ORLEY WHIP
I know exactly where and when my son Owen was conceived. I was a second-year college student, going on twenty, and had been sexually active for almost a year, but I had to drop the Pill for three months on doctor's orders, something about telling your hormones to get back in line. Mine didn't need it, because they were galloping through my veins like wild horses in Montana. I was a drum majorette during the college rag and I found the diaphragm I had to use as a prophylactic instead, a bit irksome when I did the high kicks. Of course, if you're a drummie, those high kicks cause a standing ovation in the male onlookers, opening their pockets and their flies, and also cause envy in the female members of the crowd, because they can just imagine how you can wrap your legs around a guy when you have to fuck standing up, as often happens when you have to do it in corridor or an alley.
Anyway, I should have put the cum-stop back after the parade, but I was swept along with the crowd, got properly pissed in the pub, lost my panties somewhere during the evening, and then accommodated the rugby football captain by leaning back on the bonnet of his Beetle and spreading my legs. He was rather drunk too, fucked me and then pissed on me to boot, the fucking pervert. I had several fucks later that evening, but it was that flyhalf's shot that hit the target, because my Owen proved to be good athlete as well. But because of at least six other pricks (I lost count after that) which had visited my carnal joint, I had no case and bore the consequences.
I'm not at all religious and would have had no moral objection to an abortion, but after missing the second period, the little guy had started kicking footballs in my womb and I sort of grew attached to him, and today I'm glad I didn't. I dropped out of college and started as a barmaid in a local hotel, which was a good move because it put bread on the table and pricks in my pussy, as I'm rather partial to fucking, you see. The bigger my tummy grew, the keener the guys were to screw me, this being a big turn-on for them. Of course, they paid me for the privilege, which monies I put aside for a rainy day, such as putting my baby through college when he grows up.
I popped Junior the day before Christmas and discovered that my pear-shaped boobs had swollen to resemble smallish melons, which was a real bonus because now I had a proper cleavage. Serving customers while your boobs are threatening to pop out any moment certainly trebled the clientele of the pub, and once Junior was weaned, I had no end of suckers who would try their damnest to extract milk from my melons, usually after I had extracted cream from them downstairs, being a sucker for that myself.
Now that you have the background, I can tell you the real story.
Owen had scored well in his final school exams and won a scholarship to study Graphic Design and Photography at the local technicon; he also proved to be a good rugby flyhalf as well, like his father, but he had not yet discovered the joys of fornication. For his second year he needed a good camera, so I dipped into my pussy savings and bought him a Canon with the necessary lenses; he already had a laptop. Then another problem arose: he needed to practice with the camera, and because of the slant of his course, it needed to be 'glamour photos'.
There was no shortage of girls who would gladly pose for him, but he because he was still a virgin, he was scared of taking up the offers. He came complaining to me, but the reason he gave was not the real one. 'They're nice girls, mom, but I have a sneaking suspicion that they want me to get them pregnant so that I must marry them. I'm too young to settle down with a wife and a snot-nosed kid. I still want to enjoy life, see a bit of the world, maybe visit France and the Riviera.'
'So, you need a model? Would I do?'
He looked me up and down and said, 'You are still in fucking good shape, mom!'
'Yes, my boy, in my fucking line of work it pays to stay trim and slim, and very fit.' For that reason I still jogged five kilometres every morning, then take a shower and a rubdown before I go to prepare breakfast, and I avoid the starchy and fatty foods. Because the bar only opens at ten, I also have time afterwards to sun myself in the nude in the small courtyard at the back of the house so as to keep my overall tan.
'Can I snap you in your undies, mom?'
'Yes, I don't see a problem with that. We can have a look at the different sets. Where would you take the pictures?'
'The ideal would be in the studio, but that is closed during the summer holidays,' he mused. 'We can try indoors, mom.'
'The courtyard is also fine, Owen; nobody can see us there.'
'I'll have to see how the light is, mom.'
