Conversation with Mom

"Is everything alright?" Mom asked, having noticed me squirming. Truth be told, I was trying to hide my erection. This shouldn't have been a difficult task, given Mom's lower-than-regular intelligence. Today however, Mom seemed to notice me squirming.

I know what you're thinking. What kind of sick pervert gets a boner from his Mom? You're only wondering because you've never seen my mom.

She is a gorgeous Russian-German woman in her late 30s. She has blond, flowy hair that goes down past her shoulders and legs that go on for days. Despite nearing a midlife crisis, Mom has an hourglass figure to die for. Her ass is great too—it’s plump, round, and bounces just right when she walks. She isn't very smart, though. Not in an endearing way—she’s just genuinely unintelligent. Like, she doesn’t understand social cues, sexual innuendos, or when someone is making a pass at her. It’s frustrating, especially when she bends over in front of me—which happens often—and I have to resist the urge to grab her ass.

But the best parts of her are her tits.

She has a pair of huge, gravity-defying breasts—the kind that bounce ever so slightly whenever she moves. They weren’t just big—they were perfect. Round, full, bouncing slightly with each step. The kind of tits that made guys stare, even when they shouldn’t. Even when it was their best friend’s mom. Even when it was my mom.

I swallowed hard, adjusting my jeans discreetly as she tilted her head, still waiting for an answer. “I’m fine,” I muttered, my voice tight. She frowned—that clueless, slightly confused frown that made her look like she was trying to solve advanced calculus—"Are you sure, honey?"

I nodded, "Yeah, I'm just kinda anxious for my friends to come over tomorrow." Mom gave me a reassuring smile—one of those soft, oblivious smiles that made her look like she didn’t understand the undercurrent of tension in the room. "Oh, don't worry about it! I'll make sure everything is perfect," she chirped, bending over to pick up a rogue sock from the floor. The hem of her tight dress rode up, exposing the smooth curve of her buttocks, and I had to clench my fists to keep from reaching out.

That’s when she straightened abruptly, her blue eyes lighting up with sudden realization. "Oh! I almost forgot—I invited someone else too!" She clapped her hands together like a child who’d just remembered dessert. My stomach dropped. "Who?" I asked, already dreading the answer. She grinned, utterly oblivious. "Jeremy! You remember him, right? He started working at the restaurant last week, and he’s so nice. He offered to help me with inventory since I always get the numbers mixed up."

The name hit me like a punch. Jeremy. *That* Jeremy. My hands went cold. "Mom, you can’t—" But she was already drifting toward the kitchen, humming some Russian folk song under her breath. I followed, my pulse thudding in my ears. "He’s not who you think he is," I said, too sharply. She blinked at me over her shoulder, a spoon halfway to her mouth from the pot of borscht she’d been tasting. "What do you mean? He’s been nothing but sweet to me."

Sweet. Sweet? Jeremy had once shoved me into a locker so hard the metal dented. I opened my mouth, but the words stuck—how do you explain to your mother that the guy she thinks is charming spent three years making your life hell? Especially when she was already stirring the pot again, her hips swaying slightly to the tune in her head.

Then again… what if he had changed? People grow up. Maybe working at the restaurant had humbled him. The Jeremy I knew wouldn’t offer to help anyone unless there was something in it for him, but Mom wasn’t exactly a liar. If she said he’d been kind, maybe he had. The thought coiled in my gut, uneasy but not entirely dismissible.