9 comments/ 80342 views/ 34 favorites The Gold Digger's Son By: Amwind My father told me the real reason when I was fifteen. "Your mother and I got divorced because I couldn't afford her." When he said this, the slightest hint of a smile appeared on his face. "What I mean is she was expecting a certain way of living and I...I just couldn't afford it. I guess I thought that love would be enough, but that might have just been me being blind. Or stupid." My parents had divorced when I was twelve. It had made no sense at the time, yet at the same time I wasn't surprised, as your parents splitting up just seemed like a rite of passage one went through in my neighborhood, like riding your first bike or going on your first overnight field trip. Other kids had said they thought it was weird that I ended up living with my father, as everybody I knew ended up with their divorced mothers, but had they known my parents better, it would have made more sense to them. It wasn't that my mother didn't love me (I thought), it was that her interest in me, my father, and her friends seemed like more of a hobby she could pick up and then set aside for a while, like a knitting project or a story one was writing. She was there for me at the toughest moments, as I recall; it was mostly all the other moments where she was somewhat lacking. My father and I initially moved just across town from her in Tacoma, but then he was offered a job in Illinois, so he decided to relocate me, my step-mom and step-brother, and himself. When he told me why he'd divorced my mother, I'd initially wondered whether he was making enough money now where, if he had wanted to, he could stay married to her. It wasn't until I got a little older that I understood he wasn't just telling me a straightforward reason for their separation, but instead painting her as a gold digger who put material things over any other sources of happiness. I started to reevaluate her in that light when I would see her, which was maybe twice a year. It was hard to tell from any of her personal interactions with me—she was still enthusiastic about seeing me and would still spoil me with presents—but she did end up dating two men after my father who it seemed were pretty loaded. I reaped some of the benefits (tickets to a Seattle Supersonics game, a trip overseas), but it still seemed to confirm my father's suspicion. However, it didn't seem to affect my relationship with her in any way. I imagine she found it easier being a devoted mother when she only really had to do it biannually. Even if my dad could have given my mother the finer things the mid-level management job he'd moved us for, it wouldn't have lasted long. He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and had trouble working, eventually quitting. My stepmom Carolyn ended up taking a second job to supplement her administrative assistant position, and they were just barely able to hang onto the house. As for me, I made it through college, and fell into teaching high school English even though I wanted to be a writer. My school was in a rural Michigan town, and I barely made it through the first year of school. I started getting panic attacks on certain days when I had to get up in front of the kids to teach, and they can smell fear. Some of them treated me like a friend, more of them treated me like a joke, and a handful treated me like an adversary. Additionally, the job had forced me to move away from my girlfriend, Jessa. We had been dating for a year and a half, and I expected her to follow me to my new job, and she gave me every indication that she would. We communicated by phone, mostly, with her still back in Illinois deciding between graduate school or continuing to work. When we spoke, because things were going so badly for me at school, I avoiding talking much about my day, not wanting to sound like I was constantly complaining, yet at the same time, she was really the only one I could talk to. It turned out even sparing her my whining wasn't enough sustain things, though, and she broke it off with me just I was preparing for my second school year. As it turned out, this abysmal state of personal affairs was actually a boon to my writing. Fiction was the only thing that seemed to make sense, so I worked on my projects whenever I could grab a spare minute. Still, even I wasn't ready for what would happen in the span of about nine months. Shadowfields, a horror screenplay I'd written and submitted almost on a whim to a fairly prestigious screenplay competition, garnered a runner-up prize of $500, plus guaranteed exposure to some pretty big names agencies that represented screenwriters. I was contacted by an agent, Sheldon Broadview, who told me that he would take me on as a client. Within five months, he was able to find a studio who optioned my screenplay for around $80,000 dollars. I couldn't believe it. I had no idea what to do next. Sheldon urged me to work on more screenplays, which I began to do, even as I had to finish out the year of my teaching contract. He was able to get me an assignment on spec, where I rewrote a script to a psychological thriller and was guaranteed a payday, no matter whether they used my version or not. I didn't have the slightest idea of what I wanted to spend the money on, so I paid off my student loans, purchased a brand new but still fairly inexpensive car, and placed the rest of it in a savings account. My family was just as shocked, although my dad told me he always predicted something big would happen for me. My mother insisted I fly out to Washington, now that a plane ticket wasn't such a burden, and celebrate with her, even though we'd just seen each other around Christmas. I was hesitant—I had a spring break coming up, but I was burned out from teaching and really just wanted to time to myself for writing and relaxing. I didn't know how to convey this to my mom without hurting her feelings, and my dad's attitude toward her did enter into my mind when thinking about why she was so insistent I go. Still, I liked being back home in Washington well enough, and thought I might be able to slip away to do some writing when she went to work. Also, she had broken up with her latest boyfriend in the last few months and had seemed genuinely upset around Christmas, so I also thought my presence might help cheer her up. I said "yes," and was soon being picked up from the airport by Mom. When I saw her across the terminal, she wore a big smile. As usual, she turned quite a few heads—even at 44, I could see what my father had seen in her when he married her over twenty years ago. She was a radiant woman with dark, fiery reddish-brown locks and a fashion sense that always seemed (at least to me) ahead of its time, regardless of the year. She was wearing black pants that were billowy down near the calves but that hugged the contours of her legs further up her thighs and a rosy pink top with frilly sleeves. "There's my son the big shot Hollywood writer," she said, embracing me. "Hey, Mom." On the way back to her house, she continued to gush over me. "I can't believe they're going to make a movie out of your words," she said. "Or I can believe it. I can't believe it took them this long to make your movie." "Well, don't get too excited. Sheldon told me it's never a sure thing with movies until you actually sit down in a theatre, and that's if I'm lucky," I said. "What do you mean?" "That's if it doesn't go direct to DVD," I said. 'they thought it was going to be huge," she said. "The money is guaranteed, right?" "Oh, yeah," I said. "I just mean—there are so many people involved and so many egos, that sometimes these things get bought and never made into films." "As long as somebody bought it though, am I right?" she said, beaming. "Yeah. It'd be nice if they could make it into a movie without changing a bunch of stuff, though," I added. "Although sometimes they pay you to make the changes yourself." "Ooh," she said, sounding a bit like one of my teenage students. "Make sure you make clear to them how in demand you are, honey." The first two days of the trip were fairly routine—we went out to eat (she wasn't too thrilled about cooking), visited Olympic National Park and the Space Needle, and talked. A recurring theme in our conversations was the things she seemed to be going without. She apologized (a few times) for the water temperature in the shower, saying that the hot-water heater needed to get fixed when she "had the money." At dinner, she told me she would have offered to pay, but that she was a bit short lately. She alluded to her most recent break-up leaving her in a "bad place," and I inferred she didn't just mean emotionally. It was becoming more and more clear the reason behind the invitation. Finally, when she offered to cook rather than me buying her another meal, I decided to cut to the chase. "How much do you need, Mom?" "What?" "How much money?" "Honey, I—" "Can we just get this out of the way?" I said. "Rather than spend the whole rest of my stay just dropping hints?" "Dropping hints? What are you--?" "It's alright. You're my mother. I can afford to help you now." "I don't want to put you on the spot, Jacob." She looked genuinely concerned. "It's not like I've been the best mother." It was difficult figuring out to say to such a clear statement of fact. "Please, Mom. Don't make a big deal out of it. How much do you need?" "I don't know. It's just—why don't we talk about this some other time?" "I just want to get it over with, Mom," I said. As it turned out, she had somehow racked up $10,000 in credit card debt that she was expecting her last boyfriend, the airline pilot, to help her pay off, yet that hadn't happened. I refrained from asking whether that was a factor in their breakup. Never having this much money in my possession before, and without a real sense of what I should really be doing with it, I decided to take care of her credit card debt and add $2,000 to help her get her car and water heat fixed, with maybe a little left over for whatever else she needed. I had one condition: under no circumstances should she disclose to my dad how much I had given her. She broke down in tears of joy, and I questioned why exactly I was doing this for a woman who would likely go on to spend half that money in clothing within six months. "Thank you so much, honey," she said, putting her arms around me and getting some of her smeared mascara on my face. "I could never ask for a better son than you." That night, we ate dinner out again, and she continued to thank me throughout. "It's just—it's what you do for your family, Mom," I said. "You know—no matter what it is, we're all here for each other. I'd do the same thing for Dad or Lily or anyone," I said, Lily being my stepsister. "But you need to save that money," she said. "Yeah, I guess," I said. "I mean, have you thought about buying a house?" "A house?" I replied, in between mouthfuls of pasta. "Yes." "Why would I need a house?" She smiled at this. "Well, you may find yourself wanting to start a family some day," Mom said, dabbing at her lips daintily with her napkin. "I don't know. A family seems like a lot of work," I said. "I guess you're right. Just work on finding a wife first," she told me. "One step at a time." "That first step's killer," I noted. "Did I tell you Jessa's getting married?" "Yes," she said. She reached across the table and put her hand on mine. Her warmth felt reassuring. "I'm sorry, hon." "Although last time I talked to her, she said they had just had an argument about where they were going to live, so who knows? Maybe they'll break up." "Uh huh," Mom said, slipping a breath mint past her Valentine-heart red lips. "I mean, why would she mention that to me? We were at Terri's birthday party. I thought she was trying to avoid me at first and—" "Maybe it's time you thought about someone other than Jessa," she said. "But she's the only one I've ever been able to talk to," I explained. I sipped another bit of wine, my head feeling pleasantly funny. "Have you ever really tried, Honey?" Mom asked. "I don't—yeah, I've tried. I guess," I said. "It's like, why bother, though? Is it really worth going through the shit I went through with Jessa in the last year? I mean, it kind of cancels out all the good times if you get your heart completely crushed." "Aww, sweetie," Mom said. "You're so sweet. You'll find another girl." "I honestly don't think I can survive it," I explained. "And I'm not trying to be melodramatic or anything—that fucked with my brain chemistry. I didn't want to get out of bed in the morning." "Well," she said. "Maybe you should start by being with a girl without falling in love with her." "It's not that easy," I told her. "Even if I wanted to just 'hook up,' guys like me can't make those things happen." "What, rich, romantic guys who work in the movies?" Mom teased. "I'm not rich," I said. "And in terms of the movies, I'm like the lowest of the low. I'm never going to New York or Los Angeles if I can help it." "But you can still tell girls that you're a screenwriter. That should get you in the door"—a strange smile appeared on her face—"so to speak." "Can we just talk about something else?" I said. That night, filled with wine, self-loathing, and a dangerous amount of drunken hope, I called Jessa from the back porch of my mom's house. "Hey. It's me. Listen, I know you're—I remember you said you were having some trouble with James, so I just wanted to call...I wanted to check in with you. I want you to know that...that I still love you. I still love you, and I always will, and that I don't care...I don't care what you've done, just...just call me, and we can talk and work it out..." The message continued in this vein for a few minutes. The next morning, I woke up around 11:30. My mom had apparently let me sleep off my hangover, although I didn't know she knew I'd gotten into her in-house supply after she went to bed. After taking another lukewarm shower, I filled out a check for her and brought it to her in the kitchen, where she sat eating a salad. I then remembered she had gone to work today and that I would have some time alone. I kept my eyes glued to my cell phone. There were no replies to my call. I laid on the couch, languishing in shame over the call. The worst part was that this was the second time I'd made such a plea over the phone, although at least this time, I had alcohol as a potential excuse. Still, fleeting hopes of Jessa calling me to confess her undying love flitted through my mind. I missed her voice, her hair, her touch. She had a pretty face and was a bit overweight, but I loved placing the soft mounds of her chest into my mouth, kissing her from her neck all the way down between her legs, feeling her arms around me as our bodies joined. I was feeling more than a little horny and considered masturbating. I went into the bathroom to do so, adding to the shame I felt from the phone call. Angry now at Jessa, I tried to picture someone else, settling on a professor that I had had in college. Just as I was finishing, the phone rang. I tried to clean up as quickly as I could, deciding that even though it wasn't my responsibility to answer the phone, I should still be able to let my mom know who called. I listened to the message. "Hey Tiffany. It's Bret." The voice sounded like that of a guy around my age, no older than his late twenties. "Listen, I remember we were planning to do something this week, but it turns out I actually don't have to head out of town. So if you want to do some catching up, get some drinks or just chill, I'm around. Okay. Bye." I was more than a bit surprised. There was no one the man on the answering machine was over thirty, and in fact, if I had to put money on it, I would have guessed twenty-five, a year older than me. So Mom had scored herself a younger guy? A young guy? I pictured him as some ripped, tattooed idiot with frosted hair for some reason. I wondered whether he might be the cause of her recent breakup with Ted, the airline pilot. I shook my head, thinking that while she was playing one man for money, she was getting her kicks on the side from her trophy boy. It was more than a little upsetting. I guessed that made me her new "Ted." A thought flashed into my head: at least Ted was getting some action—the smart thing would be to waste money on a woman who would actually bang me. The follow-up thought was less welcome: or, maybe she would, since she's giving it up for Bret. My brain had a tendency to go to dark or twisted places, so I just dismissed it as another cynical joke my mind was tossing out. I sat and watched more television. I started to think more and more about Brett. Some asshole my age was fucking my mom. It didn't sit well in my mind, but I couldn't change my train of thought. It had turned into a broken record. I had to admit I shouldn't have been surprised. A couple of my classmates had made comments about how "hot" my mother was, but this was when I was about ten or eleven—she was no longer just a hot, slightly older woman like my college professor Professor Lamb; she was now well into middle age. I knew some men were into that sort of thing (some men are into every different type of woman), but it still seemed odd to me. What, I thought, after sex, did she tuck him in? In light of Bret's phone call, though, I couldn't help but look at my mother with new eyes when she came home from work that day. She was dressed professionally, yet in a way that emphasized her femininity, from the impressive curves of her bust to the sweeping curves of her hips. As always, her hair looked as though she'd just stepped off the set of a Hollywood production, and the aesthetic appeal of her lovely face couldn't be diminished even by the wrinkles that beset the corners of the mouth and eyes. It made me realize that, to the best of my knowledge, she hadn't had any work done, despite having had the money to do so; I imagined this natural quality was also appealing to guys my age. "Hey honey," she said in a chipper voice. Stop looking at her this way? What is wrong with you? I tried to put Bret out of my mind. Anyway, despite the way I was looking at her, I hadn't gotten any kind of arousal from it; it was more like admiring a work of art. "Hey Mom. How was your day?" "Busy. How was yours?" "Okay." I picked the check up from the table. "I did have my checkbook with me." She walked over to where I sat and took it from me as I handed it to her. She looked at it, and almost seemed on the verge of getting teary-eyed again. "Thank you so much, honey," Mom said, wrapping me in a hug. She still smelled like the flowery fragrance that lingered in the shower after she had finished washing up in the morning, despite having showered at least eight hours before. "You don't know how much this means to me." She stopped hugging me and looked into my eyes, her face about two feet from mine. "I love you, Jacob." "I love you too," I said, feeling a bit uncomfortable, although I wasn't sure why. "So, what do you feel like eating tonight? You still interested in that Japanese place?" "Actually, I thought we could stay in tonight," she said. "Okay." "Let Mom make you dinner. It's the least I could do." "Okay. Let me know if I can help." I helped her prep dinner, which ended up being chicken tarragon with wild rice. During the prep, she wore a checked apron over her stylish work attire. I thought about asking her about Bret before deciding it wasn't really any of my business. We passed the time discussing the details of the spec screenplay I'd been given to rewrite, and I relayed to her some of the fairly inane things the characters did or said in the original version. The food was almost finished cooking. Mom pulled out a bottle of wine. "Shall we?" The Gold Digger's Son "Maybe a little for me," I said, recalling the phone call. She brought it over to the table and undid the apron, leaving it on the back of the chair. I ate slowly, and it turned out she was a pretty good cook, when she was motivated to do so. Having just helped her, I didn't blame her for not wanting to expend some much time and energy in the kitchen after a day of work. After dinner, the conversation shifted to the living room, with her wine glass making the transition. I sat across from her on the loveseat, while she sat leaning back on the easy chair across from me. Having shared the details of my new job, the workings of the studio, and the current status of my family over the last few days, though, all I could offer were a few anecdotes from teaching. I asked her about her restaurant hostess job, but she was seemingly more in the mood to listen than to talk. "Do you like my perfume?" Mom asked. "Yeah. It smells good," I said as the last dribble of white wine ran down the edge of the cup into her waiting mouth. For some reason, I seemed to be getting warmer. "I was actually going to say that when you came home, you still smelled like you had just gotten right out of the shower." "Oh, that's my kiwi melon bodywash. Can you still smell it?" I thought I smelled something, but it had more of a perfume-type scent. "Here." She put her glass down and moved across to sit beside me. She curled on the seat beside me and extended an arm toward me. Mom lifted her slender wrist. "Smell." I nearly froze. What was she doing? Not knowing what to do, I smelled her wrist. It smelled good in the generic way that most perfume smelled good to me. "Nice," I said. "Where'd you get it?" "Mm...now smell my neck," Mom said, ignoring my question, craning her neck, and sweeping up her red hair in her right hand to reveal bare neck. This isn't normal, I thought. I couldn't believe what was happening. It had to be a joke. Was my own mother trying to seduce me? As these thoughts collided together in my head, I pressed my nose near her skin and sniffed. The sweet odor was incredibly enticing. "You smell great." She let her hair drop down to cover her next and looked into my eyes as she had earlier that evening. At this moment, whatever inhibitions that had been blinding me to her sensuality dropped away, the voice that shouted "this is your mother" being drowned out as I looked at her. What I saw instead of my mother was a sexy 44-year-old woman with delicate, ruddy skin dappled with brownish freckles and a smile that was at once maternal and at the same time mischievous, friendly and naughty. It just now occurred to me how hard my cock was. "Mom," I said. She leaned toward me and opened her lips slightly. I felt her hot breath on my cheek as she kissed me gently. I closed my eyes, fearing that my eyes might give away my shock or confusion. I wanted to feel her lips touch mine so badly, but at the same time, I was afraid any such moves I made would drive her away, like a timid animal. "Call me Tiffany, babe," she said in a throaty voice that seemed to send a surge through my member. Her lips worked their way toward my waiting mouth. "Tiffany." Our lips met. She gave me a few shy, schoolyard pecks on the lips. I threw my arms around my mother to draw us closer and at the same moment, her mouth opened up. I tasted the white wine as my mother's tongue passed my lips and caressed my mouth. It felt like a dream. I'm getting to first base with a beautiful 44-year-old woman who happens to be my mother. My mother. My mother tilted her head to the side and a cascade of her beautiful auburn locks fell across the side of my face. She applied more pressure with her wet tongue, and I felt moisture gathering at the tip of my penis. My mother pulled away from my mouth and looked me in the eye again, with an intensity to her brown eyes that hinted at deep wells of desire. "Jacob honey," she said simply, still wearing a grin. She lifted the v-cut violet blouse she was wearing over the swell of her chest, revealing a black and white striped bra covering two enormous breasts. I didn't know whether they'd gotten bigger or been enhanced in some way, or whether they had always been that large and I had never noticed, but the swell of my mother's firm, round tits pressed together by the bra was possibly the most erotic sight I'd ever seen to that moment. "Do you want them, Jacob?" she asked, her voice again sending shivers of anticipation through my body. "Yes," I said, plunging my face between Mom's cleavage. I begin licking the insides of her tits and inadvertently tugged on the left cup, revealing a very erect, very pink nipple. "Oh, yes," she said. "That's good. Yes. Put it in your mouth, dear." I complied with Mother's wishes, wrapping my lips around her exposed left nipple while fingering the right with my left hand. She reached behind her and undid the bra, unleashing her breasts. They shuddered a bit as they shifted, and I swore I could still taste Mom's kiwi melon bodywash on her wonderful tits. "Yes, honey. You like that?" I murmured a reply. "Good, good." I grabbed the sleeves of her blouse and helped her remove the garment, leaving my mother topless. It was truly a stunning sight. She smiled, almost shyly, and then we kissed while I played with her breasts. I snaked my tongue around her mouth and she toyed with mine in return, as my cock seemed to get ever larger. Mom's hands grasped my side firmly, and I could feel her nails digging into me through my T-shirt. I wanted to feel them on my bare skin, so I reluctantly stopped caressing her mouth so I could take off the garment. My mother shifted her position so that she sat with her knees pointed across the room, the same position I sat in. I continued to fondle her tits and tongue kiss her, and soon her right arm was crossing paths with my arms as she began playing with the hair below my navel. We couldn't get enough of each others tongues and mouths, and we explored each other for what seemed like an hour. "Mmm...let me see it, honey." She began pulling my khakis down. I was nervous. I had only been with one woman before, and while Jessa said it was a good size, I know my mother had been with a variety of men, so I didn't know whether my penis would be big enough to please her as she stripped me to my boxers. I only knew that it was as big as it was ever going to get when my mother decided to remove her blue jeans, revealing a matching pair of black and white-striped panties and two welcoming, soft but not doughy thighs which promptly straddled my lap. "That looks good," Mom purred, eyeing the bulge of my dick. Her crotch was about six inches away from where the front slit of my boxer shorts ended. I pulled my mother toward me and took one of her full breasts into my mouth again. This time she dug her fingernails into my bare shoulders, which caused me to grit my teeth and bite her nipple. She let out a quick gasp. "Ooh," she cooed. "Oh please, Jacob. Bite them. Suck them. It feels so good." I was more than happy to oblige. I saw her slip one of her hands into the front of her panties. She began sliding her hand in and out of the triangle of fabric. I could barely believe my eyes. I had always had a desire to see Jessa pleasure herself, but she told me she felt too self-conscious letting anyone see her. Before me, my very own mother was rubbing her pussy while I hungrily sucked on her tits, intermittently landing kisses on her neck, stomach, and even her upper arms. She began to make a low moan. "Oh god," she exclaimed, breathing faster. "I want to make it nice and sticky for you down here, babe. Mmm, yes—ohhh. I'm getting ready for you, honey." She placed her free hand on top of her head, holding back a massive clump of her scarlet hair. She began grinding her crotch into my thigh while simultaneously jamming her fingers in with abandon. After a few moments, my mother removed her fingers while continuing to rub her pussy, covered by thin underwear, against my leg with a steady rhythm. Not long after, she said, breathing hard, "I'm so ready for you. Take off your boxers." She stood up, allowing me to take of my underwear while she did the same. A thin strip of darkish hair ran down to my mother's vagina, which was speckled with tiny drops of a creamy white substance. I finished removing my boxers, my cock standing straight up. "Such a good boy," my mom said. The tone of her last comment was an odd one, and took me back to when I would get a reward for doing some mundane task, such as cleaning up my room. It was then that it hit me. "Fuck," I said, averting my eyes from the fully naked form of my own mother. "Honey?" she asked. "Mom, what the fuck?" She looked at me with a mixture of surprise and concern. I wrenched myself from the couch and ran upstairs into my bedroom. What the hell was wrong with me? And with her? I tried to rationally work my way through this. First, I had to figure out why my motivations in this, why I was moments away from committing a taboo act with the woman who had given birth to and raised me. I hadn't had sex since the relationship with Jessa ended, and while Jessa certainly knew how to turn me on, she wasn't a red-headed desperate housewife with proportions that would make a centerfold envious. Any straight male would have responded in the same way to a woman who looked like my mother, I told myself; the fact that it was my mother was seemingly the only thing that stopped me from completing the act. Yet the troubling fact was that there had been many moments throughout the encounter when I had felt it was wrong and continued any way. Did I want to make love to my mother? Why would she do it? I knew that she had a younger boyfriend, but why would she commit a truly sickening act with someone as ordinary as me when she likely could be satisfied any time she chose with some young stud? Was she trying to pay me back in some way for the money? In that case, was my mother nothing more than a high-class hooker, fucking whoever it took to continue the lifestyle she chose to live? There was a knock at the bedroom door. "Jacob, honey," she said. "I'm so sorry." I didn't know what to say. "Can I come in?" "Yes." Mom walked in. Her silvery bathrobe covered her body. "I should have known...I mean..." she began. "I don't want you to feel like I was forcing you into anything." "You didn't, Mom." I thought of what Jessa would think if word somehow ever got out that I had nearly fucked my mother, or what my dad would say. Even if they never found out, how could I ever speak to them again with this hanging over me? Why was I even still asking these questions inside my head? From taking anthropology I knew that pretty much the only universal taboo across all cultures, the act that all of them, from the most obscure Amazon tribe to the most liberal of industrial societies, saw as utterly beyond contempt, was incest. My whole life, despite my many faults, I had tried to be a good person, and here I was, nearly committing what was agreed to be one of the worst acts imaginable. "It's just...I wanted you to know how much I appreciate you," she told me. "There's only so much I can give you in return." "So you were going to fuck me?" I almost added "for money," but decided to hold back. "Yes, if you want to put it that way," my mother said. "I wasn't there for you when you needed me before. I wanted to give you something no one else can." This roused my member again, but I still faced away from her. "You're an incredibly thoughtful young man. You deserve to be happy." There was roughly a minute of silence. I wasn't sure that she was still there until I saw her dimly lit form in the mirror, still standing at the doorway. "I know you think there's something wrong with this, but we're two consenting adults in the privacy of my home. I have a friend your age who has had a physical relationship with his mother on and off since—" "Please leave me alone," I said. "I'm so sorry," my mother told me, right before I heard the door shut. I didn't go to sleep that night. Instead, I pulled out my laptop and began looking for the next flight out of town. My original flight didn't leave until tomorrow evening. I packed my things as quietly as I could and found the number of a local taxi service before downstairs creeping downstairs. I felt bad for my mother. Obviously, her actions were a result of some deep-seated psychological problems. I had my own problems, but I would have never even conceived of having sex with her if she hadn't initiated our contact on the couch. She seemed rather pathetic to me now; I would have suggested she find some help, but I didn't want to talk to her again, even if it meant sneaking away in the early morning to avoid her. I noticed I had received a call at 8:36 the previous night, about when my mother and I had been exploring each other on the couch. It was from Jessa. Reluctantly, I dialed my voice mail. She had left a message. "Jacob. Listen to me. It's time for you to get on with your life. I'm happy now—Alex makes me happier than I ever thought I could be. I don't know why you don't me want to be happy, but just—just don't do this, okay? Don't call me any more, and stop trying to just put yourself back into my life. Good-bye." I clicked the phone off before it asked me what I wanted to do with the message. It felt as if I had been punched in the stomach. I started to experience what resembled nausea. I sat on the stairs and glanced at the phone's display. The sunlight was breaking through the early morning clouds, and I could see scratches across the surface of my cell that I hadn't noticed before. It seemed I didn't move from the stairs for at least fifteen minutes. I slid the phone into my pocket. I headed upstairs. As I moved up the staircase, I looked at the photographs that hung alongside it. There was a recent one of Mom and Aunt Jane on a European trip, my mom looking more tanned than usual. There was one of Mom and a group of bridesmaids at a family friend's wedding in which she wore a wreath around her head, its greens contrasting strikingly with her hair. Another picture showed myself and my parents at some California aquarium. Her hair was shorter then, and there were fewer well-defined lines on her face. She and Dad each had their arms around each other. I recognized now a distinct curve where the swell of her breasts met just peeking out of her otherwise modest top. Finally, there was a more recent picture of me and her at my college graduation. I wondered if I looked any older now, any more masculine or desirable. I walked to Mom's bedroom and tapped lightly on the door. No answer. I stripped down to my boxers, leaving my clothing in a heap on the floor, and slowly opened it. Mom was lying on her side with a maroon sheet pulled up to her collarbone. She looked to be still asleep. Placed on a chair nearby was the pair of underwear she had been wearing last night. I only noticed now that it was a thong. I picked it up and looked inside. The black fabric had white residue in places. I lifted the sheet a bit, enough to catch a glimpse of Mom's tan nightie. As slowly as I could, I curled into bed beside her. I felt the surprisingly firm flesh of her bare buttocks against my thigh. My cock went instantly hard. Mom continued to breathe with the same soft rhythm, suggesting she was still asleep. I pressed my face against her uncovered shoulders and began working my boxers off. Running my fingers through her now curling red hair, I rested my stiff member between the twin mounds of her ass. I started to slip my hand between her legs. I gently nudged her left leg so her legs were no longer together but slightly staggered, leaving a potential opening. "Hi honey," she said. "Hi Mom," I said, feeling a rush of euphoria just at the sound of her voice. "Why don't you call me Tiffany?" she said. "I think that will make it easier for both of us." "Yes, Tiffany dear," I said. I run my hand along the bottom of her left thigh, but I couldn't reach what I wanted to reach. "Wow it's hard," my mother said, grinning. "It doesn't take much, does it?" I continued to rub her thigh. "Are you sure this is what you want?" she asked as I began massaging her ass with my left hand. My mother adjusted her position just enough so I could feel the mostly shaven and fleshy outline of her opening in the palm of my left hand. I rolled her over onto her back and began kissing her luscious lips, then began grasping desperately at her slit. I wanted—needed her wet and ready at that very instant. Mom slipped her tongue around my mouth with burgeoning passion and began fingering my swollen penis. "Jacob, honey," she said. "I want to feel you deep inside me." My mother pushed aside the sheets, revealing her bare, beautiful legs and then, slowly, spread her legs wide, showing me the pussy I had been so close to entering the night before. "Tell me you want it too." I worked on positioning myself to obtain the best angle as she removed the nightie, letting me drink in her voluptuous breasts with my eyes again. She pulled me in close for a kiss, her nails digging my bare flesh again. "I want you," I said, dipping my hand down to feel my mother's moist orifice. "Say my name," she said as I kissed her neck. "I want you, Tiffany," I told my mother as I lowered my abdomen and hips into position, my waiting penis pointing directly at her pink labia. Her hand took a gentle hold of me and guided my shaft in the right direction. "Oh god," my mother exclaimed. I was inside her. For a moment, I didn't want to move, just wanting to bask in the intensity of her moist, tight, enveloping pussy, but I could tell from the expression on her face that she was eagerly anticipating much more than that. "Give it to me, hon." "Yes, Mommy." It slipped out from nowhere, and I momentarily feared it would lead her to react differently, but a smile graced her wet lips. I gave a first thrust. "Mm, that's good baby," she said. "Give me more." I followed that with another thrust. I couldn't believe how good my mother's pussy felt, as if it were perfectly proportional to my cock. I thrusted again, angling it slightly upward this time. "Does Mommy like that?" I asked. "Yes, honey." I continued slipping my dick in and out of her welcoming passage, lowering my face to wait her opening mouth, out of which her tongue protruded as if she was desperately thirsty. While I penetrated her, Mom and I kissed in a frenzy. I didn't know how much longer I could hold out, especially when she begin moving her hips in ways that Jessa had never shown me. I dug my fingers into her sizeable ass as I plowed into her slick vagina with increasing speed. "Oh fuck!" she cried. "Does Mommy like it when I fuck her hard?" "Oh yes, son," she replied, as I all but launched my hips forward, ramming my dick into her. "Fuck Mommy hard. Mommy can take it." She started gasping. "Yes! Yes! Oh, keep it coming. Fuck Mommy, baby. Yes." "I think I might cum," I called out, questioning for a moment whether I should be wearing protection, or whether my mother could even still get pregnant. "So close, baby," she reassured me. "Please give it to Mommy." I remembered her telling me at a young age that a mother always knew best, so I continued to fuck her dripping pussy even as my erection threatened to erupt inside her. She began to let out little high pitched squeals along with an assortment of moans, the sounds of which alone would have been enough to cause me to orgasm. "Oh fuck!" she screamed, one of her nails catching my arm hard enough to draw blood, I suspected. When she pulled her hand away, I saw that I was right—a line of red ran down one of her silvery nails. My mother rocked her hips even harder now, and I knew the end was near. The Gold Digger's Son "Mom!" I shouted. "Fill me," she gasped as my dick plunged inside her again. I couldn't help myself. Out came my cum, blending instantaneously with the juices of my mother's own wide-open cunt. I collapsed onto her and she pulled my lips to hers, placing a tender, almost innocent kiss on my forehead. Mom and I laid in bed, my head resting on her collarbone, for roughly fifteen minutes before either one of us spoke. "Did it...happen for you?" I asked. She flashed an enigmatic smile. "Yes," she said. "You made Mommy cum." Just hearing her utter the "M" word made me instantly erect again, and I longed to hear her gasping it while I worked inside her again. "What do we do now?" I asked, not at all prepared for the long chain of questions that seemingly simple inquiry would generate. "We enjoy the moment." Mom gave me a closed mouth peck on my lips, and then she began to slowly open hers wider...