attractive since then.

"You're my son, but you're also a handsome young man. And the way you looked at me -- it made me feel good. I wanted it to continue. So, I put on those little shorts. And I left my panties off. I didn't plan to show off . . . you know . . . down there. But I didn't try to prevent you from seeing it, either. I think a part of me knew it was a risk. When we were sitting on the sofa, I knew you were checking out my legs. I enjoyed that feeling.

"And then on my birthday, you were so sweet. You got me roses. You got me the skimpy running outfit and the bikini. I felt funny about posing in those tiny shorts and the bra top in front of you, but it felt so good at the same time. And you kept taking photos of me and telling me how good I looked.

"And later that night, I knew you were outside my door. I was using my vibrator. I was thinking about the way you were looking at me while I was using it. I heard you outside, and I guessed you were jerking off. It made me come right away. Later on, I went into the bathroom. I saw your, well, your semen, on the bathroom counter. You hadn't cleaned it all it up."

"I'm sorry, mom," I said. "I feel really bad about this --"

"No," she said. "Don't feel bad. This isn't just you. Since that birthday night I've been teasing you. I wore the red bikini and wanted you to see me in it. I put my panties out on the bed, and I thought you might take a pair. And I was right. You did."

Mom's words came pouring out, like a confession. There was guilt in her voice, but not just guilt. There was a tone of relief, and of release.

"The other day, when I wore the bikini by the pool," she said, "I thought you might be spying on me from the house when you didn't come back after Tucker left. I took my top off -- I didn't plan that. It was a crazy, spur-of-the moment thing. And then I came in the house and I thought I might catch you, but I didn't. I didn't know you were in the room until after I saw the lens cap and checked your computer later."

She looked at me, calmly, a little nervously, but without reproach or guilt.

"I was surprised at the photos you had taken. I didn't realize it had gone that far. I didn't know how to talk to you about it. I don't blame you; to some degree I've been leading you on, so I'm to blame as well. I thought we should be honest about it. That's why I wanted this talk."

I was letting it all sink in. I was surprised mom told me she had known what I'd done, but I was even more surprised about what she'd done and felt.

"So you enjoyed it?" I asked her.

"What do you mean?" she replied.

"You knew I was looking at you," I said. "You knew I masturbated outside your door while you were using a vibrator. And it turned you on. And it made you want to show off more for me. And you did."

"I don't know about that, Randy, I --"

"Wait, mom," I interrupted. "You said we should be honest. Well, I'll be honest. I did look at you. I ogled you. I enjoyed it. I think I'm kind of a voyeur. And you just happen to be the most gorgeous mom I've ever seen. And in recent days, I've seen you . . . naked. Completely exposed. And it excited the hell out of me.

"It still does," I added.

"But you liked it too, you showing off for me. You even liked showing off for Tucker in that red bikini; I could tell.

"Mom, I think you are an exhibitionist," I said. "Or you've got a streak of it in you."

As I said it, I couldn't help but notice the glimpses of mom's thighs and her cleavage peeking out from under the little robe as she squirmed on the sofa.

"I think that's right," she said. "I admit that. I have an exhibitionist streak. It was a thrill to me to be watched, and I gave in to that thrill with you, and I'm sorry for that."

"Mom," I said. "You don't have to apologize. Don't say you're sorry. I didn't know everything you just told me. I didn't know you were aware I -- that I beat off to you. I'm glad you've told me. I feel bad about sneaking around spying on you. But mom, I loved it. I loved looking at you. If you think about it -- you being an exhibitionist and me a voyeur. We're a good match." I said it with a sheepish grin.

"I don't know about that," she said. "That's not a normal part of a mother-son relationship."

"I don't know if it's normal or not," I said, "but I don't think it's bad. I don't think we've done anything wrong."

Mom rolled her eyes.

"Mom," I said. "Let you ask you: how long have you known this about yourself? How long have you been an exhibitionist?"

She paused.

"I guess I've always liked being looked at," she said. "I was in the drama club when I was in school, and I liked being on stage. I was a cheerleader, and I liked wearing the short skirts and knowing people were looking at me. In college I went streaking once, and my best friend and I went to a nude beach a few times."

"Dad must have known about it," I said. "Did he? What did he think about it?"

"That's kind of personal, Randy," she said.

"Mom, I watched you masturbate. I saw you with your legs open. That's as personal as it gets. I saw your cunt. You and I are way beyond personal."

She winced when I said the word "cunt" but I had a point to make and I kept pressing it.

"You took your top off in the back yard and wanted me to see you. You wanted me to see your boobs. I did, and I loved it. And you loved it too. You said be honest, so let's be honest. Tell me about you and dad. Did he like it? What did he think about this part of you. Did he like to show you off?"

Mom obviously had to think about her answer before she replied.

"It didn't happen right away in our marriage," she said, reluctantly at first. "We got married young, and you were born not long after we got married. For a long time we were focused on you and your dad was working hard. I stayed home with you for a most of my twenties. But then at some point when you were a little older and didn't need watching over so much, your dad got this thing about wanting to expose me. I'm sorry, this is funny to talk about. It feels awkward."

"Mom, it's not awkward for me," I said. "Tell me. Go on."

"We did little things at first, like having me go out wearing a skirt and no panties. One in a while he would ask me to flash someone in a restaurant."

"And you did?" I urged.

"I did," she said.

"And you liked it?"

"I did like it. I liked showing off my body, and it turned me on that it turned him on. He kept buying me bikinis, and it seemed like they kept getting smaller and smaller. And then he wanted me to go topless on the beach. So we went to beaches that weren't topless beaches, but where we thought we could get away with it. And I took my top off. It really turned him on, and it turned me on."

"You liked your bare tits being on display, in public, where everyone could see them?"

"Those weren't the words I was going to use, but, yes, I liked it. And I liked that he liked it. Until a certain point. And then he didn't like it, and it stopped."

"What happened?" I asked.

She took a loud sip from her coffee.

"This is embarrassing to tell you about," she said. "I don't know if I should."

"Come on, mom. Don't stop now. I want to know. Tell me."

"We went to a beach one day. Probably about six years ago. It wasn't a nude beach, but there was an area, set off by some rocks, where it was kind of understood that you could be nude and no one would bother you. So we went there, and Dan had us sit right on the edge of the so-called nude area and the non-nude area. He put the blanket down right at the distance from the water where the maximum number of people walking along the beach would be close to us. And then he had me get naked. He kept his suit on. Your dad liked that idea -- of him being clothed and me naked. "

"What happened then?" I asked.

"He told me to spread my legs open. Wide open, so anyone walking by would see me, and see my . . . between my legs."

"You mean your pussy," I said. "Say it, mom. Say 'pussy.'"

"My pussy," she said. "He wanted people to see my pussy. He looked at me and said 'Inga, I want you to spread your legs and show your pussy. I want people to see your wet pussy.' He didn't say it in a dirty way. He said it like you'd say 'Pass the chips.'"

"And you liked it," I said. "You liked showing your pussy."

"I loved it. I loved having my pussy on display like that. It turned me on so much. But it wouldn't have been the same if I'd just been sitting there alone. What I loved was that he was telling me to show off, and I was showing off for him. It sounds funny to say it, but I remember thinking how much I loved him in that moment."

"So, what happened?" I asked.

"I lay back on that blanket, with the sun shining down on my naked body. He put sun screen on my body, really slowly, lathering it on. And I remember him holding my leg to the side as he put it on me, so my pussy would remain exposed. People walking by could see me naked and on display, and my husband was making it easier for them by holding my legs open. And we acted very nonchalant, like it was no big deal, even though it was a really big deal for me. And I kept my legs open. I have no idea how many people passed by us. Maybe a hundred. Maybe more. Every single one of them saw my pussy. Some of them tried to hide the fact that they looked at it. Some of them looked away quickly. Some of them didn't -- a few even stared or did double takes. But everyone looked.

"And then I got the idea to take it a little further. I was having so much fun showing off for your dad. So I looked at him to make sure he saw what I was doing, and then I reached down between my legs, and I spread it open."

"You spread what open?" I asked her. "Say it. Tell me everything. Say the words."

"I spread my pussy open," she said. "I took my fingers and I pushed the lips back, as far as they could go. When I took my fingers away, the lips still were peeled back. All the way, and they stayed that way."

She stopped.

"I can't believe I'm telling you this, Randy," she said. "You must think your mom is perverted."

"No, mom, I don't," I said. "I don't at all. I'm glad you're telling me this. Please keep going."

She nodded slowly and continued.

"After I . . . spread myself open like that, when people walked by, then didn't just see my pussy. They saw me wide open. Inside. When no one was walking by, I even pulled out a little hand mirror from my bag, and I held it down between my legs so I could see exactly what I was showing off. My pussy was so wide open you could see deep inside it. It was like a pink, wet tunnel. I'm not sure but I think there was even some moisture dripping out of it, just a little. It made me think all these thoughts. Lewd thoughts. I thought, that's where my husband fucks me. That's where his cock goes. And he's put me on a show here so everyone can see where his cock goes when he fucks me."

"And you liked that," I said.

"I loved it," she said. She looked far away when she said it, like she wasn't next to me, but on the beach again. "I loved that feeling. It was one of the most arousing feelings I ever had. And it was . . . I don't know exactly how to say it . . . it was so satisfying. Even though it was wrong, I guess, it felt so right sitting like that, next to Dan."

"How did dad like it?" I asked.

Mom didn't answer right away.

"That's the funny thing, the sad thing," she said. "He didn't. He didn't like it. I crossed a line. I don't mean just the amount of exposure. He didn't like that I took control, that it was my decision to open myself up further. I don't think he realized until that minute that it wasn't all about him, that this was something I really, deeply enjoyed, that I craved it. I think it scared him. I think when he realized that my exhibitionism was more than just my doing what he wanted it was scary to him, and it was no longer sexy.

"He got quiet after he saw me do that. And we left the beach not much later. In the car I knew something was wrong, and I tried to talk about it, but he didn't want to.

"We never did anything like that again. That was the end of him showing me off. And we never talked about it. And that's when our marriage took a turn. It was never the same after that. I felt like he looked at me in a different way."

After she finished we sat quietly on the sofa for a few minutes. She sipped her coffee and I finished my orange juice.

"Other than wearing short skirts or sometimes wearing bikinis," mom said, "I never did anything exhibitionist after that. Until the last few days, that is." She grinned uneasily.

"And how do you feel about that?" I asked. "What you've done the last few days?"

"Guilty," she said. "But I enjoyed it, too. I have to admit that. How do you feel about it? How do you feel about what I've said?"

"I feel great," I said. "And hearing you talk about the past makes me feel better about it. This is who you are. It's who we are. You like being looked at, and you like being looked at by me. It turns you on. And I like looking at you, and watching you show off. It turns me on.

"Mom, we've both masturbated over your showing your body to me. I can't turn that clock back. I can't stop being turned on by you. And I think if you're honest you'll admit you can't stop being turned on by it, either. The only way I could stop would be to move out, so I wouldn't be around you. And I don't want to do that. I don't think you want that, either."

She didn't say anything.

"Mom, I want to hear you say it," I said. "Admit you want to show off. Admit you were excited knowing I liked looking at you."

"I admit I like showing off," she said. "Yes, it was flattering and exciting to know you were looking at me. But that doesn't make it right. We have to set some limits, Randy. There have to be some boundaries. I'm your mother. You're my son."

"I accept that," I said. "I agree. I want boundaries, too."

"Well, I'm glad. So we agree we need to limit what we do, right?" she asked me.

"Of course, we should have limits. We should have boundaries," I said. "But mom, we don't need to limit everything."

"What do you mean?" she asked, suspicion and skepticism in her voice.

"You've admitted to me that you like showing off. You're an exhibitionist. I like watching you. I'm a voyeur, I guess you'd call it. Let's face it, you've shown your entire body to me -- everything -- and I loved it. I loved seeing it more than anything I've ever seen. And you liked it too. You want us to be honest with each other -- well, let's be honest. You enjoyed me looking at you. It turned you on. It still turns you on."