My Mom Is a Hot Mom

My mom always had a talent for looking elegant without trying too hard.

She looked elegant now, sitting to the right of me at a small, round, wrought-iron table under the shade of an elm tree on the patio of a restaurant in the city. Mom wore a sleeveless white top and a cornflower blue pleated skirt that stopped a few inches above her knee. Her legs were bare and tanned, and she wore blue pumps that matched her skirt.

I was dressed more formally than usual, in khaki pants and a pale blue, open-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I also wore well-shined black loafers that had spent the entire summer in the closet. I had some plans for the day, and to pull them off I wanted to look older than I was.

Mom and I were having lunch together and enjoying the unseasonable warmth of a mid-fall afternoon.

When we sat down at the table, I was struck by the incongruity of mom's appearance and the memory of what had happened between us a few days earlier. I looked at the elegant woman in the white top and blue skirt in front of me, and for a moment I doubted whether my memory of our time in the shower together was even real. For the first half hour of our lunch, our conversation never touched on the crazy things that we had done together in the past few weeks. Mom asked me about school, and about my classes, and she told me an anecdote about an employee at the company she worked for that had been complaining about a boss with wandering hands. But she made no mention of the things we had done together, things I couldn't stop thinking about.

Mom got a phone call, and she said it was someone from work and that she had to take it. While she took the call, I looked out at the partly shaded patio around me and thought about the previous week.

Only five days earlier mom and I had lain on the shower floor while she had given me a foot job. Of course, it was impossible to get the images of that moment out of my head, and the next day I'd felt like a ravenous beast, wanting more of her. But it didn't happen. Our busy schedules got in the way, and during the brief times we were together over the next few days I had the impression from mom that she needed a break from the craziness. It was the same pattern as before. So, I laid off her for a while, or tried to. My cock got a workout from my hand several times a day, to ease my agitation. And I kept thinking about the next step to take. Because, whatever mom's hesitation was, I knew I wanted to take another step, and that I was going to. But what to do?

I didn't just want to fuck my mom. I mean, I did want to fuck her, very, very badly, but I wanted something else, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I wanted to push her. She had shown me something in her, and I wanted to tease it out, encourage it, bring it to full flower. I started to form a plan. It seemed crazy, and I knew mom would resist it. But I thought I could overcome her resistance, or, maybe more accurately, that I could say and do the right things to make her overcome her own resistance. I thought about it a lot, and I finally figured out a plan for the next step.

And that's what brought me to lunch with my mom on a sunny, pleasant fall day on the patio of a trendy restaurant.

Mom's call ended and she put her phone away. Before either of us could say anything, the waiter arrived. He brought mom a green salad with vinaigrette and me a seasonal squash soup with a dribble of crème fraiche over the surface. The waiter left, and we sampled our first courses for a couple of minutes in silence.

It was a surprise when, unprompted, mom asked me a question with no trace of a connection to anything we had talked about to that point during our lunch.

"Randy, do you think I'm a slut?"

The question popped out of mom's mouth with no warning. Mom had just finished a bite of her salad. My mouth was full of squash soup, which I had to work hard to stop from spitting up. I swallowed it, with some effort, and I looked up at my mom. She looked at me intently, with eyes wide and searching and her lips pressed tightly against each other.

"Mom, why would you ask that?" I asked.

Mom took a moment to marshal her thoughts before answering me.

"It's just -- everything we've done together recently. Randy, you've seen me in a way that sons don't usually see their mothers. We've done things together that mothers and sons don't usually do. I worry about what you think. What you think of me."

I was surprised. She hadn't said anything like this in the days after our last encounter in the shower.

"Mom, no," I said. "I don't think of you that way and I would never call you that. I think you're a very, very sexual woman. And you're hot. There's no doubt about that. But I wouldn't call you . . . that word."

Mom looked at me across the table, steadily, with a hint of a frown.

"You don't look satisfied," I said.

"Well," she said. "I appreciate what you just said. I just keep thinking about what we did in the shower the other day." She leaned over the table. "I made you come, Randy, with my feet! I just keep thinking how slutty I must have looked to you. What a slut I must seem like to you now."

"Mom," I said, "you sound like you're trying to convince me that you are a slut. Like you want me to think you're a slut. Is that what you want?"

That stopped her for a few seconds.

"No, that's . . . that's not it, I just want . . .." She couldn't finish her thought.

"Mom," I interrupted her. "You're a sexual person. I've learned a lot about you recently. And I love it. I wouldn't change anything about it. I love you exactly the way you are."

"You do?" mom asked me, her eyes searching mine.

"I do, mom," I said. I leaned over the table to talk to her more quietly. "And you can't really call yourself a slut if you're not fucking a lot of guys, and I don't think you've fucked anybody in over a year. We've done stuff together. But we haven't fucked. Yet."

I let the word "yet" linger at the table, and mom stayed silent. I leaned a little closer.

"But mom," I continued. "If you want me to think of you as a slut, if you want me to call you a slut, if that turns you on -- I will. Do you want your son to call you a slut? Is that what you want?"

I was speaking quietly but insistently. No one could hear me but mom, but I could tell she was hanging on every word. I could see the conflict and the desire in her face. But she didn't say anything.

"I'll tell you what, mom," I said. "It's been a few days since you've done anything slutty, so how about if I have you do something slutty and we'll see how we both feel about."

"You mean today?" she asked.

"I mean right now," I replied. I sat back in my chair and grinned at her.

"In this restaurant? Here?" she asked. "What do you want me to do?"

"Mom, "I said, putting on a lascivious grin for her, "Take off your panties. Pull them down your legs to your feet, and then kick them to me and I'll take them."

"We're in public, Randy," she said.

"I know, mom," I said. "But you told me before, when you were with dad, you spread your legs on the beach in front of over a hundred people who walked by. That was in public."

Mom had no reply to that. She looked at me. Then she looked over my shoulder, and then to either side of her. I could tell she was thinking about it. She wanted to see if anyone might be looking.

I saw the struggle in her face, but her desire won out. Mom exhaled a short, sharp breath of air, and then she put both of her hands under the table on either side of her dress. I saw what she was doing, just a little, through the lattice of the wrought-iron tabletop. I saw mom lift off the seat of her chair, her hands working at the panties under the dress fabric. Then I saw one hand reach quickly up under the dress. Just moments later I saw it: a pair of tiny blue panties, emerging from below the hem of mom's elegant dress and stretched between her knees. Mom wriggled her knees and legs, and the panties dropped down her shins to her feet. She covered them hastily as well as she could with her shoes, and then she looked up, obviously to see if anyone had noticed her. I didn't follow her gaze. I just looked at the fringes of the blue panties peeking out from under mom's shoes under the table.

Mom's eyes darted around the table in front of her until she looked down at her lap. She wriggled her torso until the napkin on her lap fell off, and then mom took advantage of the ruse to scoop up both napkin and panties off the ground. She covered the tiny panties easily in her fist and stuffed them into her small purse.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" I asked.

"It wasn't easy!" she said with a grin. "I hope you are satisfied."

"I'm satisfied with that," I said. "But that's not enough. I've got a lot more in mind than that."

I paused and let that sit with her. Mom looked at me with an expression of curiosity and puzzlement, with a hint of fear. She did not know what I had in mind, but she knew I had something in mind. And I did.

"Mom, do you remember our conversation?" I asked. "The one the other day where you told me about being on the beach with dad? How you were naked, and you showed off?"

I kept my voice down, but at the last sentence mom looked up and around her, with a nervous manner, obviously wondering if anyone could hear what I was saying. But no one could. I was speaking loud enough for her to hear me, but not loudly enough for anyone else to hear me.

I leaned forward.

"Do you remember that conversation?"

"Of course, I do," she said. "I can't forget that conversation, or what happened after it."

"Good," I said. "You told me something about yourself. That you like to show off. But you also told me dad didn't like it, and after that day you didn't do it any more when you were married." I paused again.

"O.K. You're right," she said. "I remember that. What about it?"

"After the things we've done together, mom," I said, "I can tell it's something you still want to do, but you weren't able to do it married to dad, and you haven't been able to do it until now."

She kept staring back at me, trying to maintain an impassive expression.

"Where are we going with this, Randy?" she asked me.

"Here's where we're going, mom," I said. "How about if I give you the chance to do what you wanted to do with dad?"

"What do you mean?" Mom looked nervous. She fidgeted in her chair across the table from me.

"I mean, mom, with me you can do what you wanted to do with dad," I said. "You can show off. I'll help you do that."

Mom didn't reply immediately, but she arched her brows, and the corners of her mouth twisted in a wry expression.

"How do you plan to do that?" she asked.

"Well, first, by getting you to take your panties off in a restaurant," I said, and I gave her a big smart-ass grin. "Which you've done already.

"And next, spreading your legs enough so I can take a photo with my camera."

"Randy, there are people all around us. If you do that they're going to see it." She furrowed her brow, and I thought it looked cute. She looked uncertain, but not shocked. We had done so much already that the shock threshold had moved a lot.

"OK, then," I said. "You take the photo with your phone, and text it to me."

She opened her mouth slowly as though she was forming the words to refuse, and I interrupted her.

"You can do it quickly, mom. I'll keep an eye out. No one's going to see you.

"And if they do," I continued and paused, "Then they see you. That's not so bad. No one here knows you."

Mom didn't look convinced. She stared hard at me and then turned her head in every direction to see if anyone might be looking at her. I looked too, and I didn't see anyone staring at us at that moment. Mom held up her phone. I knew she was thinking about it. But she wasn't convinced. She was in her public mode, dressed elegantly (even if she was without her underwear), and to do what I was asking her to do she would have to break out of her comfortable role.

But break it she did. Slowly, uncertainly, with lines of worry stitched across her face -- but she did it. Her gaze darted quickly back and forth, her head jerking this way and that like a bird's, so she could confirm that no one was looking at her. Then she whipped the phone under the table. I saw her legs part through the gaps in the iron table top. Her left hand pulled the skirt up a few inches, and her right dipped between her knees with her thumb on the camera button. She held the phone in place there, and then quickly brought it up to her face.

I held my phone up to my face, eagerly awaiting mom's text. I was aware of mom's thumb moving across her phone screen, but I couldn't look at it. My eyes were fixed on my own phone, waiting for the text to appear.

After what seemed like ages, the familiar ping sounded. A text. I clicked on the icon and opened it. The image on my phone screen was darker than I wished it was, the result of mom not having used a flash when she took the photo. It wasn't perfectly clear. But it was unmistakably a photograph of my hot mom's pussy under her blue skirt. I felt my cock stiffening as I looked at it.

"Satisfied?" mom asked me.

"Oh yeah," I said. "More than satisfied. You texted me a photo of your pussy, Mom. You have a very pretty pussy."

"I'll bet you tell that to all the girls," she said.

"Just the ones with pretty pussies," I said. "Yours is the prettiest I've seen."

"Not too loud, Randy," she said. "We're in public."

I used my fingers to zoom in more closely on the image of mom's vulva in the photo. The resolution was better than I would have expected. The soft skin, the delicate petal-like lips, even the hint of dew inside the depths between them -- all were on display in the photo.

"Did I take a good photo?" mom asked.

"It's great," I said.

I looked down through the lattice work of the table top and could see a lot of mom's legs exposed under the short skirt. Suddenly, though, her thighs snapped shut. I looked up from her legs to her face. Mom was looking at me, and she looked nervous and embarrassed.

"Are you suddenly getting shy?" I asked.

"I think somebody was looking up my skirt and saw me," she said.

"Isn't that what you want?" I asked.

"Randy," mom replied. "We're in public."

"You keep saying that, like it's bad," I said. "You've shown off a lot more in public before. "Why be shy now?"

"That was at the beach," she said. "And it was a long time ago."

"So, who is it? What does he look like?" I asked. I didn't turn around because I didn't want him to see me, whoever it was.

"I don't want to look back at him," mom said. "He'll notice."

I looked up and around us. Some sunlight was coming through the tree cover. Despite the shade of the trees overhead it still was bright. I had an idea.

"Pull your sunglasses out of your purse," I said to mom. "Put them on, and then describe him to me. He won't be able to see if you are looking at him with sunglasses on."

Mom paused before responding. But after a few moments she reached into her purse and drew out a pair of stylish sunglasses. She put them on.

"O.K., mom," I said, "Is he still looking at you?"

She didn't answer right away, but after what seemed like a minute of looking up, down, and sideways uncomfortably, she replied at last.

"He just glanced this way," she said. "There's someone else at his table. Looks like a girlfriend or a wife, maybe."

"So, he wants to look at you," I replied, "But he doesn't want to be so obvious that he gets caught. Is that it?"

"I guess so. It looks that way," she said. "He just looked this way again. Briefly. Yeah, he doesn't want to get caught. He's trying to look this way but he looks nervous doing it."

I thought about what I was doing. I was trying to orchestrate my mother's exposure to other people on a restaurant patio. What kind of son was I? What kind of son would do that? Shouldn't I do everything I could to shield mom's exposure of the intimate treasure under her skirt from others in public?

I knew my answer. My answer was "no." It turned me on to think about how hot my mom was. Mom had revealed herself to me; she'd revealed not just her body, but her desires and her fantasies. They were part of her hotness. I wanted to bring them out. I wanted to be the man that my father wasn't: the man that encouraged my hot mom to be hot and sexy in the way that, deep down, she wanted to be.

"Spread your legs, mom," I told her, in as firm and as authoritative a voice I could muster as a 19-year-old son.

Mom looked at me, briefly, with her mouth forming a big "O" and her eyes wide and quizzical and uncertain. I looked through the semi-open table top to see what her legs were doing, and they stayed pressed together at first. But not for long. I saw the bare knees, lying several inches beyond the hem of the blue skirt, part -- a little at first, but then more. As mom parted her pretty, bare knees, the skirt pulled back, exposing more of her firm thighs. Soon her legs were spread wide, just as I'd asked. A lot of each supple leg was visible beyond the edge of the short skirt now stretched taut. From my point of view, I couldn't see what was between mom's legs. But I could tell that someone sitting in front of her could. I wanted to look back, behind me, to see if mom's voyeur was looking at her now. But I resisted the desire.

"Is he looking?" I asked her.

Mom feigned looking at me, but I knew she was looking through her sunglasses beyond me to see if the man was looking at her.

"He is," she said. "He's glanced at me a few times."

"Can he see your pussy? Let me know if he can see your pussy," I said.

"Randy," mom said, "This is really embarrassing. I think I should cover up."

"You can't really cover up in that skirt in this position, though, mom," I said, "Can you?"

"No, I can't," she said.

"Then, hold that position," I said.

I looked through the table top, and I saw that mom held the position. She kept her legs spread wide and the skirt rode far up her thighs. Her head was inclined toward me, but I could tell that behind the dark lenses of her glasses she was looking at the man at the other table who was looking at her. She didn't move.

I gave her a moment to hold that position before speaking to her again.

"Is he looking at you?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied. "He's been sneaking glances at me. He's trying to be subtle because he's talking to the woman at his table at the same time. I can tell he doesn't want to make her suspicious."

"How do you feel about that, mom?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" she responded.

"I mean, how do you feel about a man with a date looking at you, without underwear?" I asked. "He can tell you aren't wearing panties, right?"

She didn't answer right away, but she did answer.

"He did a double-take," she said. "Yeah, he can tell. I think he saw everything."

Mom's face was turned toward me and she held her head still as she spoke. Obviously, she was trying to hold on to whatever pretense she could that she didn't know what she was doing or that she wasn't aware that the man at the other table could see her most intimate anatomy between her spread legs. But a glance through the table top confirmed that she hadn't moved her legs, and that despite whatever pretense she was trying to maintain she kept showing herself to this man, and that she knew exactly what she was doing.

I wondered for a second what I was doing. Why did I want my mom to do this? My thoughts were complicated. I wanted to see my mom's pussy. I wanted to touch and lick and play with it. I wanted to fuck her; I knew that. But I wanted something more, too: I wanted to play with her, to tease out of her something that she'd partly revealed to me but that she'd kept hidden for a long time, something buried deep that nevertheless was a big and important part of her. I wanted it to come out. I wanted to be the one to make it come out. And I wanted to be the one to witness it coming out. I wasn't sure what was going to happen when it did. But I wanted to be there, I wanted to see it, and I wanted to be part of it.