My Mother, The Babe

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My mother, Clementina Molyneux, hails from Saint-Etienne, France, born to and raised by French jewelers, Pierre and Catarina Molyneux. Good grades in school, kind of a wild child, but not too bad from what Grandpa says. She meets and falls in love with a Moroccan engineering student who was five years her senior, who sired me. Mom taught herself to speak his language so that they could better communicate, which I thought was pretty amazing. Now, in their romance period, which was rather short from what mom tells me, he took a position in Manhattan and brought her with him. Turns out, he really wanted to bat for the other team, and after about 9 months stateside, he bailed on her for a Mexican restaurateur named Jose. I can only assume that this did not go over well with her as she was in her first trimester with me. I have never even seen a picture of my father, let alone met him, nor his side of the family. I don’t even have his surname. I’m Dax Molyneux, meetcha.

My whole life, my mother has been both parents for me, doling out strict discipline when needed, and copious amounts of love as well. I don’t think that I could want for more, to be honest. She was tough on me when she needed to be, and she took no shit, from anyone! She is really my best friend and confidante. The night that I lost my virginity, she was the first person that I told, we are close.

Our place seemed to be the halfway house for kids when I was growing up, we ALWAYS had a house full of kids, girls and boys. Ours would be the first number that parents would call when their kids needed to get home, and nine times out of ten, they were there. I guess at the time that I was thinking that they thought that we were cool. I realized at about the onset of puberty that the guys came over to scope my mom, but more on that later.

My mother was very open with me on any subject, I could ask her anything, and we have literally discussed everything, from if anal sex was pagan to the plight of the Australian flood victims, she is well educated and openly encourages discussions between us, as well as study groups that I host at our loft twice per week. She is most certainly not demure in her mode of dress as well, mostly opting for a spaghetti strap tank top, sans bra, that shows off her flat belly and glittering belly button piercing, as well as her stubby nipples, and short cheerleader type shorts around the house, and is ritual around our house every morning before school, she still makes me breakfast, which she insists is the “Most important meal of the day”, in a silk robe, her nipples hard enough to cut glass and poking out brashly from the white housecoat, the bumps in her areola clearly visible. I wasn’t naïve to my best friend Nathan always insisting on spending the night at my house, ya know!

She is always 100% a lady, first and foremost, very girly in each and every way. Mom has deep auburn hair that falls to the small of her back in large, flowing curls and is rich, thick and lustrous, her skin a bronze tone, aided by her year round tan. Her hands and feet are slender, her fingers and toes long and slim, her nails always pristinely done. She has enormously round eyes, almost Anime sized that are a deep, sexy hazel, but what sets her off are her plump, full lips. She keeps her thick eyebrows plucked thinly and primly, and when she is made up, especially if she wears red lipstick, she looks like; and you won’t believe me, I know, but just like Jessica Rabbit! She has enormous breasts for her size, I cannot say if she had augmentation for sure, however, I live with her and those boobs have been that big for as long as I can remember, and I don’t recall her ‘recovering from surgery’ ever in my life. I have heard her tell her girlfriends before that she was all natural when they were over for wine one evening, besides, I have been with chicks with fake tits, and the boobs just don’t move the right way, hers do.

It is not like I lust after my mom, I don’t. I do believe, however, that most boys will at one point in their lives look at their mothers in a sexual manner, whether it is just an attempted glance down her shirt, or all out masturbatory sexual fantasies. I would be a prevaricator if I said that I didn’t steal glances at her when I could, I am a constantly horny teenager that gets plenty of sex, although if I banged seven days a week, I would lust for an eighth! Yeah, I look, and my friends constantly remind me of how hot that she is, and instead of pissing me off, it is an enormous source of pride for me. I had never gone beyond trying to steal glances at her toned ass, or her huge tits, never had lusted after her as one would think, until one fateful occurrence.

I hadn’t paid attention really to a whole lot when I was young, like a typical kid, all that I cared about was the Jets on Sundays, a full belly, and fast internet. I would occasionally ask questions. Questions like how is it that I never see her go to work, nor hear about an office or any of the like, yet we live sarıyer escort in a 2400 square foot, three bedroom loft in SoHo that looks like one of those magazines came in and decorated? How is it that you are constantly shopping at the hippest, trendiest boutiques, and both of our wardrobes look like we could walk the runway at Fashion Week, yet I have never heard anything about having to deposit a paycheck? How can my mom and I eat at four and five star restaurants two, three times per week, attend Broadway plays and musicals, yet as far as I know, when she isn’t shopping, the only time that she leaves the house is to work out? It seems like working out and maintaining a healthy diet IS her job. How is it that a brand new luxury vehicle sits in our garage every two years like clockwork? How does my prestigious private school tuition get paid? If I asked, she would always give me a beautiful smile, stroke my cheek, look me in the eye and change the subject.

“I mean, don’t get pissed at me, bro.” Nathan stated firmly one day while he was over. “You just have to face the possibility that I am right.”

“Fuck you, jack wagon! She isn’t a whore!”

“Look, dude, look at the scenarios. No discernible job, new cars, new clothes, perfect manicure and pedicure, she keeps fit as if she depends on it!” Nathan shrugged. “I am sure that if it is true, that she is one of those high class, thousands of dollars an hour ones.”

I just glared at him until he looked away apologetically.

We heard mom bounding lightly down the stairs.

“Dax,” She yelled. “Going to the gym, dinner is in the oven, you boys eat it all.”

She walked over and sat on the couch next to us and began putting on her socks and running shoes. She had on a pair of black, what looked like boy shorts that rode low on her hips and a tube top that had four buttons that closed the material in front of her ample mounds, and two of those buttons were undone, Mom always wears workout gear that is borderline lingerie. She stood up and gave me a kiss on the lips goodbye, then kissed Nathan on the forehead.

“I will never wash my forehead again!” Nathan proclaimed.

Mom gently pulled his earlobe.

“Natie, you are a doll!” She cooed in her oh so sexy French accent. “Stay for dinner and make sure that you and Dax clean up after your selves, I made coq au vin!”

“Yes, ma’am!” we echoed in unison as she almost literally skipped to the door, leaving us once again.

“I bet that guys pay out the nose for that, Dax.”

“You are my bro, but I WILL kick yer ever lovin’ ass!” I warned.

“My head is still tingling where she kissed me.”

“Fuck off.”

“I love it when she calls me Natie.”

“Pound it.”

“I’ve jerked off thinking about her, I shot a huge load, dude.”

“Give me a rim job.”

“Let’s eat.”

Nathan was long gone and I was lazily channel surfing as all of my chores were done by the time that mom got home. She sat next to me, still breathing a little heavily from her workout.

“Whatcha watchin’?”

“Bobby Flay.”

We sat for some time in silence, this time watching New York’s son make a killer arugula salad, as we do quite often, on the couch, me leaning against the arm of the sofa, my arm draped around my mothers’ shoulders as she is leaning into me, her feet curled up underneath her. I hesitated, clearing my throat and trying not to stutter too badly.

“Um, I will love you no matter what, mom, but, are you a p-pr-prostitute?”

Her head snapped to look at me and she looked deep into my eyes.

“What did you just say to me, Dax Tristao Molyneux?”

She stood up before me, pissed off. I knew that I had made her mad because she only says my full name when she is royally irate. Her eyes took on a dark look and her nostrils flared as she put one hand on her hip and pointed at me with the other and let loose a tirade in Moroccan Arabic that would make paint on a wall blister and peel off. She only did this when she was really, really hacked off. I wished at that time that I wasn’t on that sofa as I shrank back to make myself small because I couldn’t get away. I read, write and am fluent in French, but my Arabic is functional at best, so most of her rant just flew by me, although I could catch a few words…asshole, something about my balls, castration…and their implied meaning. Good, healthy words.

I realized at one point that she had stopped and was just glaring at me. I managed to get her to sit after pulling her wrist down towards me.

“Mommy,” I began, knowing that melted her heart, “it’s just that I am tired of defending, the kids at school, you know, they talk about their dad the attorney, or a doctor, a CEO, what have you, and I can never chime in, because I have no idea, yet, we seem to have more stuff than those families! How do we travel to France at least twice a year to see Grandma and Grandpa, how can I have not one, but three pairs of silivri escort $700 jeans in my closet? C’mon!”

A frog caught in my throat and I choked back a sob. We both didn’t really know how much that the possibility of her being a whore affected me, until now.

Mom sat next to me and held me to her breast.

“I didn’t think that it mattered, honey.”

“It doesn’t, but if you were doing…that…it would kill me.”

She lifted my chin up to where I was looking into her hypnotic eyes.

“Well, I guess that you are going to live then.” Mom chuckled. “I am not a call girl. Your grandfather sold off a few branches of his jewelry store chain in France, and he gave me a rather large lump of money. He hates me being over here, so he wants to be sure that I am comfortable. That’s all.”

She was lying, I knew that. I gave her a kiss good night and left her to watch some movie. I had last seen my grandparents just a few months prior, and they still lived in their same modest little house in the city that they had been living in for decades. I know my Grandma, she and my mom are cut from the same cloth, they both love the finer things in life, and I knew that if they were THAT rich, Grandma Catarina would be in the largest house, nay, a castle in wine country. I left it that until a few weeks later.

I had been dating Brianne for a few months and it was my first love that wasn’t ‘Puppy Love’. She wasn’t my first, or even my second, or third for that matter, but I was hers, and I just was convinced that she would be my last. One day, without any warning whatsoever, she just dumped me for a college guy. I was devastated. My final period was Statistics, and she was in that class with me and I for sure didn’t want to be anywhere around her, so I ditched last period and went home.

The walk home and the fresh air did wonders for me and as I walked in the front door, I was feeling really good. I thought about making a Dagwood as I was pretty hungry and realized that I could hear some pretty loud rock music coming from mom’s office.

Curious, I strolled over to her office, which had large French doors on it with window inlays and peeked in. I was frozen. Mom was seductively dancing in front of her computer, too into her routine to notice me staring at her. She had on a super, super tight long sleeve school girl sweater that buttoned just below her breasts, which were bursting out of the V of the sweater, the shortest little red plaid skirt that I had ever seen with white tights that came to just above her knees. Her hair was up in pigtails. While I stood there, mouth agape, she twirled about, causing the skirt to flare out, revealing a sliver of cloth that fed into her small, tight buns. She was bent over and looking back at the computer screen, well, more like the webcam, and slapping and kneading her petite ass cheeks with her slender hands.

I just watched as she teased and teased, I watched as she doffed the sweater and the skirt. Her tits were encased in a bra that squeezed them together, and she frequently cupped them in her hands or jiggled them into the cam. I was fully erect.

Gyrating her hips, she provocatively danced into a position where she had her back to the camera, then reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, removing it ever so slowly. She raised her hands above her head and her boobs were visible from both sides of her back. There was nary any sag, and I realized that I was rubbing myself through my cargo shorts, cock at full mast. She turned and twisted, teasing that she would show nipple, but no, she undulated sexily, and slowly turned back around, using her hands as a bra. I was watching intently, transfixed, my face was numb, yet tingling and I could feel how hot my mug was.

I must have moved some way that caught her attention, because our eyes locked briefly, yet it seemed to be an eternity. Mom was the first to move as her expression became one of pure shock and she quickly knelt behind her desk as I bolted back to the kitchen, swallowing to keep my rapidly beating heart from coming up into my throat.

A few minutes later, I heard her office door open and shut, then the tiny pitter patter of her little feet as she scurried up the stairs. I continued making my sandwich, layering it with deli mustard, ham, cheese, bread, mayo, turkey, tomato, more bread, rare roast beef, trying to get that image out of my mind that seemed to have burned myself into my retinas. I sat down with my body still shaking like a leaf in a gale force wind and wolfed down about half of my Dagwood when I heard mom motor down the stairs, then pad across the floor, her bare feet slapping against the tile. I vaguely heard “Baker Street” on the kitchen radio. I kept my head down and chewed slowly until her bare feet came into view and stopped. Silently, I swallowed and admired her bare feet. They were quite pretty, I had always thought so. She said nothing, and after an excruciatingly long time, şirinevler escort I wiped my mouth and laid my napkin down.

“What did I just see?” I asked, still staring at my nearly devoured snack.

I looked up at her, and my heart nearly melted. She had been crying, her large, almond shaped eyes glistened with dew and she was gnawing on her lower lip. She looked like a sad story, whatever the Hell that means. She had changed into a pair of shorts and one of my old Smiths t-shirts.

She chortled nervously a little, “I thought that I could go forever without you knowing.”

“Who was on the other end of that cam, Clementina?” I knew that she knew that I was pissed because I saw her wince slightly when I used her name. I asked some questions about what was going on in French, and she just stared down at her feet, wringing her hands.

Finally, she just walked towards her office and beckoned me to follow. I did, watching her muscular calves as she flowed, almost feline like, across the great room and to the now open French doors. Mom sat at her office chair and motioned for me to bring another chair up and sit next to her as she booted up her computer. I did.

“You don’t know this,” She started, “but you look exactly like your father. He was the most handsome man that I had ever seen, and I fell in love with him the second that I laid eyes on him. Oh, Dax, you don’t know how hard it was for me when he left me, a young girl barely out of her teens, I didn’t know any English, I was uneducated in the eyes of the Americans. Lucky for me, his parents are wealthy, and his father was deeply affected by his sons ‘conversion’ to homosexuality, and began giving me a monthly stipend that kept me living, albeit not in a grandiose manner, until you were a few years old. We exchanged letters and pictures in those early years until one letter told me that he would bring to a halt my allowances, but he would continue for a few more months until he knew that I would be able to care for you.”

She looked at me and held my hand, smiling. I returned it, glad that she was finally opening up to me.

“I was panicking because although I had picked up the language, I had barely gotten through the introductory university courses that I had enrolled in, and I knew that the only job that I could get was waiting tables. I had socked away a lot of the money that he had given me, but that would run out soon enough. You know Jordan, right?”

I thought for a moment, trying to recall the name, and then did so. She was one of moms gorgeous friends, a smoking hot Filipina with a body to kill somebody over that I had openly lusted after for years.

“Yeah, I do.”

“We were commiserating over some wine at her place one evening and she started telling me about the job that she had, working on what was then the World Wide Web. The web was fairly new at the time, not widespread like it is today; mostly companies or rich folks could only afford it. She worked for a place that had girls dance on video for subscribers, and thought that I should do it, so I did.”

She opened up a browser window and typed into the URL, then minimized the page so that I couldn’t see.

“I did that for a few years,” she squeezed my hand firmly, “never nude, never. While it did give me some financial freedom, allowing me to earn my marketing and programming degrees, I knew that I could do better. I created my own website, and launched it about ten years ago.”

She dragged the mouse over and brought up the page. She was on the page in a bright blue micro thong, hands covering her massive bare breasts, with her bright red lips wet and parted, her bedroom eyes beckoning, fiery hair teased and wild.

I marveled at it, “Mom, should I be looking at this?”

“Unless you pay, you won’t see anything that you don’t see nearly every day!”

She surfed around the nine page website, showing me the content, and she looked fantastic on every single page. It was a genius concept, it really was, virtually no overhead. Basically what it consists of is gorgeous “Cam Girls” hosting their own live cam shows that mom streams from her own server. Their content is what they wanted it to be, and as soft or hard core as they wanted it to be.

“Five feet, seven inches tall,” I read aloud from her ‘About Me’ section. “One hundred and twenty six pounds, 32E-24-33, a tantalizing French temptress…. Holy shit, mom! You make money from this?”

She laughed heartily.

“I have over ten thousand subscribers that pay $14.95 per month get access to my site, and another additional 4000 premium subscribers at $34.95 a pop, on top of that, a rolling average of 25 women that pay me 10% to host for them because most of them don’t have the wherewithal to do this themselves. See all of those ads down both sides of the screen? They pay me to allow them there.”

I was damn good at math, and the raw numbers were staggering, and that wasn’t accounting for the advertiser dollar or the overrides from the models. I whistled long and low, my eyes wide.

I was puzzled, though.

“What is the difference between regular subscribers and premium?”

“Well, honey, premium subscribers get access to live chats with me, I will do, uh, live cam shows, uh, -“

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