7 comments/ 64473 views/ 6 favorites The Artist, the Model Ch. 01 By: Artaeus It's been awhile since I last submitted a story, and figured it was about time. Here's the first chapter of a new series I'm working on. I hope you all enjoy it. - Artaeus ************************** Young lives rarely go as we ever planned back in our school days. Life does its best to get in the way and make sure you follow a different, though sometimes necessary path. My own path had been riddled with small fortunes, when I actually take a few moments to look back at things. A struggling artist I was, but not struggling against the forces of money and losing my home. If anything, I was doing well enough for myself that I could afford small luxuries, and keep myself in a nice sized studio apartment in New York. At the age of twenty five, I was living one of those personal dreams of mine; painting beautiful, naked, women for my income, enjoying a few scattered parties here and there, and every now and then actually having my artwork displayed in a gallery, albeit usually as just a side show for the main attraction. Still, it was something that I could be proud of and write home to my mother about. It was because of my mother that I found my life turned upside down. Last month, she called me up sounding more than a little giddy and excited. I answered in my usual fashion, not bothering to look at the caller ID, only to find her giggling voice on the other end. Before long, she'd conned me into letting her come and visit, which wasn't really that bad of a thing. I'd always been close with her, even when she and dad were still together and I was living at home. She'd also been one of my first models, though decidedly more clothed than the ones I painted now. Still, it was more than a little strange to hear mom that excited about anything. She had the whole trip planned out, which made me believe she had been planning on coming regardless of whether I said yes or not. Fortunately, I was between jobs, so to speak, and was enjoying a bit of relaxation, so it wouldn't impact my job performance any to have my mother come to visit for a week or two. Though, the twitch in my groin alerted me to the idea that it needed to be only a week. Within a few days, I was helping mom put her luggage in the back of my car, listening to her going on about my sister and college, her friends, and the various little sundries that made up her life. All the while, I found myself paying only enough attention to reply when necessary as the rest of my brain was focused on the load of sorority girls in rather revealing dresses piling out of the airport and making their way to the line of buses waiting for them. "Michael?" Suddenly my head snapped up, looking into mom's eyes as she gave me that knowing look. Chuckling, I closed the trunk and moved around to open the car door for her. "Sorry, ma. Was day dreaming." Her full, wide lips pulled into an always ready smile as she gave a quick shake of her head and slipped into the passenger seat. I was mildly thankful she went to her purse as soon as she got in, and completely missed the small tent that had formed in my jeans. Anyone who's been to the Big Apple knows that traffic is something between rats escaping flood waters, and mildly controlled chaos. You get used to it, learn new sets of rules on how to drive, and eventually it all becomes a natural progression of pushing and shoving your way to where you need to go. "By the way, Georgia wanted me to let you know that she's thinking of coming and visiting you as well, seeing as you're an established artist and all. I told her you wouldn't mind." Mom interjected in between fits of messing with her hair and watching the buildings crawl by. "I guess I don't mind." I didn't think anything of it. The three of us had always been close enough. Not intimate or anything, but not exactly prudish either. Growing up, it wasn't out of place to walk around the house in near nakedness, or wearing towels fresh out of the shower. We just always went with the flow, enjoyed life, and didn't bother with most of the rules of modesty that other people get bogged down with. "Good! She still has a few things to wrap up at school, but said she'd be flying up within the next few days. Which gives you and me plenty of time to go shopping, and site seeing..." she continued on, but I tuned her out as I let my mind wander towards more immediate things. It didn't take much longer to make it back to my place. One advantage to where I lived was easy access to just about anything and everything that I needed. Clubs nearby, a few small stores that were perfect for finding cute girls to paint, and more than enough shops for mom to squeal in delight over. Before I knew it, we were standing in my apartment and I was listening to mom go on about the place. It was sparsely decorated, but tasteful. A wide main room that had a smaller side room where I kept my finished work, a kitchenette, and a bathroom. Everything else was in the main room, which was where I worked and lived. Mom smiled as she noticed that I had a few paintings hung on the walls. My earlier works of her and Georgia that weren't grand or masterpieces by any stretch of the imagination, but to me, they were better than Polaroid's. "I can't believe you actually have these hanging up." "Why wouldn't I? Two most beautiful women in the world, you bet I'd make people see them." I could see the smile of appreciation touch her soft features. She really did look beautiful when she smiled. It was the kind of expression that filled not just her face, but her eyes as well. And when she smiled, it made you smile as well. "You always were a smooth talker, Michael." She reached over, giving my shoulder a soft slap before moving away. A moment later she realized one important detail, which hadn't really struck me until she said something. "Where am I going to sleep?" At a loss, I took a moment to completely register the observation, then offhandedly motioned towards the king sized bed that stood against the back wall. "My bed works just fine. It's big enough for four people to sleep in." "No doubt you've tried that." Just as I was about to open my mouth and say something incredibly male-like, the look she gave forced my lips closed and teeth to clack as they struck together. Instead, I just gave her a goofy grin and carried her luggage over to the bed. "Don't worry, ma. I'll sleep on one side, you sleep on the other. If it makes you feel better, I'll even break out some spare sheets so we don't wind up using the same ones. I know how much you love to steal them, anyway." Again she slapped my arm as she moved past, taking in the whole of my living space. "It's a wonder I let you live this long." The rest of our day went about the same. She would make comments about things, I would snipe back, she'd either give me a look, or smack my arm. After awhile, it felt as if I'd never left home which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I did love my family, after all. Things didn't exactly stay that way, though. That evening as I was taking a shower, I heard mom gasp rather loudly. It was startling enough that I quickly burst from the shower and cleared the distance between the bathroom and the small side room in a few strides, only to find mom staring at one of my private works. What she held in her hands had been a painting done on a lark. One of my usual models had been over, and the two of us had been drinking. Jennifer, her name was, had been lying on my bed after a long and vigorous session of love making, and I found myself inspired to paint her. Mom was staring at that painting, of the lovely Jennifer spread out on my bed with my cum leaking from her parted folds held open by her fingers. The other hand cupping one of her breasts, as if offering it to the viewer. The whole painting was more pornographic than what most would consider art, and my mother was staring at it. Looking at the painting reminded me vividly of that night, and before I knew it, I was sporting a decent erection that would make most guys a little envious. It never occurred to me that I was standing naked, dripping wet, next to my mother as she looked critically over one of my private works. "You've... been busy." Coughing, I rubbed a hand back through my hair to try and wipe away that strange guilty feeling I always got when I was caught with something naughty around my mother. Sure, I was a grown man, but even then, the woman looking a the painting was the woman who had reprimanded me for having playboys when I was twelve. That sort of thing lingers, and I had never out grown it. "Yeah. Didn't realize I had that one laying out like this. Sorry about that." "Who is she?" "Hmm? Oh. That's.. that's Jennifer. One of my usual models." Mom smiled. I noticed though, that it wasn't one of her usual smiles. It seemed almost, distant. There was something in her eyes that didn't look all that familiar on her face, but I didn't bother to question it. A moment later, mom was turned towards me and staring me square in the eye. "You know, you really ought to put clothes on when you have company." I looked confused, then blinked as realization once against struck me upside the head. Grinning sheepishly, I nodded and slipped out and back towards the bathroom. "Sorry about that," I yelled over my shoulder, before finishing up my shower. "So, are you and her an item?" Sighing softly as I dried myself off, I poked my head out of the bathroom while wrapping the towel around my waist. Part of my brain was only mildly aware that I was still semi-hard, and there was nothing I could do about it. What was worse, was that I couldn't figure out why I was sporting a tent like they were going out of style. "Not really. We just fool around from time to time. She likes being painted, and I like painting her." Mom giggled, waving offhandedly towards the side room. "It looks like you both enjoy more than just painting." Rolling my eyes, I dropped down onto my bed and looked over at her. The next words out of my mouth had absolutely no thought to them at all. They were there, coming out, well before I had a chance to think about them. "I can't help it if the women I paint are turned on by the painter." I saw mom's face change slightly. A look of brief panic, of momentary shock, then of embarrassed nervousness. None of it made any sense, and I thought I was just seeing things. But then again, I knew how to read women well enough that I was certain of what I saw. Mom remained silent as she moved to the other side of the bed, sliding into it and pulling the spare sheets over herself. "Just remember to stay on your side of the bed, mister painter de Marco." Smiling, I felt a little better that what I'd said hadn't made her angry. Pulling myself into bed, I found that sleep wasn't all the elusive when you were tired and worn out from driving around most of the day. Sometime during the night, though, I felt the bed shifting. Mom was getting out of the bed, and I figured it as nothing more than her going to the bathroom. I didn't think anything more of it as I laid there silently for several minutes. But when I didn't feel her come back, my eyes slowly opened. It was then that I saw the thin sliver of light from the side room and wondered why mom had gone back in there. Pulling the sheets off of myself, I crept quietly across the floor until I was pressed up against the doorway. Peering around the corner I nearly gasped in utter shock at what I saw. Mom was there, and had been rather busy in the short few minutes. All of those private paintings I had done were leaned up against others. A semi-circle of sex and debauchery in oil on canvas. There were picture of single women fingering themselves, of pairs of women licking and fondling one another, even a one of a couple that lived in the building having sex. What caught my attention most of all, was mom herself. Her negligee was pulled up above the firm, full swells of her breasts revealing just how naked she had been beneath it. The whole of her body was a strange form of perfection, in that she was both toned, and softened with age. Her nearly flawless skin was lightly tanned, with lighter hues in small triangles covering her nipples and mound. Long legs stretched out in either direction, revealing the hairless curve of her pelvis and slit, which I noticed just as quickly as everything else. Puffy folds were pushed wide apart, revealing the glistening pink interior and the single digit of her other hand frantically pumping in and out of her tight entrance, adding the musky scent of sex to the air already thick with paint fumes and body wash. Frozen in place by the beautiful vision before me, I watched as my mothers finger was joined by a second, then two became three. Those long, thin fingers pumping into her slippery slit with all the ecstasy of a possessed woman as her head tossed back and her mouth parted around the long exhale of pleasure. Her muscles quivered, rippling up and down then centering as her body nearly doubled over. She remained motionless for long moments, basking in the wondrous aftermath of her orgasm. A strange look of guilty pleasure touching at her sweat-covered face as her eyes focused on the paintings setup around her. As quietly as I could, I started to pull back from the doorway when I heard mom whisper out my name. Trained instinct caused me to step forward around the doorway and poke my head in, speaking up to see what she wanted. Mom nearly jumped out of her skin at that, twisting around away from me as she clawed at her nightie to try and pull it back down. I coughed more than a little embarrassedly, stepping away and giving her a bit of privacy while I moved back to the bed. Well aware that my erection was painfully throbbing and begging for attention. Pulling the sheets over myself, I closed my eyes tight and hoped she wouldn't say anything about it. Fortune again was smiling at me as she came out, cleared her throat, and then moved back into bed. Not a word said as we both just lay there, trying desperately to ignore the fact of what just happened. The Artist, the Model Ch. 02 There are certain things in life that young men don't generally dream of. Wearing dresses, winning baking contests, and seeing your mother pleasuring herself to artwork you'd painted of young women in varying, and compromising, poses. The latter of those is what brought me a night of fitful sleeping that was well beyond any other I'd ever had the misfortune of living through. Every dream I had, was about my mother. Positions she could be in, her body naked, glistening with sweat, calling out my name in passionate exhales, riding upon my shaft as if her very life depended upon it. They were dreams that quickly woke me up to a lonely bed. For a moment, I found myself thinking the whole thing had been a dream. That I had imagined my mother coming to visit, that I had accidently happened upon her in that moment of her most intimate vulnerability. Perhaps I was thinking just a little too loud. "Damn it!" she cried out from the kitchenette, drawing my fogged attention across the apartment to where she stood in a simple robe that barely coaxed itself down past her beautifully curved buttocks. Being the ever attentive son, at least when it came to ensuring that my family was safe and protected, I tossed the sheets off myself and hurried across to her. I found myself startling her completely by accident, which caused her to drop the knife she'd been holding. It's razor tip stabbing down into the floor only an inch from her foot, and I nearly had a heart attack. She wasn't exactly all that calm about it herself. "Shit! I'm sorry, ma. You alright?" Slowly she bent down, one hand clutched up against her belly, the other reaching to grab the knife from my poor, impaled floor. I was treated, briefly as it was, to the delicious view of her rounded backside unveiled from beneath her robe. Much to my chagrin, she had donned panties during the night. "Yeah, I'm fine, Michael." Setting the knife on the counter, she finally turned to face me. Her eyes darted downwards, natural habit for any person when confronted with nudity of the opposite gender. Then her cheeks flushed a bright red as she turned away. "Jesus, Michael, do you ever wear clothes around this place?" Again I found myself dumbfounded by my carelessness. Though, I couldn't help wondering if her reaction, the increased embarrassment, had anything to do with the night before. Still, I was naked, and probably needed to at least throw a pair of shorts on, as if they could hide my own obvious reaction to the dreams I'd had. "Sorry. And usually no. I don't exactly get a lot of female visitors who are related to me," I off-handedly commented. "I noticed that." I wasn't sure, but I could have sworn there was the slightest hint of jealousy in her voice, a bare minimum of it that any other man would have overlooked. But considering recent events, I found myself all the more keyed into my mother's feelings, her moods and reactions. A few moments later I returned with shorts covering my slowly wilting erection. Mom was sitting on my bed now, her legs pressed together, her left hand still clutched to her belly. Only now I noticed the wad of paper towels that were wrapped around her finger. Concern washed over me like a flood and I moved to her side. It was an impulsively manly thing to do, but I couldn't help it. I had to be the hero, the man of the hour. "So that's what you were on about," I said with sympathy drenching my words. Reaching over, I gently took her hand in mind and pulled the towels away. "I'm sorry, baby. I really didn't mean to wake you up. I was just trying to make some breakfast and the knife slipped. Then you were there and scared the crap out of me." Her words trailed off after that, and her eyes darted away. I could tell she was thinking about earlier, about seeing me naked again. Twice in two days, and I'd had the fortune to see her mostly naked, and extremely vulnerable. Even now, holding her hand, I wondered if she had finished working herself to a fevered orgasm. The whole scene played back with crystal clarity and I was truly aroused by it. "Well, if it helps any, ma, you scared the crap out of me, too." She smiled at that, leaning a bit closer as I held her hand. Just the two of us sitting on the edge of my bed, alone, finding that the silence of the apartment was broken only by our steady breathing and the heavy beating of hearts in our chests. It was then that I realized how much I wanted her to be both someone completely different, and at the same time, so glad that she was my mother. A thrill of excitement touched at my spine and worked its way down with a slow caress sending a shiver through me. Mom noticed it, as her eyes turned towards me with a look of concern. Those pretty brows knitted together while she looked me over, wondering just why I had shivered when my apartment was comfortably warm. Swallowing, knowing just what she was thinking, I gave her a wane smile and finally uncurled my hands from around hers. There was almost a look of disappointment on her face, though it was too brief to be sure. "Michael, can we... can we talk about last night?" In that moment, I needed to get some distance between the two of us. She was beautiful, barely dressed, and wanting to talk about that purely beautiful scene that had been shared between us the night previous. It was all I could do to not seduce her then and there, to force myself against normal habits and actually walk away just enough to clear my head and keep my more than obvious arousal from being on proud display under my flimsy shorts. "Sure, ma," I finally exhaled as I went back over to the kitchenette. She hesitated for a few moments, eyes glancing at the floor, then back up towards me. "I'm... I'm stupidly embarrassed about it," she finally breathed after those terrible seconds of silence. Her voice ending with a nervous giggle as she checked over her finger to make sure it wasn't bleeding any more. I had to admit that I was feeling much the same way, turning to look at her. She looked stunning, even when she was putting herself out before the judges and hoping they did not find her guilty of some grand abomination of action. "Ma, I think it's a wonderful compliment that my paintings can get my own mother hot and bothered." Again she giggled, only this time without as much nervousness. Her lilting laughter felt a little more natural, a little less forced, and enjoyably warm as she pushed up off the bed to come up to the island counter and watch me. "Baby, that was a bit more than hot and bothered. I mean, you saw me doing something that guys aren't supposed to see their mom's doing." Her mouth held the faintest of smiles as she groped around for words. I could tell, even from where I stood, that she was wrestling with feelings that were as foreign as my own towards her. That was the crux of the whole problem, too. We both knew what these feelings were, but they hadn't ever been applied to each other. We'd never before felt aroused and in lust for someone in our own family, let alone each other. There was a fresh kind of excitement in those feelings, a sense of wonderment that we could desire each other. Yet through it all, there was also that sense of foreboding dread that we were somehow breaking some grand law of nature by even thinking the way we were. "I don't know why not. I've seen plenty of other men's moms doing that before. I guess it's only natural I see my own, too." Before I had a chance to move, mom was flinging a towel at me. I gave an offhanded yelp of surprise when it slapped my shoulder, then grinned as both of us broke out into rolls of laughter. "No wonder you get so many of those girls naked, Michael. Such a smooth talker." She grinned with just a hint of impish delight while her arms crossed just beneath her breasts. Those robe covered mounds pushed upwards in a delightful display that made my breath catch in my throat and my hard on throb painfully in my shorts. Our conversation, thankfully, turned to things less sexually charged as I took over breakfast making and finish up our meal. She was ever curious about my life, how I had been managing the past few years, what my love life was like, and if I had any plans to settle down with a nice young woman. Or, as I joked offhandedly, a nice older woman who was well off financially. It felt good to bleed off that sexual tension between us with normal conversation. Both of us were more relaxed after that, easing into a routine of normalcy. Of course, she wanted to go shopping, and I wanted to get some work done. Fortunately, she didn't gently demand that accompany her on her little spree as she sauntered over to the bathroom and took her shower. When she left my apartment for her trip around the local stores, I took the opportunity to bring out my latest work. It was a portrait I had been working on for another of my clients. Her and her boyfriend locked in an intimate embrace with his stiff shaft thrust into her backside, her legs spread wide, her body facing the viewer. When I had started, I had made the fortuitous decision to take a few pictures so that I could continue working when they weren't around, and because I rather enjoyed watching the two of them together. With ritualistic habit, I sunk into that 'zone' of painting. Liquid hues and a forest of brushes becoming the only distraction from the canvas in front of me, time ticking by without so much as a sound which kept me locked in front of the canvas for the hours between mom leaving, and her return. When she came back, I was almost oblivious to the sound of the door opening and her heels clicking on the floor. Bags rustled as she swayed them back and forth, dropping the whole lot onto my bed before flinging herself onto it and giggling giddily. It was that giggle that brought me out of my painting mindset, turning to see her flung out on my bed, arms and legs stretched out, and her heavy breasts tightly bound up in her shirt heaving with every excited breath. I could picture myself crawling atop her, my hands roaming over her body, touching her in all those places I had touched so many other women before. "Find everything you were looking for?" Again she giggled, finally rolling onto her side and propping her head up onto a hand. "It's a good thing I saved up for this trip, baby, or else you'd have me moving in with you." She grinned with her words, and I wondered if she wasn't actually putting the idea past me to see how I'd react. "I can think of worse things." Grinning back, taking a quick glance at my painting and knowing that I wouldn't be able to get back to it, I set my palette and brush aside, wiped my hands on an old rag, and moved over to the bed. "Aww, that's sweet, Michael." Her giggles erupted again, making me wonder if she had been out drinking, too. Though I didn't smell the telltale liquor hovering around her, that didn't mean she hadn't imbibed a little with her lunch. "Anyway, I found the most amazing clothing stores while I was out, and decided that I would go just a little wild." Her body began to curl as she shifted position, moving to her knees on the bed. Like a child at Christmas, she began rummaging around the bags looking at her various finds and self-bought presents. Her eyes fairly sparkled with delight, and her breath quickened. I wondered silently to myself, what she was plotting. Of all the traits my mother had displayed over the years, the most important was her devious cunning. A practical joker that had gotten both me and my sister on numerous occasions, we had learned early that there was very little our mother didn't think about when it came to tricking us. We'd even gone so far as to call her 'Ms. Mastermind'. "So," I began, trying to peer into the bags. "Do you plan on modeling any of it for me, do are you just going to tease me?" She giggled again, snatching the bags up to her chest and looking up at me with an almost feral gleam. "I'll model them soon enough. Go finish your painting and I'll make you some lunch. Knowing you, you completely forgot to eat something." Sighing, resigning myself to the fact that my mother was playing another of her games, I was reminded of the fact that I hadn't eaten since breakfast. My belly rumbled, alerting me to its present state, and I gave a helpless shrug and faint grin. "Yeah, yeah. What kind of artist would I be if I wasn't starving?" Hoarding her bags off into the corner near my bed, she made sure that I knew not to go peeking before she was ready, then sauntered into the kitchenette. I was left truly wondering just what plot she was scheming this time. Since this morning, she seemed a completely different person. Every part of her alive and aflame with excitement that I hadn't seen in her since both Georgia and I were younger and still living at home. It might've been the shopping, as I'd always thought shopping was like a drug for some people. But then, there were plenty of other activities in the Big Apple that could have the same effect on a woman. Lunch, of course, was delicious and exactly what I needed. We both talked more, fell into silence, then talked again. A casual routine of give and take that felt completely natural, and at the same time, forced. It was when the sun was setting and evening descended that mom finally noticed the painted I had brought out to work on. In my distraction of her return, I had completely forgotten to put it away. Seeing the look on her face as she surveyed the nearly finished painting was something magical in a way. I could tell she was excited by it, that she was envisioning what it must have looked like the first time I they posed for me. Her mind was working hard, putting all the pieces together until she could nearly feel the scene come to life in her mind's eye, and even then, she went steps further in her imagining of the scene. Quietly I stepped up behind her, looking over the painting and seeing all the things that I still needed to work on. Little flaws, strokes of genius, bits and pieces that I needed to touch up. "What was it like, watching them?" she whispered. Her fingers were lightly touching at her neck, stroking nails over skin that was suffused with her flushed excitement. "It was exciting." I smiled a bit, moving to curl an arm around mom's shoulders and hold her against me. "They were incredibly open about their relationship and wanted to have something special to show their love." She seemed to shiver against me, but didn't pull away. "Did they, you know, finish?" "Why do you think I had to take pictures?" I grinned at that, reaching over with my free hand to pull out the little envelope of snapshots I had taken of the couple from various angles. Handing it to her, I smiled as my eyes went back to the painting. When she gasped, my fingers instinctively clutched tighter at her shoulder. Her eyes drank up the pictures, taking time to look over every single one of them. Only when she had completely devoured every last inch of the photos, did she put them back in their envelope. Even then, she remained deathly quiet against my side. "Michael," she started, paused. Her eyes glanced down at the floor, looking for her thoughts there as if they were scattered bits of paper she could pluck from around her feet and put together in some semblance of order. "I... I want you to paint me." The Artist, the Model Ch. 03 "I... I want you to paint me," she said. My own mother, standing next to me, staring at a painting I had been working on of a woman and her boyfriend in an intimate moment of sexual bliss, was asking me to paint her. Were I any other kind of artist, the prospect of painting my mother would have been a nonchalant idea. A few lights, a careful pose, perhaps even her turned away with her back revealed. But I wasn't that kind of artist. I painted women and men in the most erotic of situations. I brought their naked, sexually charged bodies to the canvas to be captured forever by paint in that moment when they were completely revealed. Often times, I was the reason they were thusly aroused and enflamed into orgasmic release. "Michael?" She peered up at me, eyes veiled by a strange mixture of fear and excitement. "Sorry. I just..." I paused, trying to pull all of my thoughts back in where I could actually make sense of them. "I'm just a little startled I suppose." "You don't want to paint me, do you?" Her gaze darted away, past the painting in front of us and back to the floor. Slender shoulders slumped against my hand, her body seeming to curl down against itself just slightly. Moving my hand across her back, I grabbed gently at her shoulders and urged her wordlessly to face me. I was smiling, beaming perhaps, when her gaze drifted back up to mine. "That's not it at all, Ma. It's just... well... you know what I usually paint, the kinds of situations I choose as my inspiration." She tried to stifle a small giggle, recalling as vividly as I was the night before. I could still see her so clearly in my memory. How beautiful she had looked pleasuring herself while looking at some of my other portraits of naked women doing the exact same things to themselves. "Yeah, I know, baby." "So, you can understand why I'm a little, stunned?" Slowly she nodded, glancing sidelong at the canvas next to us. "Yes, Michael, I do." Letting a slow, deep breath, I brought fingers to cup beneath her chin and guide her eyes back to my own. I was made so very aware of how beautiful she looked in that moment, with the city lights filtering in through apartment windows and catching along her still smooth skin. How her every breath made the heavy weight of her breasts rise and fall with graceful waves. She was an absolutely stunning woman, and the idea of painting my mother in any situation was as arousing as anything else I could imagine. Finally, I made up my mind. "When do you want to get started?" It was her turn to be stunned. Those beautiful eyes widening as she looked up at me, realizing that she'd been called on her words and I was mentally prepared for the task. Her words stumbled from her lips as she blushed a deeper shade of crimson, making her look all the more radiant. "Um, let me go put on something else, hun." Begrudgingly I let go of her shoulders and nodded. She turned away, trying to suppress the giggle of excitement that fairly bubbled from her throat. A moment later she disappeared into the bathroom with her arms filled by her shopping bags. I was left to contemplate just exactly what I had gotten myself into. On one hand, I was rather excited to get my mother naked, to see everything that I had missed out on seeing the night before. To find out what she looked like completely undressed and exposed, baring all to my critical eye. On the other hand, I was completely mortified by the whole idea. Not that I was thinking it was wrong. If anything, I found it all so very right. What bothered me was just how right I felt it was. I could feel the blood pumping through me, engorging my shaft with renewed life and making my skin feel on fire. It was almost like being in love, but I knew that already loved my mom. Getting everything setup for work was easy. I'd done it so many times before that I had a system of sorts. A fresh canvas was set upon the easel, paints squeezed out in the shades I thought I was going to need, and lights turned on to just the right setting for the best possible contrast of highlights and shadows. With everything ready, I found myself waiting. Waiting and wondering. It was almost painful to sit there doing nothing, thinking of everything, and warring with myself about the decision I had come to. There were a couple times where I almost put everything away and was ready to tell her that I'd changed my mind. But just as quickly, my 'other head' reminded me that this was her idea, and I was just following through with it. Before I could change my mind again, she was there. My throat suddenly went dry as I looked up to see her stunning frame barely clad before me. Inches of skin pleasantly exposed while still more lay hidden behind veneers of black silk and nylon. She had found a pair of leather, thigh-high boots with a high stiletto heel that forced her already curved backside to sit higher still. Creamy thighs were offered to my hungry gaze, then abruptly her skin was covered again my a nearly-sheer thong that did little to truly cover anything at all. A brief glimpse at her tummy, still flat, and trim. Then the black embrace of a corset that snugged so intimately close against her body that I could have sworn it moaned in pleasure. Those full swells of her breasts hung free and openly display, stiff nipples a light shade of pink as they throbbed and begged for attention. Around her neck was a simple, sequined choker catching glitters of frosted light and bouncing it back. And her slender arms, hugging up beneath her breasts, were encased in silk gloves that rose upwards past her elbows. All of that wondrous beauty was literally capped by a black fedora hat tilted at a rakish angle which sent a deep shadow across her lovely face made up delicately with just enough makeup to smooth out those barely-there lines of age. Every inch of her screamed of desire and lust and dirty things. I wanted to scream back that I'd have her. Nervously she stood there as I took it all in. Her hips shifted from side to side, and I could tell she was fighting against herself. "You look... amazing," I finally managed to breathe out. It took every ounce of effort to get that much out without sounding like a complete idiot. She giggled softly at that, still suffused with nervous energy. "I hope I'm as sexy as those young girls you're always painting." Nearly choking, I couldn't hide the lecherous grin that swept across my lips. "Ma, you make them look like just that, girls. My god, Ma, you are a stunning woman." Colored flooded across her cheeks, played a dance down her throat, then swept out across her chest as she giggled again. "I feel like such a fool dressing up like this, baby." "A damned sexy fool, if you are." Again I grinned, this time moving across to her and resting my hands on her shoulders. Her naked skin beneath my touch felt good, felt electric as I realized that I was touching her in a different way now. There had been so many times before when I had laid my hands on her shoulders, bare and without sleeves to cover them, and those times had always felt innocuous. Now I was inches away from my barely dressed mother. I was within breathing distance of her exposed breasts and her barely covered mound, and I wanted her. Again my thoughts struggled. This time, it was a battle between that part of me that was a painter, and the part that was a lust-addled son desiring his own mother. Swallowing against the dryness in my throat, I stepped back and moved towards my easel. Every part of my body thrummed with sexual tensions that I knew would only fuel my urge to paint her. There was a strange sort of addiction to that feeling, a necessity to hold onto it while I could, and make it linger as long as possible. Seeing mom dressed the way she was, made me all the more aware of just how easy that would be. Clearing my throat, I looked to her, then the bed, and back again. "Go ahead and lay down, Ma." I motioned towards the bed. She nodded, a little coyly, before moving towards that wide mattress with sheets slightly disheveled. Her body moved with stuttered, jilting motions that were afforded her muscles by the nervousness that locked itself through her. Even her pose, as she moved onto the bed, was something that felt wholly mechanical. Beautiful as she was, I knew well enough that she'd never want herself to be painted as a statue done by a novice. Whatever battle had gone on in my head, a clear victory had been made by the side that always won out when confronted with a sexual creature. That victory was evidenced by my moving to the bed, coming in to settle next to her as I slowly curled my arms around her. She stiffened, then, afraid of what I was about to do, afraid that she had maybe crossed a line that she would regret later. Perhaps she was just as afraid that she wouldn't regret it at all. No matter what was going on in her head, I didn't give her the opportunity to struggle against herself or me. My hands were upon her, gentle touches that played at her exposed breasts. Those taut nipples throbbed against my fingertips as they brushed across each turgid peak. I felt her chest rise and fall against the trapped exhale of a moan, then finally release it in a whisper-sound that filled the immediate air around us. I was aware the whole time that I was touching my mother, the woman who had given birth to me and my sister, had raised us from bawling infants to struggling teenagers, and gave us strength to be proper adults. She was the reason I had become an artist, and she was also the reason I was a lover of women. "Relax, Ma. Let yourself go a little and enjoy it," I breathed in her ear. She tensed a moment, muscles stiffening as if she was preparing to run. Then all of her body surrendered, a physical release of tension that bled out into the loosed exhale of another moan. Her body quivered with the excitement that replaced her nervousness, flutters of her racing pulse causing tiny shadows at her neck and breast to dance within the soft lights. "Remember last night?" She nodded, a soft giggle spilling from her throat. "Yes, Michael." "You remember how you felt when you were alone, staring at that painting?" Again she nodded, the giggle no longer there. Instead, her hand instinctively moved down over her corset, coming to rest at her wide hips. "Your panties are in the way, aren't they?" Her voice was a purr of sound that pulled at me. Those long, slender fingers hooking into her thong at the waist and slowly teasing it down off her hips. Little by little, the black fabric eased further down until I could just barely see the tiny shadow of her cleft revealed. "They're in your way, baby." I smiled at that, moving a hand from her heavy breasts to glide down the same path her own touch had followed. Down until unlike her fingers, mine were slipping beneath the semi-sheer material to cup against her mound. She nearly writhed at the touch, giving me a soft sob of excitement as my fingers rubbed at her swollen folds. Her eyes were closed tightly, lips pursed and puckered as if kissing the air. Slowly I leaned down, then. I was ill-content to let the air taste her kiss, and moved to replace it against her mouth. Pressing my kiss to her lips and finding my own moan of pleasure easing rapidly from my throat to be captured by her sudden, suckling breath. In all the years that I had been seducing women, been making love or outright fucking them, I had never once kissed any of them as wantonly or lovingly as I kissed my mother that first time. The feeling was electricity that surged through us both. Both of us shuddered from the ecstasy of it as her body slid tighter against mine. Within moments our tongues were entwined, slithering against each other to taste everything we could. Exploring each others mouths as if searching for some treasure to be held within each, and not at all disappointed that we never found it. Time became a meaningless thing as we held each other close, lost to the whims of man and woman. We could have only been together for seconds, or for days, and neither one of us would have cared. There was only her body, and mine, and we both wanted the other. Without invitation, one of my thick fingers parted the slippery folds of her smooth slit. I felt her go rigid, hips press upwards as the tip circled her tight, throbbing entrance. She wasn't afraid any more. Every part of her demanded that I thrust that finger into her body. Perhaps, it demanded that I push something else into her as well. It was at that moment I knew I was ready to paint her, and she was ready to be my model. My body nearly rebelled as I began to pull away, and it took a moment longer to disentangle my mother from me. She looked up, eyes opening as her lips curled into pretty little pout, thinking that perhaps I was having second thoughts. But when she saw me pulling off my shorts, sliding them off my legs and revealing just how excited I was, any confusion she held was quickly wiped away. Aroused, excited, on the verge of surrendering to instinct, I stepped back towards the canvas. My hand, a finger wet with her nectar, dropped down to my aching length and wrapped those digits around it. Slow strokes, teasing myself and in turn teasing her as well, as I looked into her eyes and silently let her know that I was going to paint her, and then I was going to make love to her. I could tell by the way she looked back at me, she was ready, too.