Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

Author’s Note

The image of her sat ripe against the page. It moved through me in a cold chill, my eyes locked on my mother in print, draped in a two-piece set of black lace. She stood there as a seductive form, her waist slim, her stomach flat, her breasts bursting through the seams,  as a soft, sultry glare lured me into the page.

This image almost felt wrong, as though the world had conspired against me.

She looked nothing like the mother I knew.

My mother that was sweet, and humble. 

My mother that was innocent.

My mother that was the perfect picture of suburbia, a soft blonde mane, flowing along a gentle face, and a deep blue stare.

I felt an anxiety deep within my gut, this warm unbridled fear, this nervous ringing, telling me that what I was doing was wrong, that wanting to see more of her could only mean one thing.

I had found the magazine laying on the dining room table. The same dining room where we shared meals, the same table where she'd spoken to me about my problems, where she'd scolded me, and treated me so kindly, now a place where I'd learned a side of her, I couldn't forget.

"Fuck..." I mumbled, then ran through the pages.

Each one was an image of Mom. Each one had her dressed in something new; from dresses, to gowns, to skirts, the fabric kissing the swell of her hips, as she winked and smiled at the reader.

"Fuck." I saw it, before my mind truly accepted it, before my hand stopped against my side, before the image of Mom unfolded, her nude body out across the page, her nipples a bright pink, as light moles dotted her skin.

There was a sudden urge to place my finger against the page. An urge to test the limits of this fantasy, to see if this was just a dream, a bizarre sleep that I could wake up from, that could tell me I wasn't standing here, hard at my mother’s image. 

*Slam*

The front door stood me to attention.

Mom was home...

Life was three stories under a slated roof we called home. It blended in with the suburban clones, our house one of many, stretching endlessly over the horizon.

"That's not like you," Mom stood by the front door, as I stood on our lawn, sweat dripping into my shirt.

I had run the moment I heard her enter. I leapt out of the dining room, then kitchen, then garden, before leaping over the fence.

She waved me inside. "I can't remember the last time you forgot your keys." She wore her hair in a messy bun, a few loose strands trailing across her face, as her apron spread across her stomach.

I moved passed her and made my way inside.

The darkness of the hall contrasted the brightness. The smell of her shampoo rose through my senses, a light peach scent that radiated from her.

The living room door opened to smell of Veal. It danced in the air, and carried me forward, giving me a brief break from my own torment, reminding me of the excitement of coming home, the smiles, the food, being able to share my day with the woman who raised me. I took a deep breath, and felt the tension unwind.

"How was your day?"  Mom cut off my path, and hugged me like any mother would, deep, tight, a warm satisfaction that told you you were loved. She nestled her head against me, the swell of her chest now a bold tease, distracting me with each breath.

"It- It was fine." I wrapped my arms around her, and heard her groan in satisfaction. I couldn’t help but wondered if she’d always made that noise, if I’d truly never listen to how sensual it sounded.

"I’m making Ossobucco for dinner." She said.

The tension returned in a shifting heat. I nodded, trying to remember what a normal reaction would be, my mind too lost in the weight of her chest, her apron hugging her bust up into her cleavage. "Sure..."

She furrowed her brow. "You okay?"

"Do I not seem okay?"

She nodded, a quiet contemplation on her face.

"I'm just- I'm a little tired, that's all. Had to go get something from Kyle's and he wasted a lot of time."

She tiptoed, then kissed me on the cheek. "Whatever it is, don't let it stress you out, okay?" She wiped the gloss she'd left on my face. "I can’t remember the last time you were so red."

I pushed through it with a smile. "Well, it's nothing dinner can't fix."

She smiled.

The evening carried on in a tranquil acceptance. We ate, and laughed, and went through our day. I kept my story straight the entire time.

I had left our house without my keys.

I had no idea about a magazine, or the lewd pictures that were in it...

"Honestly, that might have been your best." I sighed, then lounged back against my seat, my stomach full, my mind at ease.

“So...” Mom spoke as though holding back. “I heard from Candy’s Mother, that she might be coming back home for the summer?”

“Mom...” I flashed her a disappointed frown. “Is that why we’re eating this? So, you can butter me up, and ship me off with Candy Melville?”

“It’s not shipping you off. It’s just-” She paused. “A young man like you should be more active. It’s a good thing.”

“I am active.”

She chuckled. “Sure you are, sweetie.”

In reality, I had already slept with Candy. She was a dolled-up bimbo now, more breasts than brains, but apparently able to build a successful career in porn. “And what about you?”

“What about me?” Mom placed down her fork, and looked me square in the eyes. Her glare shone like blue crystals, a deliberate squint that told me to watch the next few words that left my mouth.

“You’re...” The truth was, my mother was alone. She still wore her ring a year out from the divorce, unable to accept the world she was now in.  I paused, reaching for whatever my next thought was. “What about your modelling?”

Her face into a confused smirk. “My modelling? Honey, what are you-” A deep blush stretched across her cheeks, the realisation sinking in, as her eyes shifted from mine, as she sat back into her seat, as she seemed to curl into herself. “You saw those?”

“I didn’t mean to-” I had no idea why I brought it up. “It was- You left it on the table, and I just glanced at it.”

“You didn’t open it?”

I lied, and shook my head.

“Okay...” She sat up straight, and lightly tapped my foot with hers. “You shouldn’t be looking at things that aren’t yours, anyway.” She chuckled, clearly trying to clear the air. “And just so you know, it wasn’t real. It was a gift from Michelle.”

“Krystal’s mom?”

“Mhhhmnn.” She took another bite. “It’s this packaged thing where they’ll make a professional looking magazine for you. I’d always wanted to model. So, I did it.”

A strange disappointment shifted my mind. “Did you- Did you enjoy it?”

“I don’t know...” Her gaze shifted off to someplace distance, as though recalling an idea. “It was fun, but there was something missing.”

“Would you do it again?”

She paused, then looked me over. I could her thoughts deepen. “Seems a little sad to buy one for yourself, no?”

“Yeah. I guess your righ-”

“We could do one together...”

“You think?”

She nodded. “It’d be super cute. A little mother son showcase for us both.”

“Let’s do it.”

The line stretched around the block. The crowd was packed with women, each waiting in an orderly line, their loud chatter guiding the wind, as a cool breeze spread along the sidewalk.

"Hotdogs?" A vendor walked passed with his cart. He looked at the line like a slobbery dog, the opportunity clear on his mind.

The man ignored me as though I wasn't there. "Hotdog?" He turned to Mom, her body dressed in a neck-tied crop top, and pink matching skirt, revealing the flat plane of her stomach, as her bust sat pressed against her cleavage. Her make-up was done to perfection, highlighting the soft fullness of her lips, the colour in her cheeks, the way her eyes locked you into her clear, blue gaze.

She wore it in the only way she knew how, a silent modesty, as though you knew how good she looked but she didn't, as though her perfection was effortless, a natural charm that couldn't be replicated.

"Uh- No, thank you." Mom pressed into my arm.

The man smiled at her, and continued on. He flashed her a second look, pocketing the thought for later.

"This fucking guy..." I mumbled under my breath.

She placed her hand against my chest, smiling at my apparent jealousy. "He's just being nice." The tone of her voice told me she knew how she looked. "Maybe if you got dressed up a little, you'd get more attention too."

"Yeah, maybe..." I was more frustrated by the way I felt. Every touch against her was wrong. Every look and stare, a confusing pause. Every time the wind swept up her skirt, dragging me to her thighs.

I wanted to get this over with.

I wanted to clear my mind...

"Was it this long when you came last time?"

She shook her head, and grabbed my hand. “Honey, hold my skirt down for me. I wasn’t expecting the wind to be this bad.” She placed my hand against her ass, unaware of how much of her I could feel, the way my hand pressed against its round form, as she moved me lower against the fabric.

“That’s what you get for dressing up.” I tried to cut through the tension inside me. I could feel it deep, thumping against my ears in a loud, persuasive drum.

Mom pushed back into me, forcing my hand between our legs. “Hush.”

A young woman turned from in front of us. She looked at Mom with a strange excitement. “It’s because of Malana Makarova."

Mom gasped. "She’s here?"

The woman flashed a knowing smile, the dark waves of her face blowing in the wind. "I know right?" She turned around fully, embracing the conversation. "I can't believe it either."

"Gosh, did you see her winter collection with Megan?”

The woman giggled. "How could I not? I have the top still sitting in my closet."

"No way."

"Mhmmnn." The woman pulled out her phone, and the two of them lost themselves in the moment.

I stood back and let them have it, watching as two turned to three, then four, my mother whisked away by the group, as gossiped how much they'd love to be shot by this woman I had never heard of.

An hour passed, and we finally made our way inside.

"Good luck." Sabrina said, her voice calling as though they'd been friends for years.

"Thank you." Mom grabbed my hand. "You too." She waved, and pulled me in, her strut like that of a spoiled brat, taking me to something she wanted to buy.

The front entrance was a pale white room, with a circular desk planted in the middle. It looked more like a clinic than anything else, clean walls, a sparkling floor, everything exactly where it belonged.

"Name and card, please." The receptionist said, her face lathered in moisturiser, her skin shining the light from the ceiling.

Mom opened her purse, and pulled out her card. She handed it to her, the nerves on her face clear, her eyes following the woman's hand as she grabbed it.

The receptionist looked it over. She looked at Mom, then me, then Mom again, squinting her eyes, before handing it back. “Are you two-"

"A couple." Mom interrupted, then wrapped her arms around mine. "Yep."

The woman smirked. "That's good to know." She looked down, and wrote on a piece of paper. She tore at it, and handed it to me. "Your receipt."

I took it. "Thanks."

"Just down the hall. The second to last room. Usually, it'll take about half an hour to forty-five minutes, but with you two-" She smiled to herself. "I think she'll really like you, so it'll be a bit longer."

We both nodded, and went on our way. Mom cradled my arm the entire walk, her face scanning behind us, until out of view.

"What was that about?" I asked, as she finally released me.

"Honey, It's Malana... She’d think it’s weird, if I came with my son."