Go talk to your mother, Rachel

Your mother is the kind of woman that other women envy. Beautiful, hardworking and independent, at forty-one, even after giving birth to eight children, she looks like a swimsuit model for Sports Illustrated. When she tells others that she has eight kids, everyone assumes that she is joking. When they discover that she isn't, they are usually stunned into silence. She defies every stereotype of a mother of eight. Slim and athletic in build, well-dressed and manicured, articulate, well-read and professional in her dealings, she exudes the independence and confidence of a young business executive. This incredible fact is not the outcome of good fortune, nor even innate character, but the product of a long, tireless, and disciplined effort.

Your mother and father met at a local bar when she was eighteen. It was a hot summer night, she and her friends were dressed to the nines, and the bouncers there were never particular about enforcing the age restrictions with attractive young girls. Your father, a handsome young machinist at the local auto-plant, was twenty-two at the time. He was playing pool with some of his friends and they watched your mother and her friends come in with obvious interest. After buying them a round of drinks, the young men convinced the girls to join them for a game of pool. Your father and mother partnered up for a game and everyone sensed the sexual tension between them. They made love that night, and it was then that your mother discovered her hyperfertility, and your father, in a moment of drunken lust, begot himself a family.

When your father's and mother's parents found out about your mother's unfortunate pregnancy, they were quick to **** a marriage on your parents: the elders of both families had agreed collectively, and in private, to make an effort to preserve their mutual respectability in the eyes of the community. Your parent's wedding was announced amidst much artificial fanfare, and within a month of their meeting, your parents were married and on their way to Mexico for their honeymoon. Your father, who earned a decent wage thanks to his membership in the union, had had enough money set aside to make a down-payment on a house. This was fortunate for your mother because, having secured for their daughter a husband and a home, her parents no longer had any interest in speaking with her, and her husband's parents considered her a loose woman and a ne'er-do-well. Still very much strangers to one another, your mother and father began to live together, and to try to build a nurturing home for their emerging family. When you were finally born eight months later, your grandparents told everyone that you had been born early.

Having to drop out of school, marry a man she barely knew, and lose her friends and family over one night of foolish indiscretion might have been more than enough punishment for a young teenage girl like your mother, but much to everyone's surprise, within months of your birth, your mother was once again pregnant. As your parents were not getting along as well as could be expected, and it was well known that your father was sleeping with another woman, and that your mother had been observed spending an inordinate amount of time with one of her husband's friends, it was assumed that her second child was not your father's. By the age of nineteen, your mother had already become the source of half the gossip in your home town, and the source of countless men's fantasies.

Within a year, before you had even had your first birthday, you already had a sister. Your mother, in a vain effort to win back her family, named her daughter Josephina after a recently departed aunt who had passed away that very year. Your grandparents, however, sensing the ruse, retreated even further.

At nineteen, defeated, unable to win the love of her husband, her family, or her friends, trapped alone in an unloving home with two infant children, something happened to your mother. What would have destroyed other girls her age made her stronger. She stopped trying to please other people, or even to care what they thought of her. In the time that she had left to her, after caring for her children and cooking and cleaning for her husband, she began to study health care, diet and nutrition, and to exercise regularly every day. Her plan was to go to college and become a nurse, to make enough money to support herself and her children, and to look better than she ever had before she had had children. That way, when she left her husband and moved to a different city, she would not find herself out in the cold. But her change of personality, and the remarkable way that she was controlling and toning her figure, seemed to have an effect on your father because your mother became pregnant again.

Henrietta was born when your mother was just twenty. By now, she had become something of an expert at childbirth and recovered quickly. Taking care of so many young children was difficult, but she wouldn't let anything stand in the way of her long range plans, and she continued to study and exercise. Other women began to notice the remarkable way in which she was able to recover from childbirth, and to keep her body firm and fit, in spite of having so many children. People forgot to despise her and began to seek her out for advice. By the time she was pregnant with Victoria, at twenty-one, she had struck on the idea of teaching health and fitness courses for pregnant women at night-school. People no longer considered her hyperfertility the mark of a loose woman, but the manifestation of remarkable health and abundance.

When the triplets were born, Suzette, Serena and Sabrina, even your mother had to give up on her plans for a while. At the age of twenty-two, she had become something of a scientific curiosity: the mother of seven children, all under the age of five. Nevertheless, within a year of their birth, she was pregnant again, this time with her last child: Hilary. At twenty-three, the mother of eight children under six years of age, your mother had her tubes tied. She had had enough.

Throughout all of this, your father did little. True, he paid for all of the bills, and he got his wife repeatedly pregnant, but he made no secret of his infidelities. Had there been more than a sexual and financial relationship between your parents, your mother may have become indignant at the other women who would occasionally come down from her husband's bed in the morning to drink coffee and eat breakfast, wearing nothing more than one of his button-down shirts; but instead, she befriended them. Her children were her children, not her husband's, and as long as he continued to support her, and to satisfy her occasional needs, she was indifferent to his actions. She even went so far as to introduce him to the young, pretty babysitters she would occasionally hire when she needed to go out to teach a class or do shopping. It was low, she knew, a kind of bribery, sanctioning his illicit lusts in exchange for the financial well-being of her children, but she did what she had to do.

Now, at the age of forty-one, she was stronger, smarter, and better-looking than she had ever been. Her body was toned and muscled, and she moved with the grace and agility of a dancer. Through her teaching and seminars, the articles she submitted to magazines and journals, and the touring she did from time to time, she was making enough money to support herself and to fend for her children. And now that she could, there was no reason for her to worry anymore. She had grown used to her life, to helping other women help themselves, and to taking care of her children, who were now all grown up. She had even grown used to her husband, and still retained her inexplicable sexual attraction to him. In fact, though she would never admit this to anyone, a significant portion of her sexual fantasies revolved around what she imagined he was doing with and to the other women. In the eyes of the community she was simply a long-suffering, faithful wife, a good mother, and a remarkable woman married to a more or less worthless adulterer and abusive husband. It was misfortune, not character, that was her downfall. After more than twenty years of ceaseless endeavor, she had finally had her ****.

All of this is known to you, somewhere, in the back of your mind, and forms the backdrop to the dizzying swirl of thoughts and emotions that careen through your mind as you think about what it is you are about to do to your mother. You love your mother more than anyone else on the planet, and feel her physical loneliness keenly, even if she denies it to her own conscious self. Sitting at the kitchen table, you watch your mother intently as she washes dishes, cleaning them as she goes as she prepares your supper.

She is wearing a robin's egg blue tank-top and sweatpants and has her curly blonde hair tied up in a pony-tail. Her skin is tight and lightly tanned, and she hardly looks a day over thirty. She seems to be more comfortable in her exercise clothing than anything else and puts it on immediately after coming home from class. You can't help but watch her as she moves lithely and quickly about the kitchen, her buttocks and thighs firm and muscular, without being thick, and her breasts, while not overly large, full and firm for her age. She has a tiny waist and relatively narrow hips which belie her numerous childbirths. Looking at her, you can't help but wonder how she ever became your mother.

At one point, she bends over to put dishes in the dishwasher and you can't avoid staring at her beautiful, firm round ass. You feel your dick harden at the thought of what you might do to it. She straightens up and opens a cupboard to get down a can of beans. She has to stretch to do it, and you can't help but stare at her breasts as they jut outward from her arched back.

"What's on your mind, John?" she asks. "You've been sitting there watching me for ten minutes now without saying a word. It's starting to get annoying. Why don't you just tell me what you want?"