13 comments/ 78937 views/ 47 favorites My 'Working' Mother By: Otazel Early memories of my mother are sparse and contradictory. I can just recall a vivacious smiling woman, slim and beautiful, with dark brown hair tumbling across her face, picking me up and throwing me giggling into the air and then catching me safely as I came down. I can, sort of, remember her tucking me into bed, stroking hair from my face and kissing me goodnight. Nice warm memories. But then I can also remember her spending too much time asleep, or moving clumsily from chair to bed, her blank eyes staring at me with little sign of love or even of recognition. She didn't even cry when I was taken into care, although I did, I cried enough for both of us as I was carried from the room, my very last sight was of her sprawled dirty and unkempt across the sofa, hardly aware of my screams and tears. It wasn't until I was much older, old enough to understand, that my foster parents, those good devoted foster parents who had brought me up in her stead, tried to explain about the alcohol and how it had robbed me of a loving, caring mother and left instead a shambling wreck unable to look after me properly or even care for herself. It wasn't her fault, they told me, that she couldn't handle the death of my father from a heart attack and that she had turned to vodka to blot out her loss, to give her the support that society had so manifestly failed to provide. Alcohol had pulled a veil over her eyes, shielding her from the pain yes, but shielding her from the world as well, from her son, from her family, and in the end from reality. My eighteenth birthday arrived and with it came a determination to find that mother, my real, natural mother, and discover which was the genuine article, the happy loving woman or the alcoholic wreck. I wanted, needed, my actual mother, my birth mother, to be whole and happy, and to love me as I dreamed she would all those years. The idea of going through my entire life without sharing a hug with my mother wasn't worth thinking about and that's why I made my decision. Finding out where she lived wasn't difficult, my foster parents knew where she was; they had always known where she was through address change after address change. For some reason, some vague hope that they could reunite us, they had kept an up to date address, and even when she hadn't shown the slightest inclination to hear of me, they had maintained that tenuous link. Their faith in human nature made my eyes prickle with gratitude, and even though they warned me to expect disillusionment, to expect rejection and disappointment, they willingly gave me the address and their best wishes. For weeks I carried the address around with me, but without ever plucking up the courage to go and knock on the door. I even walked past the place several times trying to get up the nerve, but it always failed me. Maybe it was the house, I told myself, standing in a previously smart middleclass area that had long gone to seed, although the place itself was well maintained and smartly painted. It was once the warm welcoming home of a prosperous family, but that was long ago and now, like it's neighbours, the curtains were always drawn, blocking out the world as if to say 'I'm not interested in you, so go away and leave me alone'. I always did just that, walking up the street full of good intentions, only to stop below the imposing door and then walk on, all courage vanished. Strangely enough, it was an interfering neighbour who finally gave me the impetus to take the last step and push the bell. There I stood, as I had several times before, looking up those few steps at the bell push and trying to work out what to say, when a man called me from across the street. "Leave it, son." He told me, shaking his head. What did he mean, I wondered, and how did he know, and why was he being so disparaging, that was my mother he was talking about? I wasn't going to be deflected from my course by some meddling busybody and so I flashed him the meanest look I could muster and rang the bell. The woman who answered the door certainly wasn't drunk, but then she wasn't what I was expecting either. She could never be described as motherly. More like a milf on a night out, and a sexy milf at that, dressed up in a short black skirt and a white low cut blouse that displayed the top half of gorgeously full breasts. It was a 'shag me now' outfit. Yes I know I'm talking about my mother, but that is what she looked like. You've also got to remember that I'd not seen her for a long, long time and 'mother' was not a word that I linked with the woman before me. "Don't just stand there, come in." She stood back, casting a quick defensive glance up and down the length of the street before shutting the door firmly behind me. The action seemed a little strange, but who was I to say? Maybe she didn't get on with her neighbours. I looked anxiously about me, trying to take in my surroundings. The hall was expensively carpeted and the walls papered in a good quality flock paper in two shades of red. But the effect wasn't helped by a bright light in a red shade that cast a rather unreal volcanic radiance over a colour scheme of little more than various shades of red anyway. I didn't like it. The place was dressed as she was, overdone and in poor taste. "You've not been here before, have you?" It seemed a very odd question with which to greet a long lost son, and the way it was asked was almost confrontational. I shook my head mutely, lost for appropriate words and wondering what the hell was going on. "Who told you about me?" I nearly said 'my mother', meaning my foster mother, but then I remembered who I was talking to and lapsed into silent and red-faced confusion. "Well, it doesn't matter. It'll be fifty pounds for a basic, anything else is extra. You have got your card, haven't you?" I gazed stupidly at her, unable to make sense of her words, and still unable to utter a single word of explanation for my visit. "You are here for business, aren't you?" She sounded doubtful now. I stood and looked at her, tossing her words around in my head. And then an awful realisation hit me, and I knew exactly what she was on about and exactly why she was dressed the way she was. The blood must have drained from my face as I suddenly understood that my mother was a prostitute. "I can't, not with you." I stammered, uttering ridiculous and unhelpful words that told her nothing. She raised her eyebrows. "No? So what are you here for?" "You're my mother." She looked at me in shock for a moment, and then my words sank in and recognition dawned. "Vincent?" She whispered. I knew then that I had to be right; it had to be my mother. I'd been a bit worried that I'd got the wrong woman, but no other person on earth would have known me by my first name. I disliked it intensely and always went by my middle name, Andrew, and that was usually contracted to Andy. Even my foster parents, who obviously knew my full name, always just called me Andy. "Andrew now, and I like Andy better." I corrected her. It was not one of those 'we fell into each others arms and cried tears of happiness' kind of meetings. Both of us were only too conscious of the last time we'd seen each other those years ago, and perhaps even worse, of the circumstances of our reunion. But then neither of us rejected the other either, perhaps because curiosity about the intervening years provided enough of a connection to allow us to at least sit down and talk. The first thing we did was to agree on names, she agreed to call me Andy and I agreed to call her Liz, for it was too late and too confusing to think of her as 'Mum', or 'Ma', or even 'Mother'. My 'mum' would always be my foster mum and Liz understood that, knowing that she had relinquished the right to be a mum many drunken years ago. I'll give her respect for one thing; she didn't try to hide anything from me. She told me openly that she earned money as a prostitute, and that her clientele came almost exclusively from the college a couple of streets over, her availability spread by word of mouth. She preferred the younger customers (I'm not going to call them 'tricks' or 'johns' -- that just doesn't seem right.), she said, because their bodies were tight and firm and they very rarely wanted anything other than straight sex or maybe a blow job. I could see the logic in that, although in my mind the 'younger customers' were little more than boys. They were my age for god's sake! But at least she made them produce a student's union card to prove that they weren't underage, although I think that was more to avoid problems with the law rather than for reasons of morality. Her story was simple, and she expressed it in simple terms, with no apologies, no whitewashing, and no embarrassment. After having me taken away from her she had moved away to the big city, where selling her body provided the way to finance her alcohol addiction. Slowly but surely she was drawn further into the inner city web of organised prostitution, something that ended only when she ran her pimp's own threatening knife down his own threatening face and, very fortunately, received a suspended sentence for wounding, suspended that is, on condition that she went for rehab. She went through the hell of drying out, and when it was over she moved back to her home town where her former 'protector' would never think to find her. The problem then was that she had nothing, no money, no furniture, no job, and no likelihood of getting any of the things everyone else took for granted. The 'game' had been relatively easy money and so it was almost inevitable that she would return to it, this time to finance her life rather than her habits. Intelligent and astute, she realised that street corners were not the place to make a safe and reliable income, and she had soon set herself up in a flat and had put the word out among the student population of the town that she was there to cater exclusively to them. Each year the older students tipped off the freshmen, who often had a virginity that they were only too happy to quietly lose to someone who knew what to do, and she soon had a self-renewing and dependable clientele. She had found herself a little niche in the market and she had prospered, raising enough money to buy the house she now lived and worked in, and leading an unobtrusive and outwardly respectable life. She didn't advertise, she didn't cause problems, and with most of her neighbours believing that she gave revision lessons to students, the police, if they were aware of her at all, left well alone. It had taken nearly seven years, but she was satisfied now that she had a secure way of life and a comfortable income. The downside of her life was loneliness. She had almost no friends, and therefore almost no social life. And of course, the silly thing is that, even though she had sex several times a day, she had absolutely no sex life. Young men, such as her clients invariably were, are notoriously quick to finish, and she joked dryly that she must be the only woman who gets fucked daily, but who still orders her batteries wholesale. The house had three floors and the layout was quite flexible to her needs. She'd arranged things so that the ground floor was her working area, with the front room turned into the boudoir/bedroom where she entertained her clients, and the rooms behind -- the former dining room and kitchen -- made into rooms where she could rest or shower, or clean up, or whatever was needed. Upstairs were her private quarters, with the usual two floor layout just one floor higher than normal. Her living room, dining room and kitchen were on the middle floor, with the top floor containing two bedrooms, a bathroom and a spare. I mention all this because she had taken me through into her back room where she would relax and wait for customers, and while I was there one of her clients turned up and she excused herself to go through and service his requirements. I was put in the rather embarrassing position of sitting in a strange house listening to someone fucking my mother in the next room and making quite a noise about doing so. I couldn't hear very clearly but it was still a strange situation, especially as listening to the pair of them having sex was uncoiling the snake in my own trousers. Even reminding myself that it was my mother on the receiving end didn't stop me getting a right royal hard-on. After seeing him out, she came back through wearing just a robe and headed for the shower. "Sorry about that." She called back to me as she steamed past. "But if you aim to keep calling on me you'll have to get used to me working." She let the robe drop just as she disappeared into the shower and I was treated to my first sight of her naked back, and I must say that it was a surprisingly nice sight too. Had I seen that view in a photo I would have said the person pictured was somewhere in her twenties, not just the wrong side of forty. But more was to come. Several minutes later she leaned out of the shower, wearing nothing more than a few beads of water, and asked me to pass her a towel. She might be my mother, but I have to say that she had one hell of a body, wide hips, flat stomach and self-raising breasts capped with neat, dark brown nipples. I stared for a good three seconds before her face knitted in an impatient frown and I did as I was told. "You'll have to get used to that too." She told me. "I've lived alone far too long to worry about covering everything up all the time, especially when anyone with a few quid can see it all anyway." As I walked home to my foster parents I wondered what I should -- or could -- say to them, but as usual they made it easy for me. I told them that I'd met my natural mother and that we'd got along better than I expected, and that we were intent on staying in touch, when my foster father asked the question. "What does she do for a living, son." He asked gently. "Don't you know?" I asked him, for want of a better reply. "Yes, I know." He told me. "I just wanted to be sure that you did." "Yes, dad. I know." "And then that makes me proud of you." He smiled. "You find out something like that and I can see that it's not important to you. Or at least, it's not as important as the person. Love her, Andy, and don't lose her again. She's the woman you owe life to, and she can't be all bad to bring a man like you into the world." For the second time in recent weeks my eyes prickled for my parents. "Thanks dad." I called back to see my real mother the next day, and this time she looked more like a mother and less like a whore, probably because she knew I was coming and wanted to show herself as a normal woman. Her brown hair was held back in a loose ponytail, her makeup was far more discreet and feminine, and she wore jeans with a fashionable top. She still looked good, even though the only sexy thing about her outfit this time was that her top needed to be at least three inches longer to hide a very attractive tanned midriff, but I managed to keep my eyes from that for most of the time. Funny, isn't it, I'd been apart from her for so long that some of the familial taboos didn't seem to apply and I could look on my own mother as a sexually attractive being. This time she took me upstairs to her own private quarters, to her tastefully decorated and very comfortable lounge, where we sat and talked for hours. I was, she told me, the first man to ever see upstairs. Her working life and her private life were kept completely and very firmly separate, and so I felt privileged. We even ate together, sharing a bowl of pasta carbonara and a salad, and it felt good. There was a bond, there was a connection, be it genetic or otherwise, and we got along like a house on fire, although this time it was my turn to describe my, very nondescript, life. She knew more about me than I expected she would, so I knew that she had followed my childhood, albeit from a distance, and one thing I did find out that day was that she had resolutely declined to have anything to do with me, not because she didn't care, but because she didn't think she deserved me, and didn't think I should be lumbered with a recovering alcoholic prostitute as a mother. She wasn't ashamed of what she did, but she didn't want me to feel ashamed for her. My eyes prickled for the first time for my new mother, my real mother. Eventually, late on in the afternoon she paused, looked at the clock, and put up a hand as if to bring proceedings to a close. "I've a client expected soon, Andy, so I'll have to go down and get ready. If you want to come down with me and stick around I won't mind, in fact I think I'd like you to. But if you don't want to be here when I'm working, I'll understand." "No, it's fine, Liz. I'd like to stay." As a matter of fact listening to my mother getting laid by her punter yesterday had been more of a turn on than I cared to admit, and had in fact fuelled a pretty good wank when I got to the privacy of my bedroom. The sight of my mother naked afterwards hadn't hurt either. "All right, I'd feel better if you did." She stopped talking and looked at me, for the first time showing a little vulnerability. "The truth is..." She paused again. "The truth is that knowing you were there yesterday made me feel a lot more comfortable. I've never had any real trouble from a client, but you never know, and some of those lads are a lot bigger than I am. If one ever did play up I might have a job to throw him out." I had to smile. Liz, my mother, is only about five four, if that, and not exactly big built. I'm six two, and I absolutely tower over her. Then words came out of my mouth that I really didn't expect or intend. "Would it make you happier if I moved into your spare room and lived here?" Her look went from disbelief via bewilderment to amazement, and then finished off with excitement and happiness. I had never seen expressions flit across a face so quickly. "I'd love you to." She was so pleased she even giggled behind her words. "At times I do get scared. Like I say, I don't expect any problems, but it only needs one, doesn't it?" Explaining to my foster folks wasn't painless, but as always they supported what I wanted to do and I moved with their best wishes ringing in my ears, along with an assurance that I could always move back if it didn't work out. I vowed, and meant, that I would visit them regularly, and that their Christmas cards would always be to 'mum and dad'. There was no way I'd ever cut them out of my life. Moving in with Liz was even easier than I imagined, and I got the first hug from my real mother that I'd had for years and years. I'd no sooner put my bag and laptop on my new bed than she was wrapping herself around me and squeezing me fit to bust. It felt so nice to have my mother's arms around me at long last. But it must also be said that I had to forcibly remind myself for a moment of who she was, because she was wearing another 'crop-top' sweatshirt and one of my hands had landed on the bare skin of her lower back. She didn't seem to notice and I didn't see the need to tell her. She only had three customers booked that day, and for all three I was within easy reach in her back room -- just in case. The trouble with being within easy reach was that I was within easy earshot too, and I had to listen again to the sounds of energetic sex in the next room. I supposed to myself that I would get used to it, but at that time it was very disconcerting, and I found myself prowling around instead of sitting and quietly waiting for her to finish. I especially found myself studying the large landscape print that hung on the wall separating the two rooms. Not that I was looking at the picture particularly, I just couldn't stop staring in the direction of my mother and her client, even though a solid wall existed between us. It was during her second client of the day that I made a rather electrifying discovery. My 'Working' Mother I was gazing steadfastly at the print, seeing the room behind it in my mind's eye, when I suddenly realised that all down the left hand edge was a long brass hinge, of the type that you find on piano lids. It was pretty obvious, even to me, that with a hinge at one side the picture must swing out, and so I gently pulled at the opposite edge. A magnetic catch gave way and the picture silently and easily swung away from the wall, revealing, not the wallpaper, but a dark window into the next room, corresponding, I realised, with a mirror on the wall over the head of the bed. The room was fitted with a two way mirror so that anyone here could see what was going on in Liz's boudoir. And I could. She was on her hands and knees being humped doggy style by a young dark-haired man. Even though I knew what was going on before I opened the mirror/window, it was still a hell of a shock to suddenly see my own mother having sex with him, kneeling facing straight towards me, except that luckily she was looking back over her shoulder at her client -- I nearly said lover, but that would be wrong, he was a college student and a paying customer and I had to keep that in my mind. Whatever he was, he was certainly energetic, slamming himself into her, his eyes rolled back and his face pointing skywards. I had obviously caught them just as he was gathering for that final sprint to the end; his white knuckled hands gripping her hips and his pelvis thrusting back and forth at full speed. She was bracing herself against his onslaught, looking back and calling encouragement, waiting for him to finish. Then he was there, I heard his growl as he pulled her back onto his cock and ground himself into her, pushing hard with each gush of his cum. I stood watching, torn between being turned on by seeing two people having sex right before my eyes, and being disgusted and embarrassed for who it was. But I couldn't take my eyes from the scene, even when my cock began to respond, uncurling in my trousers and making me even more uncomfortable, physically and mentally. The student curled up over her back as his climax faded, and then pulled out, his cock slimy and shining from a mixture of their two juices. I looked at it for a moment and then I suddenly realised something. She'd let him have her without protection, how stupid could that be? Now I was no expert on prostitutes but I was pretty damn sure that they made their customers use condoms. I was still gaping at them in total disbelief when he pulled his trousers on and let himself out, leaving her wiping at his cum that was still running down the inside of her legs. I quietly closed the mirror and sat back down, trying to understand what I'd seen, and I was still like that when Liz -- my dearly beloved mother, for whom I'd summoned so much sympathy -- went through to the shower. She looked at me a little strangely, but went past without comment. "Are you all right?" She asked when she came back, wrapped in a fluffy pink bathrobe. "Yes." I replied pointedly. "I am." She cocked her head to the side and awaited my explanation. "Don't you worry about pregnancy? Or aids, or whatever other diseases are making the rounds right now?" I asked her. "And why are you asking me this?" She asked in reply. "Why don't you make them wear something?" She looked at me bewildered, and then her eyes shot to the picture as she suddenly understood. "You've been watching." It wasn't a question, or even a reprimand. Just a simple statement of fact, and I nodded, staring forlornly at the floor. "It's taken me until now to find my mother." I told her miserably. "I don't want to lose her again." She sat herself down on the chair facing mine and took a deep breath; her eyebrows lifting in that time honoured 'oh well, here goes' manner. "Right. I'd better explain a few things. If you're prepared to have more than your ears open?" I knew what she meant. Could I keep an open mind? I thought I could and I agreed in a whisper. "Okay then. First, that mirror. I had that put in when I had the house converted because I had every intention of hiring a maid, you know, a woman to look after the place, and to meet and greet the customers, as well as acting my security, like a kind of walking rape alarm if anything went wrong. But I just never found the right person, and now I guess you're the security bit. Now you've found it I guess you'll be watching every chance you get, if I know young men. Well, I can't stop you without covering it up, and that would defeat its purpose now I've got you as my safeguard. So watch if you want to, and if it gives you a buzz I'm sure you know what to do about that." She was, I realised, giving me permission to watch her and have a wank over what I saw. "As for them 'wearing something', as you put it, I can't get pregnant anymore because of an abortion I had a few years ago. It wasn't a legal termination, my 'manager' arranged it and it went wrong. But then, that's what happens to whores isn't it?" I was shocked and about to criticize her for killing my sibling, and my mouth had already begun to open, but the bitterness in her voice made realise that it wasn't through her own choice, and I tactfully closed my mouth and let her continue. "Now, I'm telling you things I shouldn't, things that are not really any of your business, but you're my son and so have more rights than most, and I just hope you're mature enough to understand what I'm saying. You see I don't have a partner, Andy. I don't have anyone to make love to me and satisfy my needs. It would be nice to have someone to do things to me for my sake, my enjoyment, but I don't, and one thing I missed for a long time was having a man come inside me so that I could feel his sperm flooding into me. So, certain regular customers, who all have regular tests and bring me the results letters to prove their health, are allowed to fuck me bareback. They think it's great and I get at least some pleasure." "Oh." I said, trying speechlessly to absorb what she had told me. I thought about it for a minute or so, and then I asked the obvious question. "Why don't you get a boyfriend? You're not exactly ugly." "Because it would be a man, and I can't trust men." The bitterness was still evident. I rolled that one around my mind briefly before commenting. "Thanks! I'm a man." "Yes, but you're different. You're family." "Liz." I lapsed into a short awkward silence. "I'm sorry I spied on you." She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. In a way I'm glad you've found it, because you can keep an eye on me now and I'll feel safer." She smiled almost sheepishly. "And I suspect I might get a thrill from giving you one, so long as you can cope with whatever you might see." We sent out for a pizza and divided it between us, leaving the subject alone while we ate. Then, when the time for her last appointment of the day came closer she changed back into her working clothes, the black and red colour scheme still predominant, this time as a silk blouse and leather skirt. The bell rang and she pulled herself from her chair to go and answer it. "If you want to watch, make sure you keep the light level down in here, or you might get spotted through the glass." With those instructions she was gone, and I was on my feet to turn off the light and pull out the picture. After all, it seemed that she was actively encouraging me to spy on her and her client and, even if she was my mother, I wasn't about to turn that chance down. It was a doubly taboo kind of voyeurism but the prospect still gave me a buzz. Her customer this time was a small skinny guy with bleached blonde hair, and this time she did make him wear a condom, in fact she put it on for him -- with her mouth! That brought me up short. I'd vaguely heard of that being done, but I'd only half believed it, and now I saw Liz -- my mother -- do it to a customer. My eyes were being opened rather rapidly. They did it in the missionary position, and he didn't last long, squeezing his eyes shut and filling the reservoir of the condom within seconds of starting. He never uttered a sound, only a kind of sibilant sigh when he came, and then he pulled on his trousers and left without a backward glance, leaving Liz lying there on the bed with her legs still open. Then came my next surprise - well, two of them in fact. Firstly, instead of getting dressed, or going for a shower, or even lighting a post-coital cigarette, she leaned over and took a thick black vibrator from a cupboard beside the bed and used it to probe between her legs. I couldn't see exactly what she was doing, but even at that age I had a good idea where a woman kept her clitoris, and so I figured it out quite easily. She came nearly as quickly as her customer had, her free hand gripping at the sheets and her hips bouncing on the bed. Then she did something that shocked rather than surprised me. She glanced backwards at her side of the mirror, a little satisfied smile playing over her lips. She was looking at me, even though she couldn't see me. She was looking at where she knew I was, and letting me know she knew I was there. I gazed into the mirror in total disbelief. Had her masturbation been for my benefit at least as much as hers? Why did she want me to see her doing that? Was it to prove her unfulfilled desires? I longed to ask, but just didn't have the nerve. Liz and I were getting on well, but I still felt couldn't delve too deeply into her privacy. That night, lying in the next room with my hand around my cock, I wondered how I would feel if she did take a lover and I had to listen to her making love properly. Strange, I could make a distinction between work and play -- and I think I would have been jealous of play. I began to wonder about my feelings for Liz and about hers for me -- especially in the light of her intentional display earlier on. I had to go out the next morning, and when I got back Liz was already in her working clothes, still predominantly black and red, but this time with black skin tight Lycra leggings over her lovely long legs. "I'm glad you're back." She told me. "I've got a regular coming, but it's not the usual kind of thing." My interest was immediately sparked, wondering what sort of kinky sex she was intending. Visions of chains and suchlike flitted through my youthful brain. "Oh?" She smiled broadly, a giggle hidden behind her words. "I know what you're thinking, and it's nothing like that." "Oh?" "No, I have three regular young men who come once a week. They're a bit poor and they club together for me, taking it in turns. So I let the other two watch whichever of them is doing it with me, and just recently they've taken to wanking over me while they watch. I don't mind, it's a compliment really, but it can get a bit messy." "Oh!" Somehow I felt I should be the only one to watch, and I wasn't allowed to wank over her. Jealous again! "So it would be good if you'd help me out." "Oh?" "Suffering from restricted vocabulary are we?" She asked, one querying eyebrow raised. "Sorry." "Can you act as my maid? I know you're not a woman, but I can trust you, and there are times when I need someone to help take care of things." She didn't expand on 'things', but I nodded anyway. "Yes, of course I can." I grinned awkwardly as a silly thought crossed my mind. "You don't want me to wear a little black and white dress and stockings, do you?" She smiled in recognition of my embarrassed remark. "No, but when they go, can you get some tissues and wipes and come in? I hate the feel of cum running down me if I stand up." "Yeah, okay." I wasn't sure why she needed me. She could just as easily have taken them in with her. The three students looked surprisingly nervous as they stripped off, Liz undressed already and lying on her bed waiting. I wondered for a moment if they had discerned my presence through the glass, but I was standing in darkness and so I doubted it. It was apparently the turn of the tallest of the three this time, for he positioned himself at the end of the bed while the other two stood one to each side. From where I stood my mother seemed to be surrounded by this trio of erections, all pointing in her direction. I noticed too that none of them sported a condom. It's strange to see another young man mount your mother, especially with two more watching him -- three, if you count me. He began in the conventional missionary style, but then soon moved so that he was kneeling upright with Liz drawn up the slope of his thighs and being pulled on and off of his cock by his hands on her hips. Either side of him the others wanked vigorously, their cocks pointing vaguely in the direction of her breasts. I could hear her encouraging them all and, frankly, I must admit to being fascinated. They came one after the other in strict succession, the one to Liz's left getting there first and sending a shower of cum over her breasts and belly, followed at once by the boy opposite, who sprayed an even larger load over her, and then culminating in the one fucking her, who shot his load deep, shaking her body with his energetic lunges and making his friends' spunk run and mingle across her skin. It was an obscenely erotic sight, but not really one involving his mother that any young man should see. Never mind, it gave me an alarmingly powerful erection, so it couldn't have been too off putting. The moment the three were out of the door I was in there with a box of tissues, a pack of wet-wipes and a couple of towels, eager to fulfil my promise but uneasy as to why I was so excited. But then, having got there, I just put them down and stood gazing down at my cum-covered mother and tried to figure out what to do next. "Clean me up, Andy, please. I'm covered in the stuff." My eyes widened with surprise, my heart raced and my mouth suddenly went dry. That was something I hadn't expected to be asked to do. I stammered my assent and then stood wondering where to start. "C'mon Andy, don't just stand looking." I picked up a couple of tissues and began dabbing ineffectually at the cum on my mother's stomach. "No, Andy, get a handful and wipe it off properly." I did as I was told, wadding up the tissues and then wiping across the flat of her abdomen. That did the trick and, for some reason, once I'd begun all reluctance disappeared and I set about cleaning the rest of her without embarrassment. I even managed to use my other hand to hold the soft flesh of her breasts still while I wiped them clean, getting something of a thrill from touching her hard little dark nipples. I assumed they were still hard from the sex she'd been involved in, but my cock was hard from what I was doing at that moment, and I was very conscious that it shouldn't be. I think Liz was aware of my arousal, because she indulged herself in a little light-hearted teasing at my expense, making me go over her breasts several times, saying I'd missed a bit and then telling me that I was doing a good job for her. I wasn't quite sure what to make of that, but I was enjoying myself anyway. I was now quite happy to touch my mother's flesh, and after the tissues I used the wet-wipes and then a towel, briefly stroking her skin afterwards to be sure it was dry. It was a little bit sexy and a little bit naughty, but it didn't seem wrong at all. After all, it was all part of her day-job and I was just helping out. I did her stomach, her breasts, her neck and the top of one arm where a large glob had landed, and then I stepped back to be sure I hadn't missed any. "You've missed somewhere." I looked her up and down, but I couldn't see where - until she opened her legs and pointed at her leaking pussy. "I can't do that Liz!" I protested in genuine alarm. "Yes you can. It's only skin like everywhere else." I suppose that technically she was right, but it wasn't the sort of skin I'd expected to be touching and I was getting a bit worried about her motives. I hung back a moment or two, but she was looking up at me expectantly and so I shrugged my mental shoulders and picked up another wad of tissues. She opened her legs wider for me and I set to work. The young customer's spunk had leaked from her pussy and run down her crack, so I besides swabbing her clit and around there, I also had to reach down and clean the cum that had trickled down to her anus, not a task I relished, but Liz obviously didn't mind as she folded her legs back to give me better access. I was probably a bit red-faced by the time I'd done it, and feeling very confused. I'd enjoyed what I was doing, the soft, squishy feel of a woman's pussy was just as nice even if it was my own mother's and I was cleaning another man's spunk from it. But at the same time I was very aware both of feeling turned on and of the fact that I shouldn't be doing it in the first place, especially when she told me how nice my fingers felt touching her pussy through the tissue. "I'm sorry, Andy." She added, when I looked troubled. "But they finished too quickly and they've left me high and dry -- well, perhaps not dry!" She smiled at her own joke and I used a wet wipe on her, feeling her hard little button through the flimsy fabric. "But that does feel nice, whatever you say." She confirmed. "I can't help liking it, because I really am randy." She wasn't the only one. I rubbed her down with the towel and stood back again, convinced that this time I was finished, and thinking of retreating to my room. "Look." She said, lowering her legs back down. "I need to cum. I know you can't do it, so I'm going to have to finish myself off. You don't mind, do you?" I shook my head mutely, torn between watching and running like hell. "Just reach in that cupboard then, and pass me my vibe, there's a good boy." I reached into the cupboard and found that there were actually two vibrators in there, the big black one that I'd seen before and a small silver one about half its size, along with one or two other gizmos. I took out both vibrators and laid them on the bed beside her. "Ah, thanks." She smiled and picked up the small one. "This one will do, I think." The turned in on full and placed the tip against her clitoris, sighing with pleasure as she did so, while I stood and openly stared at her. The taboo nature and the downright kinkiness of the situation seemed not to have occurred to either of us, certainly it didn't cross my mind and if it crossed hers then she either didn't care or she took even more pleasure from the fact. Whichever it was, there I stood holding eye contact with my mother while she masturbated in front of me with a vibrator. Perhaps the bewilderment I felt showed on my face for she asked me again if I minded. "No." I gasped, my eyes dropping to her pussy. "I don't mind. Do whatever you need to do." For several minutes we stayed like that without speaking further, me staring alternately at her face and her pussy, and Liz giving tiny gasps and sighs as she gyrated her hips, moving the vibe around and around her clit. I'm not quite sure who was getting the biggest kick, but I'm pretty sure that at one point she actually came, although if she did her orgasm was much muted. She just gave a little groan and went rigid for a second or two, holding the vibe hard up against her, before she carried on stroking it over and around her clit. Obviously that little one was not quite enough. Perhaps that mini-orgasm had taken the edge away, because she looked now to be trying unsuccessfully to regain her arousal, and in the end the picked up the second, larger, vibe and used that instead, running it down her slit all the way from her clit until she could push it up herself before retracing her steps back to her clit. But maybe even this was not quite enough, because she picked up the silver one again in her left hand, looked thoughtfully at the black one, and then looked up at me. My 'Working' Mother "Andy, can you fuck me with this." She offered the black vibrator to me. "And I'll use the other one." I don't know what came over me. I just took the black vibrator, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I turned it up full and leaned over and pushed it deep into my own mother's passage. I can even remember thinking that this was the same route through which I'd made my entrance into the world. She gasped with pleasure as I started to plunge it in and out, and then she put the small one back against her clit and smiled happily. "Oh, Andy." She whispered after a minute or so. "This is heaven. Nobody has tried to help me to cum for years, and I'm going to be there soon, very soon." She was true to her word, for only seconds later she arched her back, groaned mightily between gritted teeth and squeezed her eyes tight shut. She held that position for what seemed like ages, her breath hissing in little wordless gasps and her hips twitching slightly in midair as I thrust the vibrator into her, until finally she collapsed back onto the bed with all her breath coming out in a whoosh. It may not have been the noisiest or most dramatic way to orgasm that I've ever seen, but it must surely have been a good one, because she lay there totally winded and unable to speak for several minutes, her hands just flapping aimlessly as she tried to convey her delight. "Thank you, Andy, thank you, thank you, thank you!" At that moment, inexplicably, my embarrassment and my dismay at what we'd been doing hit me in full force and I bolted, bounding up the stairs and locking myself in my room, not coming out until well into the evening. By that time I'd had time to wank and to come to terms with things, and it's just as well I had because Liz met me with one of 'those' remarks. "I suppose." She began, wagging a finger at me like some Victorian schoolteacher. "You realise that it's rude to leave a lady like that, with a vibrator stuck up her hole?" Her mock severity and the mental image generated by her words were enough for me and I collapsed into helpless laughter, followed seconds later by my mother. By the time we'd recovered our respective composure all mention of the afternoon were superfluous, and were never mentioned again. After that we tackled her clients and her needs in much the same way. I'd keep watch through the mirror and then clean her up after she'd finished with her client. If need be I'd finish her off with a vibrator or, very occasionally, with my fingers, making sure that she had at least one orgasm each day -- my self appointed task! Usually, when that was done Liz would disappear into the shower and I'd shoot off upstairs and have a surreptitious wank, something I didn't think Liz knew about. Then, of course, something happened to change things yet again. On that particular day, a couple of weeks later, her last client was an art student who came in with hands stained with printing ink, which naturally got transferred to the skin on Liz's back during their session together. No amount of wet wipes would get rid of it and, because it was on her back, she couldn't reach it in the shower. The result was that before I'd scooted off to the privacy of my room and a well earned wank she called to me to scrub her back for her. I was a little bit reluctant, mainly because I was wearing my favourite shirt and I didn't want to get it wet from leaning into the shower to soap her back, but all that did was trigger a snorted, 'then take your damn clothes off' from Liz. I stripped down, but kept my boxers on in some kind of misguided attempt to keep some decorum and also to hide my erection, and stepped into the shower with her. All the shorts did, of course, was serve to draw attention to my arousal as soon as the water hit the cloth. "My." Liz observed with a smile. "My little boy really has become a man." I grinned a little sheepishly, and then turned her round by the shoulders to squirt soap onto her back, hopefully diverting the possibility of similar comments. She rested her hands on the side of the shower cubicle and waited for me to get on with it, and very nice it was too. Isn't it strange how skin feels so much nicer covered in warm water and soap suds? I was enjoying touching her in the shower much more than when she was on her professional bed. Unfortunately the ink wasn't too stubborn and a generous application of liquid soap followed by good rub down soon cleared it, leaving me with no excuse to continue running my hands over my mother's skin. "Thank you." She told me, turning round, still under the cascade of warm water, and sending her eyes straight to where my cock was trying to burst through my shorts. "You know." She told me, raising her eyes to mine and blinking with the water running from her hair. "I've just realised that you never get any satisfaction, do you?" I knew just what satisfaction she meant, but I tried to play the innocent. After all, I wasn't sure how she's take the fact that I shot off upstairs for a wank each time. "Yes, I do. I enjoy sorting things out for you, you know that." "Yes, I know that. And now I think about it, I can guess why you go up to your room afterwards." I shrugged. So much for her not knowing I wanked. "I'm not being very fair, am I?" She asked me, her eyes suddenly serious. I shook my head, sending droplets of water flying like some wet dog, and shrugged mutely again. "If you're going to help me out, I ought to help you out, didn't I?" I could see where this was leading, but I didn't want to believe it. She waited for me to reply, standing close to me with water splashing over both of us. "I suppose..." I faltered. "But, but you don't need to. You shouldn't. It isn't needed." "I don't suppose it is, but I'm going to rectify it, starting right now." She faced me directly and placed her hands on my hips, and then waited to see if I would object. I didn't, but that was more from not understanding or believing her intentions than from consenting. Her hands moved, hooking her fingers under the waistband of my boxers as she dropped to her knees, dragging the last of my clothing down around my ankles and liberating my very hard cock. She took one last look up at me and then, parting her lips as wide as she could, she engulfed my cock deep in her lovely warm mouth. My instant reaction was to try and pull back in alarm, to stop my mother from giving me a blow job, but she had her hands around my bottom, gripping my cheeks tight and preventing me from moving. Not only that, but she was good too, presumably from much experience, an expert, a professional in both senses of the word, and it didn't take more than seconds before my held was tilted back and I was gasping with pure ecstasy. I let her do it, let her blow me, her son, telling myself all the while that, yes, she was my birth mother, but not my 'proper' mother, she hadn't brought me up, so this wasn't really incestuous - even though it was. I stood there, my legs weakening and my hands on her shoulders to steady myself, my mind racing at the implications, but still mesmerized by the sensations of her tongue on the head of my cock. I wasn't a blow job virgin, but the girls I'd enjoyed before were rank amateurs beside my own mother. The sensations were amazing and it seemed almost immediately that my balls were tightening ready to shoot my load. "Liz!" I tried to warn her. "Liz, I'm going to cum, Liz, I can't hold back." She didn't want me to. She gave a little nod of understanding and then cupped my balls in one hand while her mouth did wonders on my cock, until I groaned and pushed, and shot spurt after magical spurt of spunk into my mother's mouth. She milked every last drop from me as I stood trembling and wobbly, with water pouring over my head and down my body. When she could extract no more, she licked her lips, stood up, turned off the water and then smiled at me, an open, satisfied, happy smile that said much for our relationship. Later, when we were sitting silently eating our evening meal and contemplating the day's events, she suddenly pointed her fork, replete with potato and cabbage, and made an announcement. "Right" She began. "From now on, every time you have to finish me off because some punter has left me high, I'll make sure I bring you off too. Is that fair? And is that a deal?" "You'll bring me off? How?" I was hoping she'd say with her mouth. "I've been thinking." She looked at me under lowered eyebrows. "What if when I let you have a freebie fuck?" That stopped me dead. But then, what's the difference between a shag and a blow job as far as morality is concerned. "Alright." I said slowly. "But on two conditions." She looked at me in silent expectation. "Not downstairs." I didn't want to do it where paying customers did it. "And not after one of your 'special' clients." I didn't fancy sloppy seconds after a punter, either. "Done!" She exclaimed immediately. "And if I've just been given a pussy full, then I'll blow you instead, how's that?" That was very good as far as I was concerned, and in fact that's what happened. I've been living with my 'working' mother now for more than a year and we've fucked regularly. In fact, although I maintain my own room for my conscience's sake, I've probably spent more nights in her bed than mine. We don't think about our blood ties, I'm Andy and she is Liz, and the fact that she gave birth to me no longer matters. She won't conceive, and so no incest begotten child will ever appear and I still act as her security, cum maid, cum cleaner, cum lover, and it works for us both. I'm not saying it's right, but it works for us.