0 comments/ 128700 views/ 34 favorites America's Nude Mom By: clinton09 [©2010 BY CLINTON09; ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER THE AGE OF 18 WITH IDENTITIES DISGUISED; FOR AGES 21 OR ABOVE] * 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) 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. America's Nude Mom My homely wife plopped herself and me down in the front row, right behind the judges. We could hear every comment. There were twelve women competing, and the comments were ugly. Martha seemed to enjoy every nasty thing that they said quietly, thinking that my mom (who appeared last) would really get skewered. Martha said she hoped that mom didn't embarrass me. They announced my mother and sure enough, the heel on her clog had been sabotaged (Martha left nothing to chance), making her almost fall. She eschewed the shoes and patted out on bare smooth feet. As she walked down the runway towards us (the judges, Martha, and me), her heavy breasts bounced and jiggled and bounced. Her spectacular figure included her tiny waist following a ribcage like Bo Derek's in '10' up to a bust like Pam Anderson. They had rubbed something all over her, so she looked really tan, with a slight sheen like a bodybuilder, highlighting her almost textbook perfect body. As we listened to the judges, not one uttered anything but 'gasp', 'wow', or 'she's fucking hot'. For her part, Martha was not only silent--her mouth was agape. I checked out the judges; most of the men were riveted in their attention; even the two female judges looked on as if something holy was in view. As mom stood there, with jutting tits, her nipples throbbing, her beaver muff fluffy and inviting, her legs shapely, tanned, with bits of glitter to make her literally sparkle, her perfect bare feet were flawless and gorgeous. Then mom did a little thing that I suggested: as she stood posing, her index finger was pointing to the entrance to a particularly warm and welcoming place, the entrance covered in soft fur. I looked again and both female judges had their nipples poking thru their thick conservative dresses, as turned on as any of the male judges. When it came time to decide, it was no contest; mom won by unanimous vote. The last thing I saw on stage was the presentation of $100,000. Sweet. Mom was given a white terry robe as soon as she left the stage. She went directly to her private dressing room. The room had a make-up area and then a bathroom. I arrived and then... As I opened the door quietly, I was stunned. Cracking the door a bit more, I saw Martha. There was no doubt whatever; her grandma panties were down and she was frantically sawing away with her fingers at her 'feminine area' while peeping in on my mom. The peculiarity of the angles were such that I could see into both adjoining rooms. Martha was in the make-up room. The other room had my mom checking her unbelievable figure in the mirror one final time before dressing. I whipped out my camera and started filming. Thank goodness that I had gotten the best set-up available, with fifteen minutes of normal resolution filming ability. As an unexpected bonus, Martha was talking: Martha: "Oh, you sexy tramp, you low class bitch. That's right, try and cover up those gorgeous big boobs in that D-cup bra...good luck with that. What, no stockings on those silky, smooth legs? Lord, what I wouldn't give just to strap on something and service this fucking hot bitch." Oh, baby, money in the bank. All of this came about because Martha wanted to humiliate my mom; now she was going to pay up, or suffer with my film going viral on the web... I hid in an empty room as Martha quietly left, having not said a word to my mom as she dressed. Holding that now priceless camera in my hand, I went into mom's dressing room, carefully locking the door. Mom came out, brushing her lustrous blonde hair, surprised to see me. I told her what had just transpired. Though she was fully dressed, mom held her hands over her thrusting breasts, embarrassed that a dyke like Martha had 'gotten off' while salivating over her. I told mom that I thought that that would be money in the bank; I told her how. My mother thought it would work and it was absolutely delicious. I asked if I could take her out for dinner to celebrate. She asked about Martha; I held out my cellphone, telling mom to be quiet for a second. Me: "Martha, good, I got you. Oh, you're still in the BMW using hands free? Well, anyway, my mom broke her ankle when that heel [that she sabotaged] broke. She will be going to the hospital. They said she just has to stay overnight for observation. It's simpler for me to grab a cheap motel room there than to drive home and go back for her. So we will see you tomorrow." Martha: "That's fine. Don't worry about me; I will call one of my parent's restaurants and have them cater a meal for me." Knowing self-centered Martha, I knew she wouldn't ask about mom, offer to come over and see her, or care where I had to stay. It worked out perfectly. I took mom to the best Italian restaurant in the city. She had veal Milanese with sauce Bolognaise, salad with oil and vinegar, and a fine pinot noir. I had the same, but with parmesan cheese. Magnifique. After that, I insisted that we go to the Hyatt Regency and spend at least one night free from Martha. Mom asked if we could have adjoining rooms. Me: "Sure we COULD; we could do almost anything. Sadly, with 1,135 rooms, they only had this one bridal suite. Pot luck, but we'll have to endure." The front desk didn't like checking in people with no luggage, but he did like the color of my credit card (Platinum), so we were given the room. The clerk had gotten me mad (about no luggage guests) so I had asked for their best room. Well, when we got there, it qualified. A hot tub IN the room, with 60 inch LCD TV. Once again, magnifique! At the inner hallway of that suite, I picked up my gorgeous mother, who now was officially 'Mrs. Nude North America'. We had lived so many years, just the two of us, and then spent those months intimately with me as her personal trainer. After seeing her, day after exciting day, in that tight see-thru leotard, her nipples normally popping from the cold, her blonde bush prominently visible. After all of that, I was finally holding the object of my desires, my pent-up passion. We kissed as in some old Hollywood movie. I carried her to the hot tub and turned it on while holding her in the palm of one hand. The water roiled and heated up immediately. Putting mom down, we undressed each other. We gingerly climbed in and went 'aah' as the bubbles and warmth engulfed us. After a few moments of relaxation, I crossed the four person tub and corralled my mom. Our lips met, a quick light brush, our tongues merely tagging. My hands reached for those breasts, breasts that now, for better or worse, would be on the internet for all time. In fact, mom's whole incredible figure would be the subject of the hour long show on Showtime. We later had to get an agent. Mom ended up making four 'R' rated films. The sex scenes in particular were white hot; I was thankful that they used a 'double' for those scenes, shot in low light and low focus. I knew it was a double, because I didn't leave the set for one minute. Well, that was in the future. For now, I was making out with Mrs. Nude North America, and loving it. I sat on one of the four 'seats', the water jets playing over us in a heavenly torrent. Mom was on top of my huge cock, floating above it as I fit her in (like installing a bulb.) She looked towards the ceiling as I penetrated fully. We started doing it in earnest, only to have to curtail it. We were very close to flooding the room. I just had to move mom up and down with my powerful arms. It was an exhausting job, but someone had to do it. At the climax, I held mom tight, kissing one of her pouting nipples, nibbling a bit. When she finally moaned in pleasure, I joined her instantly, releasing a torrent of sperm-laden semen that exceeded the flow-rate of that giant hot tub. As she panted and I huffed and puffed, she settled into my lap. We French kissed and it was nice. We hugged tightly, letting the restorative powers of the water jets set up round two. I asked the single word: "Mom?" She nodded. I stood up. She was wondering why I asked and then stopped. I got out, followed by her. We dried off in those marvelous fluffy towels that hotels give only the highest priced rooms, confident they wouldn't be stolen. Restored and refreshed, I came up to my gorgeous mom and literally threw her atop the king-sized bed. She lifted her showgirl quality legs and framed her welcoming entrance, her fingers forming a perfect triangle over the exact spot. I got between those legs, mounting my mother. It was something I had imagined for so long. I took her delicate hand and put my giant phallus into it. I nodded, telling her to use it as she saw fit. When the huge uncut cockhead brushed the slavering lips of her wet pussy, it sent an electric spark thru both of us. She then pushed me inside to stroke the inner entrance, and then scrape her vaginal walls, using that rough ending to drag along the tingling tissues within. She finally relinquished control. I unceremoniously drove forward, rolling her up on the bed until her ankles bounced on my broad shoulders. I admired mom's eternally worn slutty gold ankle bracelet. I always thought it was sleazy, undignified, and damn sexy. I kissed her slender ankle and beautiful foot, and then went back to work. I gave her the fucking of her life for ten more minutes. Finally, with every cell in that room fully dilated, I put my cock where it belonged, deep inside her. I got up on my toes, leaning forward and bearing down hard. I was so big and in so deep that my cock was against the inner wall and turned. Her cervical area obviously needed a warm shower and I gave it to her. As our lips met, tongues tangling, my cockhead proceeded to pump a lot of potent seed into mom's unprotected and incredibly fertile womb. We were now united, 'from the womb to the tomb', forever as lovers. After I collapsed on top of her, she pushed me over on my side, still inside of her, still rock hard. We slept that way. About two hours later, we both were awakened. We each thought we had heard a baby cry, probably in the hallway as someone walked by. We went back to sleep, with me still inside her, still hard. It defied any scientific logic whatever, and passed completely unknown to us. Whatever the circumstance, at that exact moment, mom had conceived. The next night, it was going to be dinner as usual. Mom was wearing her same humble little green robe, making her famous roast, the same carnation centerpiece as when Martha really tore her apart. The $45 million dollar Martha thought we would be indentured servants forever and proceeded to do her famous insanely cruel tirade. To her utter befuddlement, mom made the 'T' sign for timeout. She and I put a little portable monitor in the place of that beautiful centerpiece, and then put papers in front of Martha. Martha: "What the hell is all of this?" Me: "Just some papers. A no fault divorce; quit claim on the house; title transfer to the BMW 750iL; title on the 37 foot sloop; and a cash property settlement of $30 million, all made out nice and legal, just needing your signature." Martha: "Are you crazy? In this state, the most you would get would be your property going into the marriage, which was nothing, and commingled funds, which I kept to almost nothing. The rest of your claim is a sick and pathetic joke; now get back to cleaning up, serfs..." Mom: "I don't think so, you ugly dyke. My son caught you appreciating my body in the dressing room. Purely by mistake, he happened to record every moment of it. It's going to make for quite a hit on the web, Facebook, MySpace, and so on. Big viral hit, it will be quite a target for Jay Leno at 11:45pm." Martha: "I'll have that stopped so fast, your head will spin." Me: "If you don't sign, then my mom, with months of weight training, will hold you as I upload it to the web. Just try and have your lawyers UNDO that!" [I also showed her evidence of some other much more serious stuff about her taxes; even I could see she'd underreported income for years. It was just too much—she was not used to adversity and like a typical bully, she folded quickly when confronted.] Well, it wasn't exactly the surrender papers on the deck of the USS Missouri, but Martha signed the papers. Just because she had literally tortured my mother into incredible shape, we now had a car, yacht, home and money that we never dreamt of. Poor Martha was now reduced to a measly $15 million. I don't know if that affected her at all. It did bother her that my mom took to riding her new horse, a full stallion, in the park over the same paths as her. In dread of running into her, Martha gave up riding. For that matter, with us and that yacht at the only marina, she gave up boating. She ended up as the richest female living virtually under self-imposed house arrest in the country. There was someone that was left out, and I wasn't going to allow that. I got out my pathetic little black book. There, under 'C' was Clarissa's number. If you are still keeping score, she was the waitress that I had selfishly knocked up. Well, as it turned out, that might have been her lucky day. I called the number, and there was that horrible sound about a disconnected number. I never liked giving up, and I scoured the web and every database in the country. I finally reached her. She had moved four times since we last spoke. It was rough. She had had two men in her life, both of whom were worthless. She admitted she was between jobs, between men, and out of cash. When I asked her to move in with us, she made me repeat that. I did. With a ticket waiting for her at the airport, her and her baby, MY baby, left everything in that dingy apartment in that dingy city and flew to be with us. My mom was at the airport with my other baby safely inside her, to welcome her soon to be daughter and grandson. The three of us merged together as a single unit, with my mother eventually turning the heavy duty of the household (and later the bedroom) strictly to Clarissa. It was a grand solution, one that we all could live with... Epilogue: The story above occurred several years ago. After Clarissa, mom and I settled in together, I did some serious bedroom work. We could afford it, so for the next five years straight, my beautiful mother and wonderful new wife (Clarissa) sported swollen bellies. We had a huge home which we wanted to be filled with life; with two women to breed, that went quickly. Martha never changed for the better. It was poetic justice perhaps that she had taken her remaining fortune, some $15million, and invested it in a fund that her fellow Palm Beach country club members all swore by. It was run by a Bernie Madoff. Oh well, what's $15million among friends. From worrying about getting her BMW serviced or her mount ready for dressage, she now had to hit the want ads. One night we were returning from a long trip, just dragging into town at 4am. Mom and I were in our new mini-van, which was packed with our six (at the time) kids. Pulling into the fast food place (the only place open at 4am), we thought the voice from the clown's head sounded familiar. Sure enough, who was serving us but Queen Martha herself. Mom said she was tempted to complain about something, for no reason, just to get back at her. In the end, she realized that job, with the name tag and paper hat, at 4am, was the ultimate justice...