Loving Mom

An open-minded son falls in love with his romantically neglected mother through fitness, tanning, and nude posing. It Begins

"Beverly, Beverly, what has happened to you?"

I was walking past the downstairs bathroom when I heard those words. The door was open a few inches, and I could see my mother's reflection in the mirror when I looked inside. I wasn't trying to peep, but it happened that way.

Mom was wearing a tight sports bra and nylon shorts—workout clothes—that she spent more time wearing than working out in. The bra supported her large breasts without hiding her cleavage, and it left her abdomen bare down to her waistline. Mom wasn't heavy, but for the last few years she was picking up a pound here, and a pound there and they weren't going away.

The extra weight was evident in some of the clothes she wore, like her shorts. I noticed they fit tighter than they had a year ago, and I saw the way the fabric dug into the cleft between her thighs. I wouldn't have been aware of this if Dad hadn't pointed it out one night as a joke, but now my mother's thick, meaty camel toe was something to look forward to during her "workout" time.

She pinched the soft meat along her right side between her thumb and forefinger, frowning at the skin she was able to pull outward. Her left hand roamed over her undefined stomach. She sucked at her lip, glaring at the lack of definition in her body.

Mom pursed her lips and tick-tocked her eyes across her body, catching my reflection peeping on her as she swung them to the left. Her head snapped up, and I turned red under her gaze.

"Christopher, what are you doing?" Mom asked.

I pushed the door opened, unable to hide my blushing face. "Sorry. I heard you talking to yourself."

Mom laughed, her smile lighting up the mirror and forcing my lips to share in her amusement. "I know that step-stuff is trending now, by I'm your real mother, boy."

"Stop," I said, stepping inside.

"Who's the pornstar that your father said I looked like? You know who, the one you're always watching."

I shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on, tell me," Mom said.

"Alexis Fawx."

"She does a lot of that Mommy porn, right?" Mom laughed. "That's what your father said. If you're going to wear headphones while playing with your laptop, you should lock your door."

"You're never going to let me live that down," I said. "Everyone gets caught at least once. And do you ever wonder why Dad knows who she is when he has you?"

"Oh, I'm just joking," Mom said. "I was flattered, really. My very own Oedipus."

"Jesus, Mom, I wasn't even watching one of her fetish scenes."

"I'm teasing," Mom said, laughing. "Calm down. Since when does embarrassment run in this family?"

I shook my head, feeling the heat in my ears. "Anyway, Mom, you look fine, stop worrying about your weight."

Mom smiled at me and patted my cheek. Her creamy green eyes sparkled. "That's sweet, Chris, but I don't want to look 'fine.' I want to look better. I want to feel better." She made that sucking sound again. "Maybe your father would start paying more attention to me in the bed—"

"This conversation is over," I said, not wanting to picture my mother getting poked by my father. I left the restroom. "And it's the beer's fault he isn't paying attention to you, not your body."

Later that night, after the harsh hissing of an uncapped bottle of beer, Dad asked me, "Want one?"

"No," I said, sitting next to the couch in a leather recliner with a swivel base. Mom was lying on the smaller couch forming the little leg of an L next to Dad's couch.

"I used to have a body like yours," Dad said. He took several gulps from his beer. "But I've earned this." He tapped his stomach, shaking the strangely tight flab under his shirt. My father was a bear, with puffy cheeks and a neatly trimmed beard. "I don't want to give away what I've earned."

I nodded, tapping my stomach without realizing it. I didn't want to lose the hard muscles beneath my shirt, not after the year I spent earning them.

"You're still modeling?" Dad asked. "What kind of work is that for a man? You should be working at one of my auto shops."

"It pays twenty-five an hour, sometimes more, and it's not always nude," I said. "And I don't want to be a mechanic."

"See," Dad said. He pointed his beer bottle at Mom. "You paint one shirtless picture of him and the boy wants to be a pornstar."

I laughed.

"He's not a pornstar," Mom said. "Oh, look at that." Mom pointed at the casino commercial playing on TV. Dinner, dancing, and a show—that was the advertisement. "We should go out. It's been so long since we've gone out."

"Have a beer, read a book," Dad said. "Besides, you don't fit into your dressy-dresses anymore. There's no point." He finished his beer and held the empty bottle toward Mom.

Mom stared at him. Her eyes were wide, and her lips set in an unhappy line.

I didn't say a thing. I watched TV as Dad flipped through the channels, stopping only when a pretty girl highlighted the screen. The younger the girl, the better and the less she wore, the longer he watched. I looked sideways at my mother several times, watching as her frown deepened throughout the night. She rubbed her stomach—which wasn't big—and her other hand rubbed her thigh—which wasn't big either—but I could feel the unhappiness oozing from her.

"I'm off to bed," I said when the clock neared ten. "I've got classes in the morning."

"Goodnight," Mom said.

Dad mumbled something.

I admired myself in my mirror when I reached my room. I was eighteen and over the halfway point, a slightly taller version of my father, with a leaner jaw and bluer eyes, but the same dark brown hair. I traced the muscles of my abs, and flexed my muscular thighs, happy with the curve of my hamstrings. Is this what Mom wanted? Not my body, but a body?

"All right," I said to myself, "I'll help her out." My words came out strained and reluctant. I don't know why. She wasn't asking me for help, and I was going to volunteer my services to her.

I was already stripped down to my boxer-briefs, so I locked my door and turned on my laptop, wondering what new adventures Alexis Fawx was getting into.

Getting Into Shape

I caught Mom in her in-home art studio the next day after class. I admired her from behind, leaning against the frame of the door-less entryway. She wore a yoga bodysuit, dark wine in color, but tight-fitting and I could see a few spots she might have thought of as a problem, but no else would have.

I waited for her to pull her brush from her canvas before I asked, "Mom?"

Mom turned at the sound of my voice. She tossed her straw-blonde hair over her left shoulder, her profile accentuated by the heavy curve of her left breast. I didn't let my eyes linger on her tanned cleavage for long.

"Come to model for Mommy?" Mom asked, laughing.

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?" Mom asked, laughing harder.

"Oh, I thought you were making fun of me again." I walked into the room, looking around her home gallery. Some paintings would make it to her downtown gallery, but most would not. She was better at selling the work of others than her own, but it made her happy, which made me happy for her. "I was thinking."

"About?" Mom asked, slowly, after I didn't speak right away.

"About you." I turned, facing her. "You have a good body. A really good body. Anyone can see that."

"Oh"—Mom waved at me with one hand and fanned her face with the other—"you don't say."

"When I came to you a year ago and said I felt too thin, you told me to—"

"Get your skinny ass and stringy arms to the gym," Mom finished. She laughed. "Now look at you."

"Exactly," I said, waiting.

"No." Mom shook her head. "It's different for you. You have time."

I laughed. "I have college, labs, studying, work—"

"You don't work."

"You got me into nude modeling," I said. "It's not hard-hard, but I don't get to crack the books open when I'm there." I clapped my hands together. "You have the time, but you don't have the motivation. We can go to the gym—"

"No gym, nope."

"Will you stop cutting me off?" I walked to my mother and put my hands on her sides, above her hips, but below her breasts, like I always did when I tried to convince her of something. "We can work out at home."

"I don't know," Mom said. "I'm too old."

"You're what, twenty-five?"

Mom laughed. "Don't be an idiot. I'm thirty-eight."

"I meant you look twenty-five." I waited for Mom's laughter to end. "You don't need to lose much since you still have most of your body." I squeezed Mom's sides, surprised by her unexpected jump. "We'll stretch and do some yoga until your muscles are ready for weights. We'll also walk until you feel like running. What do you say?"

"All right, you sweet talker, we can try," Mom said. She put her hands on mine and slowly pushed them from her body. "Get out of here so I can paint." She surprised me again with a quick kiss on the side of my cheek, her full lips lingering against me for longer than a peck. "Thanks, sweetie."

"No problem," I said and left her studio.

I started easily with my mother. We stretched in the morning, performing a one-hour routine near the pool as the sun rose.

"This is silly," Dad said before leaving to work.

"Follow my lead," I told Mom when we were alone.

Stretching is easy, if uncomfortable. I stopped to coach Mom several times throughout the routine, straightening her back and moving her legs and arms as needed. She was wearing black yoga pants and a white, open-backed tank top with a black sports bar underneath. I touched her as little as possible, too aware of how her skin felt beneath my fingers. I don't know why I was so aware of her, but I was.

We went for a walk when we finished. Mom made me laugh by throwing on a pink baseball cap and a fancy watch that I'd never seen before. The watch counted her steps. It counted her calories. It had a GPS and more. It even detailed to her friends how her workout was going. An MP3 player, blue headphones, and pink sweatbands completed her outfit.

"Why are you laughing?" Mom asked me before we went out for our walk.

"I don't know," I said. "You're. . . really cute."

"Aw," Mom said. She patted my cheek and off we went.

We walked fast. Mom marched alongside me, finding some rhythm with her music. I looked at her and looked at her more, her swinging breasts drawing my eyes. They weren't what they were, but they were winning their fight against time. It was hard to look away from them, but I did.

She's your mother, I told myself. Not some MILF at the gym.

"So this is our routine?" Mom asked when we returned home.

"Part of it," I said. "Yoga tomorrow. Wear something you can stretch in."

Mom opened her mouth wide and laughed. "Really, you think?" she asked, still laughing as I went upstairs to shower and check out Alexis Fawx.

I woke before dawn the next day. Last night I had gone to bed listening to my dad telling Mom, "I can work you out, babe, just tell Chris to give us five minutes alone." Neither Mom nor I found that funny. I met Mom downstairs, and our day began as the day before, right after Dad left the house.

Mom was dressed for yoga, wearing white pants with gray, horizontal lines, the colors mixing into a camouflage-like style. Her top matched, showing off her white sports. We got started, and it wasn't long before Mom was sweating.

"You've never done yoga?" I asked, standing behind her. I was fixing her Downward Dog stance, and I had to grab her by the hips to pull her back.

"No," Mom said, whispering when I squeezed her hips.

My hands stayed on her body longer than necessary. It wasn't intentional—at first—but looking down at the swell of her ass through her painted-on pants, I saw the squishy bulge of her pussy pressing against the thin material. I watched her lips moves, rubbing against each other in a meaty swell that left my mouth dry. My cock jumped at the sight, thickening and I hurried back to my mat and fought the bastard in my pants for the next few minutes.

I never thought about the consequences of yoga with my mother, or working out with her. Throughout our hour-long routine, I had to stop several times to help her with her alignment. Afraid at first, soon I was enjoying my hands on her hips and watching her body sweat under the misty rays of the morning sun.

It didn't matter if I stood in front of her or behind her—Mom's body was on display for my eyes. The tops of her breasts glistened, and her breathing deepened the further we went into our routine. I silently thanked the perverts, who had come up with women's athletic wear, every time I looked at my mother's body.

Mom's breasts moved, but not much. Her sports bra held them tight to her chest. I couldn't see her nipples through her shirt, not that I was trying to—at first—but after breaking from my routine several times to train her, I couldn't help myself. I wondered if they were hard. I knew other girls whose nipples tightened during yoga, and they wore shirts that showed off their little nubs while pretending they didn't. Could I expect the same from Mom, one day?

Mom was covered in sweat by the end of the routine. She dripped, gracefully, and she wanted to change before our walk, but I gathered her gear and led her out the door. I walked in front of her at first, facing her as I quick-stepped backward, telling her how well she was doing. I could have encouraged Mom while standing at her side, but I wanted to see her camel toe follow the motions of her thighs.

Get a hold of yourself, I told myself. I went to my room as soon as we returned home, once again watching Alexis Fawx. In this video she wore a yellow dress while trapped under a table. So silly, but her stepson had helped her out of her predicament in the only way that made sense: he fucked her loose.

Our routine consisted of stretching twice a week, yoga three times a week and walking every morning. Dad didn't pay much attention to us, but he did try to get Mom to drink beers at night with him. I spent that first-week training more than participating, and Mom's outfits continued to draw my attention.

The smooth curves of her behind and the way her butt stuck out invaded my dreams at night. I imagined that she had to be wearing a thong under those pants, maybe a G-string, I didn't know, but my dreams told me that she did. In one of my reoccurring dreams, she would turn to me, looking over her shoulder while I checked her posture and asked, "Chris, sweetie, do you want to see what your Mommy wears for you?"

I couldn't guide her forever, though, not like this. Her posture improved, and the need for my hands-on help lessened, so I added free weights to our routine. We used dumbbells, of which I had four, adjustable to one-hundred pounds each.

"No mom, back up and butt down," I said, standing behind her, my favorite position when she wore her tight-fitting pants, sometimes shorts, but usually pants.

I put my hands on hips, two fingers above her waistline, and two below. Her skin warmed under my touch, and her sweat sent chills through my palms. I squatted behind her, spotting her, making her body mimic my movements. Mom's breathing was already hard, but I could hear the tremor that ran through her breaths when I touched her.

"There we go, Mom," I said, "you're looking great."

"Thank you, sweetie," Mom said, moving up and down with me.

"Just wait until we do this with a squat bar," I said, "then you'll really feel the burn."

"No gym," Mom said, laughing and throwing a you rascal look over her shoulder.

"In two months, you'll be dying to show off your body in the gym."

Mom laughed, her bright, opened-mouthed smile making me smile like it always did. She has an infectious glow to her when she's happy. She might have been saying no, but I wanted to get her on that gym equipment, where I could expose more of her body to my eyes. After the workout, I went upstairs to see what crazy adventures my favorite pornstar was getting into again.

It took three months to get her to the gym, mostly thanks to Dad saying, "Give it up, it's not making a difference in your body." He was wrong. There were noticeable changes taking place. Flab was melting away from Mom's frame, and her muscles were coming out. She was toned and whatever softness had crept into her flesh was hardening up.

"See, Mom," I said our first day at the gym, "you were worried over nothing."

"It's not about what you see," Mom said, "it's about how I feel." She must not have felt good enough to show off, because her form-hugging threads were gone, replaced by stylish sweatpants and a bedazzled hoodie.

"You'll be ready to pose nude again in another month," I said, teasing.

Mom laughed. "Oh, stop. I didn't think you'd be doing it too after I told you that story."

Pose nude. My words were a joke, but the idea stuck with me: Mom posing nude? Hmm?

"Mom," I said, "the entire point of working out is to show off what you've earned, and you're wearing sweats."

"Stop," Mom said. She was lying on a hamstring machine, curling the weights up and back. Her round butt, tighter and firmer than before, propped up into the air.

"Men are looking at you," I said.

"Why would you tell me that?" Mom's head came up, eyes scanning and lips smiling. She looked like a deer that was happy to have a hunter's crosshairs zeroed on her.

I shook my head, but some of Mom's self-consciousness faded away. She spent less time worrying about how she looked on the machines and more time darting her eyes around without moving her head. Did she think I wouldn't notice? I laughed. But as we left the gym, she said something that bothered me when it shouldn't have.

"The only man I want looking at me is your father," Mom said.

I nodded, hiding my frown by smiling. Over the next three months though, my mother gradually replaced her sweaters with tight sports bras that kept her large breasts close to her chest, and bright, eye-attracting, skin-hugging pants replaced her sweats.

Six Months Later

"Doug," Mom said, "stop it."

I stopped as soon as I heard Mom's voice, not wanting to see my parents fooling around. I was a few steps from the kitchen entryway and hadn't given a thought to being overheard on my way there, but now I was afraid that my slightest movement would make it seem like I was eavesdropping on them.

"I thought people were supposed to have more energy after getting into shape," Dad said.

"You should go to the gym with me," Mom said. There was a hint of a struggle in her voice.

"I don't need a gym. I've got my cars, and I've got my beers: life is good."

"And?" Mom asked.

"Oh, and I'm trying to get some love with my wife right now." Dad paused, and I heard the wet sounds of an exaggerated smooch. "If you think about it, Chris has restored your body, like I do my cars, and he said he didn't want to be a mechanic."

"Restored?" Mom asked, and I pictured her pushing away from Dad by the rough sound of her voice.

"Well, you're not a newer model—"

"I'm not a fucking car."

"I'm not saying you are." Dad growled or grunted, or maybe it was some kind of low-throated moan that he uttered. "You've lost what, fifteen pounds in six months? You look great, but why? No one but me is going to look at you."

"Nice things to say to your wife," Mom said. "I haven't lost weight, I've changed it: soft to firm. You used to be romantic."

"We've been married for eighteen years; we don't need to be romantic anymore."

"Twenty years," Mom said. "I try hard to look good for you, and if you're not going to try for me, at least you can spend more time making me feel good about myself." Mom slammed something. "If you want more than a blowjob at night, take me out like you used to. Show off your older-model wife."

This is a real story and if you guys want to see some pictures of my mom
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