America's Nude Mom

[©2010 BY CLINTON09; ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER THE AGE OF 18 WITH IDENTITIES DISGUISED; FOR AGES 21 OR ABOVE]

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I will admit it. I married Martha for her money, pure and simple. My name is James; I had played football in high school. After graduation, I wasn't offered a scholarship by any college nor recruited by any company. I had to take a job as a truck driver, running freight locally from rail to consumer. It wasn't much, but it did pay...lousy.

As I considered my fate, I visited my divorced mother. As usual, she was working in a 'theme' restaurant, one of those sports/bar places that were for men afraid to visit a strip club. Some of the women were pretty hot (my mom included), so it wasn't a complete waste. I was seated with a great view of the TV's. With exciting replays of women's field hockey and English league rugby, I was wondering: What, no lacrosse??

I had to wave off, with a friendly smile, Clarissa, winking that I wanted my mom to serve me. Sure enough, 5 minutes later, my dear mother came up. My loving mother was a petite (5'2") former sexpot. Her figure was good, not great, but those imitation bunny outfits...mom was already 35 or 36 up top, but that absurd outfit made her look like Pamela Anderson, BEFORE her breast reduction. Call me gay, but I prefer my women a bit more realistic looking. On this particular night, mom mentioned that Clarissa had lost her boyfriend and that she could use my patronage. She gave me a knowing wink, so that meant more than the usual tip.

Clarissa was a leggy brunette, 5'8", lacking my mom's cleavage but having the legs of a model. She was delighted when mom 'handed me off' to her. It was near to closing, so I asked her if she wanted a ride home (normally my mother gave her a lift.) She thanked me but said no. I persisted and she agreed. We got to her rundown place. I didn't want to press the issue but when she invited me to stay for coffee, well, I wasn't born yesterday. Coffee it would be; if only I drank coffee.

As expected, throughout our 'coffee', she had her head down as she reprised every single thing she had done with her boyfriend, including the unsatisfactory sex. In spite of that, she still missed him. Her dreams of a home and a family dashed. I saw my opening and gave her an obligatory hug. Soon we were making out. This was purely 'on the rebound' intimacy; I hoped that she knew that too. Well before I could discuss that philosophically, we were in bed together.

With good reason I assumed, she kept her bra on at all times. On the plus side, she had a butt that could bend a pin, small and rock solid. Her legs were the best I had ever seen and soon were wrapped around me. Our bodies slapped together with that wonderful rhythmic cadence that only lovers know. As I approached the moment of reckoning, I SHOULD have asked what protection she was using. SHOULD have asked, but didn't. With a manly grunt, I jetted about a dozen quick spurts of my potent seed. Thinking purely of procreation and not of her, I selfishly held her tightly, my big ten inch cock pumping frantically, trying to fill her up before she had any second thoughts. After a few minutes of utter bliss, the ache from my swollen testes was gone, the huge ocean of seed having been transferred into her unprotected (as it turned out) and very fertile womb. I guess I should have asked about the pill. Frankly, after enjoying the mutual orgasm that we shared, I wouldn't have cared if she was spawning for the devil.

Waitresses in those places come and go, and fortunately she left three weeks later. Two weeks after that, she used a home pregnancy tester out of curiosity. To her surprise, I had gotten her pregnant. When she called me, I said I would marry her gladly, but I had barely any money. Oddly, she hung up, never to call again. For some reason, I took down the phone number into my little black book.

I always felt bad that my mother had been abandoned by her no-good husband after he learned she was pregnant with me. Now, while I still had no decent job, she had to be on her feet till 1:00 or 2:00 am. I had to somehow breakout of my rut, save myself AND her. I went there the next night too, and Mom returned with my 'drink' (ok, laugh, but I never drink), normally a Shirley Temple or a rum and Coke, hold the rum. Other male patrons, seeing that I left a modest tip but somehow got a kiss on the forehead or cheek from this atomic hot waitress, wanted to know what he (i.e. me) had that they didn't.

I was about to leave when deliverance was brought to me. ESPN SportsCenter topped off their coverage with a preview of that great baseball brawl, where that Cy Young award winner had beaned the league-leading homerun hitter. I couldn't miss that! Well, as I waited for four commercials and five network plugs to finish, I overheard the next table. They mentioned the wealthiest family in town and their only child, Martha. She had been a deb (debutante), was nasty, judgmental, a real bitch. On the other hand, there was that money. Talk was, she was seeking any man, but preferably one who could be treated as a 'trophy husband', more handsome than brainy. Listening to this, I thought that this was 'right down my alley'.

The next day I scoured the web for any information on that wealthy family and particularly their daughter Martha. She was 27 to my 19. She loved horses, which was THE opening I needed. She had a horse at the stables attached to our city's largest municipal park. I took a big gamble, taking leave from my truck driver job to become, well, a stable boy.

The stables manager desperately needed someone to work; not many people, whether native citizens or immigrants, wanted a job which included mucking out the horse stalls. Well, I was desperate enough to do it. When we toured the grounds and I showed my affinity for the equine, I was hired right then and there.

Through inquiries and snooping on our database, I now learned precisely when Martha arrived, left, and rode during her time on the paths. I made certain to be there with her mount when she arrived. She was dressed out expensively in the finest English riding tack, deep red with brown leather straps. She actually looked rather smart. As I held her mount, she got on the gelding with complete ease, saying not a word to me. She sallied forth at a canter, horse and rider as one unit. She expressed no word of thanks to me then, or ever. Though she rode with confidence and aplomb, her mount came to like me more than her. Few horses, even mares or geldings, allow you to hug them, but he did. Like all quadruped mammals, he appreciated a head butt and attention to places he couldn't reach.

One day, I was hugging her mount when Martha arrived early.

Martha: "What's going on here?"

Me: "Oh, you startled me. It's just me and Max (her gelding) doing some male bonding."

Martha: "I can see that. Your name is?"

Me: "James...you're not going to report me...I mean, I didn't mean any harm."

Martha: [Snickering to herself.] "No, actually, as I look you over stable boy, you have everything I want in a man; strong, good looks, love of horses, and a resume without 'Princeton' or 'Dartmouth' included."

Well, that was the kickoff. She took me to her club, which had a place in Miami, overlooking the entire city. After 9-11, I was a bit leery of skyscrapers, but being on the 50th floor was awesome. We actually could see the Caribbean from where we had dinner. Well, one thing led to another and we wed. She never knew that I was just an adventurer, a gold-digger if you will.

Our wedding night was a bit strained. I guess I should have mentioned this before, but she was, umm, homely. I don't mean to be cruel, but she had enough androgynous looks to qualify as man or woman. It was like the old SNL skit with 'Pat', only I had to be married to it. Well, I endured that first night and the honeymoon in Belize. Remember when I said I never drank; well, for the purposes of the marriage, I was absolutely loaded to endure that duty.

We settled down in our brand new home provided by her family. She didn't care how humble my job, my education, and my heritage were...in fact, the more humble the better. She had me quit the stables and work for her father, the last of her family except for her. He actually liked me, to Martha's anger, and promoted me to manager. Upon hearing that, Martha went ballistic. She wanted me all right, but only in a subordinate position. She called her friend.

Martha: "So here my father just promotes my low class husband into management, putting him into the middle class. I was furious; I didn't want an intellectual or professional equal; I wanted a toyboy who was totally dependent upon me. Now I will have to see the gentrification of him and his poor white trashy mother."

Beatrice: [Her BFF.] "Wait, if you want to humiliate him, humiliate his mom! You told me before she works as a cocktail waitress. Well, my company is doing the promotion for the Mrs. Nude North America contest. Just think of it; her son forced to watch his mother humiliate herself in front of an audience and the TV market (taped for later play). She's what, 40 or 45. Remember your mother at 45? We're talking droop city; your husband will run out of that place crying like a six month old baby girl!"

Neither Beatrice nor anyone else saw the devilish smile on Martha's face. She rubbed her hands, and went to work. She first floated the idea to me:

Martha: "Jim, you told me that your mother always wanted to be in show business, didn't you?"

Me: "Well, yes, but now that she's over 40; she kind of gave that up."

Martha: "What if I told you that there was still a chance; it's a wild idea, but there's a contest that will show off the best looking women in this area; it will even be televised so that Hollywood types will see it. And as you know, the most famous real estate magnate in the world, the one with the comb-over, will be one of the judges. On top of all that, the winner gets $100,000 and a guaranteed role in a film; even the third runner-up gets $10,000. If you both were interested, we could start 'training her' immediately; to save money, we could skip the personal trainer [She was so cheap.] and have you assist. I mean, you did have to have a strict regimen as a football player, did you not? Here's the website to read up on it if you want to."

Me: "Ok, I will broach the idea; no guarantees, though." [Up to this point, I had never so much as kissed my mom in an incorrect fashion. That would change.]

I proposed the idea to my mother. She was puzzled why Martha, who treated her with thinly disguised contempt, would want to help her out. Being a woman, she could decipher Martha's motive; she decided to 'play along' and see what happened.

The three of us were living in Martha's home. Martha set up a mini-gym in our solarium. She never once came to visit, lest she have to speak to my mother. If she had done so, she might have had second thoughts.

Starting from ground zero, my 41 year old mom had the basics of a great figure. She had a bit of middle age spread, maybe 36-31-38. Neither she nor I knew what was 'beneath that'; her genetics would dictate what effect losing weight would have.

Every day, mom would work-out for up to two hours, and then take a cooling shower before preparing our dinner. One time, Martha called from her car, asking me about a flyer that my mom now had—an outlet store sale for women's fashions. She insisted that I get it now and call her back immediately. I had no choice and had to sneak into my mom's room before she got out of the shower. I couldn't find it instantly; after two minutes, I located it. I was just about to make good my escape when who should come out of the shower, drying herself off, but my beautiful mother.

Mom: "Jimmy, what are you doing here!?"

Me: "Well, Martha insisted that I get that flyer with the coupon for that fashion outlet mall."

Mom: "That's great, but I'm standing here sopping wet, in the nude."

Me: "It was a mistake; I can leave, or do whatever you want to punish me." [It was a hollow offer; surely she wouldn't take me up on it.]

Mom: "Okay, smarty pants. Drop 'em."

Me: "You mean...my pants?"

Mom: "Yes, everything. That bitchy wife of yours has had you leering at me in that skintight leotard so thin you could count the number of blonde hairs in my muff, so let's see what beefcake has."

I quickly took off my clothes. Remembering something, I held my hand up and called Martha, relaying the coupon code number. She didn't thank me, of course, and rang off. Mom then beckoned me forward. She first 'frisked me', like a patdown for security, only she was feeling the oversized muscles on her strapping young son.

Mom: "This is neither the time nor the place for sex, but I will allow you one thing, and only one thing, you want to do which is not sex."

Well, I don't know if it was first, second, or third base, but I locked my mouth on her erect nipple and didn't want to ever let go. With the sound of a loud slap, I stood up, puzzled. I looked down and my cock had gotten hard and erected with a slap against my stomach, the head of it well above my navel. Oops, that ended my 'one thing'.

Mom: "Well, either you have a huge erect cock down there, or you're just happy to see mom out of the shower. Either way, my baby deserves a bonus."

She moved her slavering damp pussy lips to that hard cock. Rising up and down on her perfect, smooth feet, she dragged the tingling entrance to her fertile garden along the length of my stone hard cock. At that point, I was just about to throw my gorgeous mother on her bed and fuck the holy hell out of her. What luck, who should call but dear Martha. She reminded me to remind mom that she expected dinner at a certain hour. Mom would be hard pressed to do that now, putting our little sexcapade right out the window. I hung up, said an appropriate four letter word, and told mom about dinner. She told me to leave and turn the stove on. I grabbed my clothes and left, frustrated, my cock bobbing in front of me. I felt guilty about holding mom up after her shower, so I offered to help out. It turns out the only things I could do in the kitchen were open cans and grab my supersexy mom for an occasional embrace. I finally had to promise to let her alone to do her job; if I was a 'good boy' she'd give me a kiss. That torrid French kiss lasted five minutes and was well worth it...I dutifully left her alone at that point.

To ensure that mom became as dependent as I was upon her, Martha had forced her to quit her job; she was paid the same amount basically to be our maid. Martha took particular delight in finding fault with her cooking and cleaning. She was a harsher food critic than Gordon Ramsay, with an even fouler mouth. I cringed at the abuse. Martha sensed that I wasn't leaving any time soon (true, money is money.) So, for her it was 'open season' on my beloved mother.

At one meal, she just totally eviscerated all of mom's efforts, from the perfect roast to the flawless carnation centerpiece. Martha said that both of them reflected the lack of good taste of my 'sleazy' mom. After that triumphant declaration, she dropped her napkin (on the floor) and strode off to check the business network for her investments. A distraught mother of mine ran into the kitchen.

On this night, mom was only wearing a simple green house robe over her flannel nightshirt. That was all she could put on given the call from Martha that she would be heading home early and demanded dinner early.

As I stated before, I had never so much as kissed my mother good night before Martha started our new living arrangement. Now with mom training every day, and my being her coach, I was forced to watch my mom go from a busty matron (36-31-38) to an attractive woman for any age (36-27-37). As she stood in the kitchen, sobbing, I just had to hug her. I held her as she literally quaked in both sadness and anger. I pushed her away to wipe her tears. Then a moment occurred; for the first time, we kissed, not in passion, play, or simple familiarity. The kiss was more than a mother and son. It was, perhaps, a portent of things to come, a kiss between adults in love, not playing at love. After a lengthy kiss, we stared, I kissed her on the forehead, and we hugged for a long time. After that day, the war against my mother (and me) would be joined; our side would be making a comeback.

It was one week before the contest. Martha was in hog heaven (pun intended), rubbing her manly nail-polish-free hands in glee at the prospect of my mother humiliating herself down the runway, her boobs (presumably) dragging on the red carpet.

It wasn't necessary at this point, but I did my job a final time, measuring mom's progress. Martha never deigned to watch a single workout; had she seen my mom towards the end, she certainly would've called off the whole thing. In her white workout leotard, mom had gone from grandma to playmate, her final numbers being: five foot two, one hundred and seven pounds, 36D-23-36. Ironically, she would never ever have gotten so smoking hot had not Martha come up with this 'great idea'. More ironically, her constant abuse made mom too upset to eat at times--only augmenting her transformation from domestic goddess to just plain goddess.

After making those measurements, I had to leave the room. I told her it was for a bathroom break, but the truth was, I had gotten rock hard. It was winter, and heat or no heat, that solarium was chilly. Mom was working out in only a tissue thin white leotard. The material over her plump breasts was thin. With her nipples fully popped, I could not only see them, but every single bump around them.

I composed myself and came back into the temporary gym. Mom was taking a break for the soap operas. To my amazement (embarrassment?), I had seen the soaps so often that I was interested too. We sat in the loveseat in front of the TV; mom had gotten us both a drink and put them on the table by her. I had to reach across her. With my arm outstretched, mom leaned forward and rubbed her erect popping nipples back and forth against my arm. I was both shocked and thrilled. My hand changed course, cupping her heavy right breast, weighing it before locking hand on throbbing nipple through the molecular thin leotard. Our lips met, and there was no doubt about this kiss. That cold solarium heated up to kiln temperature. I caressed both of her perfect breasts. Suddenly, mom heard the key tinkling at the front door. Martha was home. Mom got up and ran to her room, determined to keep her metamorphosis from matron to babe a secret until the day of the contest.

The day before the contest, we heard that Martha's father had passed away. I was truly sad; he had treated me well, promoted me. I liked him 1,000 times as much as I liked Martha and I think he even preferred me (a son-in-law) to his own daughter. In any event, Martha was now worth $45 million. Man, I was so close to my goal. Could I be the most famous gold-digger since that famous woman who married the Greek shipping tycoon?

The night before the contest, a triumphant (i.e. rich) Martha said we were all going out, price was no object. She insisted that mom wear a particular outfit. It had been purchased from Goodwill, the wonderful charity. It cost mom $2 some ten years before. Martha had a nasty reason of course.

At the restaurant, a revolving dome on one of the landmark skyscrapers, my mother was humiliated at the door, saying that that dress was 'inappropriate attire'. Martha insisted that she and I dine, with mom waiting in the lobby. It was the most wrenching experience of my life, but we were on the 'one yard line' and couldn't be turned away now.

It was the day of the contest. Mom arrived in that Goodwill dress (a wonderful way to be stealthy against any paparazzi) and split off from us. They made her up, mostly hair, make-up, body sparkle, and strapless clogs. Her only worry was tripping. Looking into the mirror, seeing the other contestants over 40, she knew it was going to be a slam dunk.