Professional Mother
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Elaine said, "Greg, first of all, I am your mother and you are my son. Second, I am not a whore. I'm a professional courtesan. Do you understand the difference?"
The powerfully built young man stood before her in the kitchen, his hands shoved into the back pockets of his blue jeans, his bare feet making nervous little movements on the expensive tile floor.
"Greg, I chose my career because I knew that I could be very good at it, maybe the best. And it has allowed me to raise you in a good home. You're a sophomore at the best college in the state. After you get your degree, you can go anywhere you want, and become the best you can be. I'm proud of what I have accomplished, and I'm proud of you."
The woman facing Greg was beautiful in that girl-next-door kind of way, despite having tousled hair, a rather plain robe, and no makeup. She held the day's first cup of coffee, and was trying not to squint as the first rays of the sun broke through the window over the sink. This wasn't the first time she had had this conversation with her son, but now that he was almost nineteen, she realized that he needed better answers than just: I'll explain some day when you're older. He was older.
"But mom, how can I be proud of you when I know what you do for a living? Isn't having sex with strange men, like, what a whore does?"
There was no anger in his voice, just a plaintive discomfort. She took a long pull at the coffee cup, cast pleading eyes up at the ceiling, and directed her son to sit at the breakfast table. She took the opposite chair, and focused calmly on his worried face.
"Greg, I know this has been a big source of concern and maybe even shame for you ever since you discovered my website four years ago. I can only imagine what it was like seeing naked pictures of your mother. Jeez! I didn't do a good job of explaining then. Let me try again. I don't have sex with strangers. What I do is spend time with very wealthy men who are willing to pay up to ten thousand dollars a day for a certain kind of companionship. What I do is, sort of like, umm, become their ideal girlfriend for a few hours or a few days. That may include sex, but not necessarily. It often means that I fly with them to exotic places like Paris or Rio. I have to look and dress and act the part of a woman who is perfectly comfortable at the highest social circles. I have to be able to discuss international politics and finance as if that were my career. And do it in four languages. If anything, I'm an actress or a consultant, not a whore."
"But mom, you don't know these men. They're total strangers."
"No Greg, they're not. Before my first meeting with any of them, I research their complete background down to their education, business history, credit rating and criminal record. Remember, young man, my first job was a security consultant for some rather large companies." She squinted her eyes and affected a silly French accent.
"I have ze skills unaware of which are you."
A grin and a chuckle broke the serious mask of worry on his face. She returned to her normal voice.
"And there's never sex on the first meeting. That's just to get to know each other, have supper, and determine if he wants to invest any big money in my talents -- and," she took a deep breath, "to see if he's the kind of client I can give an authentic performance for."
"You mean, you turn some of them down?"
She nodded. "Yes, but always very gently, dear."
He leaned forward on his elbows and looked right at her. "So, you could tell this Roberto guy to take a rain check or something? You promised me we would do some skiing together for my birthday. We got tickets to Driftwood and everything."
"Sweetheart, he's my second biggest client. I was surprised he called on such short notice -- he offered a huge bonus as an apology. Normally I ask for 30 days notice, but he has a... well, it's a rather important and delicate financial matter with some... some high level politicians in Europe, and he needs... a companion who understands French and German. Someone who can help him deal with the stress. Me."
The boy looked down at the table in disgust and disappointment.
"You mean by fucking him?"
Elaine heard the pain in his voice, but she heard something else as well, something very like jealousy.
"Greg, I help him deal with stress in many ways. I entertain him, I make him laugh, I make him proud to be seen with me. My presence often takes the focus off of him and puts it on me, giving him some breathing space. I'm an extra pair of ears and eyes for him. And yes, if he needs sex, then I'll give him that, too. And it will be the best he's ever had. It's my job, Greg. That's what I do, and I will not be ashamed of it. I don't want you to be ashamed of it, either."
She jumped to her feet, and pulled him up, even though he was now four inches taller than she was.
"Listen, sweetheart, you know I'm creative and resourceful, right? Remember that party I pulled off for your seventeenth birthday? Hunh? You never figured I could do that, right?"
He grinned begrudgingly. "Yeah. Who'd ever dream that Peter Frampton would show up here and put on a four-man stage show for some kid's birthday. It was awesome!"
Elaine echoed his grin. "Yeah, and you're awesome, too, Greg. Tell you what, cut me some slack, okay? You're going on that ski trip, but I'll find someone to replace me. Sorry. Can't help that. But when I get back, I'll make it up to you. I promise. But right now I got to get ready and catch a plane. Try to understand, baby."
She raised up on tiptoes to kiss him on the forehead. He nodded and grinned. And let her hug him.
- - - - - - - - -
"Candy? Hi, this is Elaine.
"Listen, I'm short on time. I'm on my way to the airport and I want you to do a favor for me. Say, a two-thousand dollar favor?
"No, nothing like that! You know that's anatomically impossible, but I'm flattered you asked.
"Yeah. Listen, I want you to go skiing with my son, Greg. It's his nineteenth birthday.
"Five days in Driftwood, all expenses covered, and an extra two grand if my son returns home in one piece. What do you say?
"What?
"No, Candy, I'm not asking you to have sex with him! I mean, I'm not forbidding you to have sex with him, either. It's just that I can't go with him and I need someone to take my place. And I know that...
"Candy, Candy, I trust you and Greg likes you. Just be like... like his 'Aunt Candice'. Let him have fun, teach him to dance. Yeah, teach him to dance! You're a great dancer! And talk to him. Get him talking about...
"Well, he hasn't talked much to me in several years...
"Just be his best friend for five days, you know? How hard is that? Find out what he wants...
"As a replacement birthday present. He was so looking forward to spending five days with me without the phone going off every hour on the hour, so find out what he...
"Oh, yeah, very funny, Candy. Well, if that's what he wants, and it's HIS idea, then go ahead, slut. But you have to give me a blow by blow description afterwards. Okay?
"Oh yeah? Hah, girl, over my dead body.
"You will? Great! Thanks a heap, Candy! See you in eight days. Bye."
- - - - - - - - -
Elaine walked into the Frabjois Day Sidewalk Cafe for her meeting with Candice. After a few minutes, she decided she was not dressed for the air conditioning, so she requested an outside table. Several men gave her more than a cursory glance as she was shown to her table. The sun that filtered through the ornamental pear trees gave amazing copper highlights to her hair. At five foot five, and wearing heels, she achieved that perfect aura of being statuesque, like a professional model. The sundress was simple but exactingly tailored to show just a kiss of cleavage between her precious 34-B's, and her flawless legs to mid-thigh. Though she was thirty-six, she appeared ageless.
The waiter all but swooned.
As she looked over the menu, Candice arrived. They blew kisses past each other's ear, laughed and placed their orders.
While waiting for their salads, Candice gave Elaine an executive summary of the skiing trip from her own perspective, knowing full well that Elaine would have already heard the detailed version of the five days from her son, Greg. It had all gone well. Two minor accidents on the easy slopes, no injuries, no major disappointments, lots of fun. With a big smile, Elaine handed over an envelope containing a Hallmark Card ("Thank You Bunches -- Like Grapes"), two one-hundred-dollar bills and a check for the rest.
Their wine and salads were served.
"Sounds like you had fun. Wonderful! And thanks again, Candy. You're a dear. So, tell me about Greg."
"That's one incredible boy you have there, Elli. It was all I could do to keep my hands off him. Damn, I wish you would let me jump his bones. He's a virgin, you know."
"What? Ridiculous. The way he dates? He had half the cheerleaders in high school totally in love with him. I know, because they would come over and cry on my shoulder."
"Elli, you need to listen to me. Really. He's never been laid. Except for a single blowjob that Heather what's-her-name give him after the senior prom, but he was drunk. Never mind that. The third night in Driftwood, I... I tried to put some moves on him. Nothing outrageous -- hear me out. I put on that seafoam-green silk teddy and matching gown you bought me for Christmas. It's not all that revealing. Well, a little. He was listening to music and reading a book. I brought in a bottle of chilled white wine and a platter of fruit and cheese. We sat on the couch and talked and ..."
"Candy, I heard you say he's still a virgin, but give me the bottom line, did you have ANY kind of sex with Greg?"
Candice rolled her eyes. "No. Believe me, I wanted to. I mean sure, I got him to kiss me, and let me tell you, he is a natural, Elli. Oh. My. God. But I couldn't get him to go much further than that. I mean, he wanted to, Elli. I could tell he was hard as a rock, and his heart was pounding. But the only time my hand got to home plate, he gently pushed it aside. So, we wound up talking until nearly four in the morning."
"Uhh... Do you think he's gay? Oh god, I hope not."
"Absolutely not. He's as straight as an arrow. And he knows exactly what he wants."
Candice took a bite of salad, and a sip of wine, never breaking eye contact. The silence became palpable.
"Candy? What does Greg want?"
"Elli, he wants you. That's all he's ever wanted since he found your escort website."
Elaine became an unblinking statue for a count of five. Then she blinked.
"Me? Greg wants me? How do you mean that?"
"You heard me, Elli. Greg is in love with you. Not you, Elaine, but you, Elli. 'The Ideal Girlfriend' -- isn't that what your website says? 'The Ultimate Intimate Experience'? 'The Companion of Your Dreams'? Shall I go on? Shall I remind you of the pictures of you on that website? The swimsuit shots? The lingerie shots? The nude shots? And in every damn one of them, you look no older than, well, my age, twenty-five. Greg got just tipsy enough to spill all his beans. He said he checks in on your site several times a week. And he masturbates. Dreaming of Elli. Yearning for his Ideal Girlfriend. That's really sad, Elli."
Elaine put her fork down and pushed away her salad, half uneaten.
"Candy? You must think I'm a monster."
"No, Elli. I don't think you're a monster. But you WILL be a monster if you don't take care of your son. You can't let him go on this way, pining for you."
"What... what do you suggest I do, Candy? I never meant things to get this way!"
"I know, Elli. Hey, here's our entrees. Take another big sip of wine, and let me tell you everything that happened in Driftwood, okay? Then later, we can discuss your options. If you have any."
- - - - - - - - -
Greg opened the envelope that had been hand-addressed to his apartment at the University. He unfolded the expensive laid paper that smelled faintly of lavender. He glanced at the airline ticket to Paris, France. He read the hand-written message with increasing interest to the bottom of the page, and then onto the back. It ended with the words, "Happy Birthday, my darling. I hope you enjoy your slightly delayed birthday gift. Love. Your Mother."
He looked again in the envelope, and then again at all sides of the letter and ticket for further explanation. There was nothing else. His brow furrowed. It all sounded very, very mysterious.
- - - - - - - - -
It was the week between the end of the short summer 'trimester' and the fall semester. Greg had finished his last exam, stopped briefly at his apartment to get his luggage, and went directly to the airport. Now, twelve hours later, here he was in Paris, luggage in hand, walking toward the pickup area. He had been advised in the letter to look for his name, and sure enough, there was a chauffeur holding a card with his name printed large.
He was driven to a nice hotel on the Champs Ellysees where a very nice suite awaited him. The last instructions in his mother's cryptic letter had told him to shower and put on the tuxedo that lay across the king size bed, and then to walk down the main staircase into the lobby and look for a white rose. As he was pondering this, there was a knock at the door. The concierge had sent up a barber and manicurist.
Greg, aged nineteen and a couple of months, had never worn a tuxedo before, except for 'rentals' of course, but they didn't count. This one was the real thing -- it counted big time. It was exquisitely tailored to his body, and he felt like a million bucks. He felt like James Bond at Casino Royale. He felt like he was attending his own coronation. Beautiful women were glancing at him.
The lobby was aglitter with chandeliers and brass. Through the great windows at the far end, the last light of the day was being replaced with a blazing sunset and the fabled lights of Paris, France. His ears sampled the ambience of French, English, German and other far more exotic languages. He glanced discretely about at the cosmopolitan mix of peoples. This was not Kansas anymore.
"Monsieur."
He turned to the captivating voice with a grace that he did not know he possessed. She was stunningly beautiful in an under-stated way. As elegant as any actress he had seen on any silver screen. In an instant, his peripheral vision took in her full, sensuous lips, the low decolletage of her black silk dress, the promise of paradise nestled between her breasts, her flawless legs. And the white rose she held in her hand.
"Yes ma'am. May I be of service to you?"
She smiled and a star went nova in his heart. She had such a simple face, such an ageless and loving face, surrounded by a halo of curled red hair. Not a cute red or even a fiery red, but a red that spoke of deep and uninhibited passions. A red that accented the red lips which spoke his name.
"Gregory. Call me Elli."
Recognition hit him like a ton of bricks. "Mo...!"
Her finger was already across his lips, freezing the word in midair. Her eyes approached closer.
"Call me Elli. I'm your birthday present. I'm your ideal girlfriend. I feel like I have known you for years, and I've been looking forward to our meeting here tonight, monsieur. I hope you're hungry."
She smiled again, a smile that he had never seen before, despite all the years he had lived with her. Though it was, on second thought, a smile he recognized. He had seen it before on a website. On his moth... on Elli's website. Her arm slipped through his, and he was escorting the most beautiful courtesan in the world across the lobby of one of the best hotels in the City of Love.
Several men gave her more than a cursory glance as they walked toward the restaurant.
The meal began with an ice-filled bowl covered in a bewildering array of seafoods, a bottle of white Bordeaux and long sticks of dry, crackly French bread. There was sparkling conversation over his progress in college, his vision for his future, and much laughter over the French gossip that Elli shared. On one occasion, a middle-aged man of obvious wealth and position passed by their table, recognized Elli, and exchanged very discrete greetings. Greg was introduced only by name. The gentleman' s envy at Greg's position was obvious. She told Greg later that the man had been a business partner of a previous client, and the woman he was sitting with was one of several mistresses.
The next course was filet mignon in a light burgundy sauce and a bottle of Cabernet Franc. Elli began teasing him with her words and her body and her eyes. He caught himself glancing at her breasts. The wine was going to his head, and he loved it.
They went dancing, real body-contact dancing to a real orchestra. He could feel her breasts brush against him, and every time it happened, his body betrayed its arousal. She could feel his hardness against her, and he knew it. Her lips brushed his cheek. He inhaled the fragrance of her hair and dropped little kisses on her neck.
She pulled him outside into the sweet night air, and they walked through the gardens. It was there in the dark shadow of a large tree that he first kissed her, tremulously at first, hesitating, then with greater confidence and passion as she pressed her body into his. His blood roared in his ears.
She was Elli with the red hair and French accent, a beautiful girl in her twenties that he had just met, a perfect girlfriend indeed, who hung on his every word and laughed at his lame jokes, whose fragrance had him intoxicated, whose slightest touch caused his penis to throb uncontrollably--and delightfully. Beneath her simple, black silk dress, she wore no undergarments. His fingers told him that. Her body called to him, teased him, beckoned him to go further, to seek and to claim the ultimate prize nestled between her thighs.
She was his mother, whom he fought with over finances and schedules, whose occupation shamed him, who never listened, who barked orders or issued deep sighs of frustration, the ever-demanding critic for whom he would never be good enough. A jolt went through his mind when these facts came to the fore, and he felt himself withdraw. Then it was the feel of her hand on his arm, her fragrance, a glimpse of her breasts, the lilt of her tongue, her roguish eyes that laughed at his discomfort, and she was Elli again, and the blood roared in his ears.
She was Elli the Courtesan, pulling in a six-digit income rubbing elbows with the wealthy and powerful, master of four languages and with degrees in Psychology and International Finance, wizard manipulator of human males, always in control, genius of erotic seduction, yet always as detached as she needed to be, chameleon, spy, adventuress, slut, queen. Here she was, plying her exotic trade with a naïf, not so much to seduce him as to impress him, to demonstrate her secret talents so he would admire her, respect her.
Respect her? She was his mother. His mother. And she was playing the role of Elli full out, using all her sexual wiles and tricks. Perhaps she should throttle back? The boy was aroused, very sexually aroused. Even as she thought this, she was brushing her exquisite breasts across his arm, letting him penetrate his nose into her hair, training him to kiss her neck just there, practically on command. Operant conditioning. Pavlov's puppy. She could feel his erection against her hip, her belly. She was his mother. Elli rubbed her belly against his erection, making it jump, as she gave him her most come-hither smile, letting him drown in her eyes. She was his mother and she didn't know. She didn't know how far she was going to take this. To allow it to go. She could feel his desire, and it thrilled her to a degree that she did not comprehend.
She could feel his desire. Of course she could. She was Elli the Courtesan. She was always in control of the game even as the game consumed her. They pirouetted around the dance floor, and he kissed her ear. She ever so briefly brushed against his erection and felt his entire body respond like the plucked string of a cello. The blood roared in her ears.
- - - - - - - - -
It was five hours and two bottles of wine later. Five exquisite hours of excess and surrender and aerobic seduction. These rich young men, unaccustomed to the power games of the truly powerful, were always so easy. So transparent. So easy to lure on, one step at a time, giving them just a taste here and there of what they lusted for so deeply. Here, little puppy, here little Pavlov. It was all so funny.
It took him three tries to get the key in the lock. He almost made it the second time, but she rose on tiptoe and bit his earlobe, causing another peal of laughter and the key slipped out. Then they were in, the door securely snugged. The lights were on low, the bed seductively pulled down. There were fresh flowers. Elli had always found fresh flowers an aphrodisiac. The client always found an aroused Elli to be an aphrodisiac. And she was so, so aroused.
She slipped softly into his arms after he lost the jacket and tie. She nibbled at his lower lip as he slipped out of his shoes. He nibbled at her upper lip as she kicked off her heels. He was laying on his back looking into her eyes. Did they always look so young and helpless at the climax of the game? She straddled his lap, allowing her skirt to bunch up around her hips, totally conscious of the iron-hard lump that pulsed only one layer of fabric beneath her bare genitals. He gasped. She bent forward slowly, leaning on her hands, and kissed him full on the mouth deeply. She felt the last vestige of his hesitation disappear. His hands slid up her sides and cupped her breasts. She rewarded him by slowly grinding her crotch against his erection. Here little Pavlov.
His kiss suddenly echoed her own intensity. His hands crushed her breasts. Suddenly she was rising, as his powerful muscles raised him to a sitting position. He whipped the wisp of silk dress over her head and tossed it aside. His powerful hands lay her down on her back. In a few seconds, his clothing flew across the room and he pinned her against the mattress with his naked body, and covered her lips with his own. One hand snaked over her hip, then between her thighs. Tentative fingertips found her professionally trimmed labia. She laughed inside their kiss and expertly withdrew a knee to grant him access. Good little Pavlov. Here's your treat.
Two naked bodies slowly and sensuously writhed against each other. His mouth descended to her neck and she gasped at the sudden erotic charge. His lips descended to her breast and his mouth devoured it gently, hungrily. Again she gasped at the unexpected, but exhilarating erotic charge that pulsed through her body. Fingers pressed gently and her last defenses eagerly parted and welcomed him into the moist cauldron of her soul. She heard herself moan with a degree of passion that surprised her. She normally did not give up control so easily. But it felt so good to do so this time. Why this time? To surrender herself. To give in completely and let the feelings wash over her like a rising storm tide.
After all, this time was special. Knees parted her knees. Thighs pressed against her thighs. His hungry mouth was at her throat. Time to surrender herself. His erection paused briefly between her lubricated labia, then plunged deep into her vagina. Her head rocked back of its own accord and she fought for breath. Oh god, why was it so good this time? So incredibly good. His young strong body against her, taking control away from her, having its way with her. So incredibly good to surrender, surrender, open up totally and surrender to his hard thrusting cock.
He was pounding her, pounding into her, lighting every fire in her loins and in her brain. Oh god oh god this was so incredible! Surrendering to his hard cock. Surrendering all control and all guilt and all shame to the glory of his thrusting cock. To the exquisite naughtiness of Gregory's magnificent cock.
Her entire nervous system thrummed with a tsunami of sexual power. Her vagina clamped down. Her back arched. Her eyes flew open! She stared into the face of Gregory! Her son Gregory? Gregory! Oh god Gregory! Oh GOD Gregory! Oh GOD OH GOD OH GOD OHHHH...
...GOOOOOOOOOOOOD!!!!!!!
The tsunami of her own orgasm slammed down without pity, crushing her under the mindless mass of it.
Gregory!
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The powerfully built young man stood before her in the kitchen, his hands shoved into the back pockets of his blue jeans, his bare feet making nervous little movements on the expensive tile floor.
"Greg, I chose my career because I knew that I could be very good at it, maybe the best. And it has allowed me to raise you in a good home. You're a sophomore at the best college in the state. After you get your degree, you can go anywhere you want, and become the best you can be. I'm proud of what I have accomplished, and I'm proud of you."
The woman facing Greg was beautiful in that girl-next-door kind of way, despite having tousled hair, a rather plain robe, and no makeup. She held the day's first cup of coffee, and was trying not to squint as the first rays of the sun broke through the window over the sink. This wasn't the first time she had had this conversation with her son, but now that he was almost nineteen, she realized that he needed better answers than just: I'll explain some day when you're older. He was older.
"But mom, how can I be proud of you when I know what you do for a living? Isn't having sex with strange men, like, what a whore does?"
There was no anger in his voice, just a plaintive discomfort. She took a long pull at the coffee cup, cast pleading eyes up at the ceiling, and directed her son to sit at the breakfast table. She took the opposite chair, and focused calmly on his worried face.
"Greg, I know this has been a big source of concern and maybe even shame for you ever since you discovered my website four years ago. I can only imagine what it was like seeing naked pictures of your mother. Jeez! I didn't do a good job of explaining then. Let me try again. I don't have sex with strangers. What I do is spend time with very wealthy men who are willing to pay up to ten thousand dollars a day for a certain kind of companionship. What I do is, sort of like, umm, become their ideal girlfriend for a few hours or a few days. That may include sex, but not necessarily. It often means that I fly with them to exotic places like Paris or Rio. I have to look and dress and act the part of a woman who is perfectly comfortable at the highest social circles. I have to be able to discuss international politics and finance as if that were my career. And do it in four languages. If anything, I'm an actress or a consultant, not a whore."
"But mom, you don't know these men. They're total strangers."
"No Greg, they're not. Before my first meeting with any of them, I research their complete background down to their education, business history, credit rating and criminal record. Remember, young man, my first job was a security consultant for some rather large companies." She squinted her eyes and affected a silly French accent.
"I have ze skills unaware of which are you."
A grin and a chuckle broke the serious mask of worry on his face. She returned to her normal voice.
"And there's never sex on the first meeting. That's just to get to know each other, have supper, and determine if he wants to invest any big money in my talents -- and," she took a deep breath, "to see if he's the kind of client I can give an authentic performance for."
"You mean, you turn some of them down?"
She nodded. "Yes, but always very gently, dear."
He leaned forward on his elbows and looked right at her. "So, you could tell this Roberto guy to take a rain check or something? You promised me we would do some skiing together for my birthday. We got tickets to Driftwood and everything."
"Sweetheart, he's my second biggest client. I was surprised he called on such short notice -- he offered a huge bonus as an apology. Normally I ask for 30 days notice, but he has a... well, it's a rather important and delicate financial matter with some... some high level politicians in Europe, and he needs... a companion who understands French and German. Someone who can help him deal with the stress. Me."
The boy looked down at the table in disgust and disappointment.
"You mean by fucking him?"
Elaine heard the pain in his voice, but she heard something else as well, something very like jealousy.
"Greg, I help him deal with stress in many ways. I entertain him, I make him laugh, I make him proud to be seen with me. My presence often takes the focus off of him and puts it on me, giving him some breathing space. I'm an extra pair of ears and eyes for him. And yes, if he needs sex, then I'll give him that, too. And it will be the best he's ever had. It's my job, Greg. That's what I do, and I will not be ashamed of it. I don't want you to be ashamed of it, either."
She jumped to her feet, and pulled him up, even though he was now four inches taller than she was.
"Listen, sweetheart, you know I'm creative and resourceful, right? Remember that party I pulled off for your seventeenth birthday? Hunh? You never figured I could do that, right?"
He grinned begrudgingly. "Yeah. Who'd ever dream that Peter Frampton would show up here and put on a four-man stage show for some kid's birthday. It was awesome!"
Elaine echoed his grin. "Yeah, and you're awesome, too, Greg. Tell you what, cut me some slack, okay? You're going on that ski trip, but I'll find someone to replace me. Sorry. Can't help that. But when I get back, I'll make it up to you. I promise. But right now I got to get ready and catch a plane. Try to understand, baby."
She raised up on tiptoes to kiss him on the forehead. He nodded and grinned. And let her hug him.
- - - - - - - - -
"Candy? Hi, this is Elaine.
"Listen, I'm short on time. I'm on my way to the airport and I want you to do a favor for me. Say, a two-thousand dollar favor?
"No, nothing like that! You know that's anatomically impossible, but I'm flattered you asked.
"Yeah. Listen, I want you to go skiing with my son, Greg. It's his nineteenth birthday.
"Five days in Driftwood, all expenses covered, and an extra two grand if my son returns home in one piece. What do you say?
"What?
"No, Candy, I'm not asking you to have sex with him! I mean, I'm not forbidding you to have sex with him, either. It's just that I can't go with him and I need someone to take my place. And I know that...
"Candy, Candy, I trust you and Greg likes you. Just be like... like his 'Aunt Candice'. Let him have fun, teach him to dance. Yeah, teach him to dance! You're a great dancer! And talk to him. Get him talking about...
"Well, he hasn't talked much to me in several years...
"Just be his best friend for five days, you know? How hard is that? Find out what he wants...
"As a replacement birthday present. He was so looking forward to spending five days with me without the phone going off every hour on the hour, so find out what he...
"Oh, yeah, very funny, Candy. Well, if that's what he wants, and it's HIS idea, then go ahead, slut. But you have to give me a blow by blow description afterwards. Okay?
"Oh yeah? Hah, girl, over my dead body.
"You will? Great! Thanks a heap, Candy! See you in eight days. Bye."
- - - - - - - - -
Elaine walked into the Frabjois Day Sidewalk Cafe for her meeting with Candice. After a few minutes, she decided she was not dressed for the air conditioning, so she requested an outside table. Several men gave her more than a cursory glance as she was shown to her table. The sun that filtered through the ornamental pear trees gave amazing copper highlights to her hair. At five foot five, and wearing heels, she achieved that perfect aura of being statuesque, like a professional model. The sundress was simple but exactingly tailored to show just a kiss of cleavage between her precious 34-B's, and her flawless legs to mid-thigh. Though she was thirty-six, she appeared ageless.
The waiter all but swooned.
As she looked over the menu, Candice arrived. They blew kisses past each other's ear, laughed and placed their orders.
While waiting for their salads, Candice gave Elaine an executive summary of the skiing trip from her own perspective, knowing full well that Elaine would have already heard the detailed version of the five days from her son, Greg. It had all gone well. Two minor accidents on the easy slopes, no injuries, no major disappointments, lots of fun. With a big smile, Elaine handed over an envelope containing a Hallmark Card ("Thank You Bunches -- Like Grapes"), two one-hundred-dollar bills and a check for the rest.
Their wine and salads were served.
"Sounds like you had fun. Wonderful! And thanks again, Candy. You're a dear. So, tell me about Greg."
"That's one incredible boy you have there, Elli. It was all I could do to keep my hands off him. Damn, I wish you would let me jump his bones. He's a virgin, you know."
"What? Ridiculous. The way he dates? He had half the cheerleaders in high school totally in love with him. I know, because they would come over and cry on my shoulder."
"Elli, you need to listen to me. Really. He's never been laid. Except for a single blowjob that Heather what's-her-name give him after the senior prom, but he was drunk. Never mind that. The third night in Driftwood, I... I tried to put some moves on him. Nothing outrageous -- hear me out. I put on that seafoam-green silk teddy and matching gown you bought me for Christmas. It's not all that revealing. Well, a little. He was listening to music and reading a book. I brought in a bottle of chilled white wine and a platter of fruit and cheese. We sat on the couch and talked and ..."
"Candy, I heard you say he's still a virgin, but give me the bottom line, did you have ANY kind of sex with Greg?"
Candice rolled her eyes. "No. Believe me, I wanted to. I mean sure, I got him to kiss me, and let me tell you, he is a natural, Elli. Oh. My. God. But I couldn't get him to go much further than that. I mean, he wanted to, Elli. I could tell he was hard as a rock, and his heart was pounding. But the only time my hand got to home plate, he gently pushed it aside. So, we wound up talking until nearly four in the morning."
"Uhh... Do you think he's gay? Oh god, I hope not."
"Absolutely not. He's as straight as an arrow. And he knows exactly what he wants."
Candice took a bite of salad, and a sip of wine, never breaking eye contact. The silence became palpable.
"Candy? What does Greg want?"
"Elli, he wants you. That's all he's ever wanted since he found your escort website."
Elaine became an unblinking statue for a count of five. Then she blinked.
"Me? Greg wants me? How do you mean that?"
"You heard me, Elli. Greg is in love with you. Not you, Elaine, but you, Elli. 'The Ideal Girlfriend' -- isn't that what your website says? 'The Ultimate Intimate Experience'? 'The Companion of Your Dreams'? Shall I go on? Shall I remind you of the pictures of you on that website? The swimsuit shots? The lingerie shots? The nude shots? And in every damn one of them, you look no older than, well, my age, twenty-five. Greg got just tipsy enough to spill all his beans. He said he checks in on your site several times a week. And he masturbates. Dreaming of Elli. Yearning for his Ideal Girlfriend. That's really sad, Elli."
Elaine put her fork down and pushed away her salad, half uneaten.
"Candy? You must think I'm a monster."
"No, Elli. I don't think you're a monster. But you WILL be a monster if you don't take care of your son. You can't let him go on this way, pining for you."
"What... what do you suggest I do, Candy? I never meant things to get this way!"
"I know, Elli. Hey, here's our entrees. Take another big sip of wine, and let me tell you everything that happened in Driftwood, okay? Then later, we can discuss your options. If you have any."
- - - - - - - - -
Greg opened the envelope that had been hand-addressed to his apartment at the University. He unfolded the expensive laid paper that smelled faintly of lavender. He glanced at the airline ticket to Paris, France. He read the hand-written message with increasing interest to the bottom of the page, and then onto the back. It ended with the words, "Happy Birthday, my darling. I hope you enjoy your slightly delayed birthday gift. Love. Your Mother."
He looked again in the envelope, and then again at all sides of the letter and ticket for further explanation. There was nothing else. His brow furrowed. It all sounded very, very mysterious.
- - - - - - - - -
It was the week between the end of the short summer 'trimester' and the fall semester. Greg had finished his last exam, stopped briefly at his apartment to get his luggage, and went directly to the airport. Now, twelve hours later, here he was in Paris, luggage in hand, walking toward the pickup area. He had been advised in the letter to look for his name, and sure enough, there was a chauffeur holding a card with his name printed large.
He was driven to a nice hotel on the Champs Ellysees where a very nice suite awaited him. The last instructions in his mother's cryptic letter had told him to shower and put on the tuxedo that lay across the king size bed, and then to walk down the main staircase into the lobby and look for a white rose. As he was pondering this, there was a knock at the door. The concierge had sent up a barber and manicurist.
Greg, aged nineteen and a couple of months, had never worn a tuxedo before, except for 'rentals' of course, but they didn't count. This one was the real thing -- it counted big time. It was exquisitely tailored to his body, and he felt like a million bucks. He felt like James Bond at Casino Royale. He felt like he was attending his own coronation. Beautiful women were glancing at him.
The lobby was aglitter with chandeliers and brass. Through the great windows at the far end, the last light of the day was being replaced with a blazing sunset and the fabled lights of Paris, France. His ears sampled the ambience of French, English, German and other far more exotic languages. He glanced discretely about at the cosmopolitan mix of peoples. This was not Kansas anymore.
"Monsieur."
He turned to the captivating voice with a grace that he did not know he possessed. She was stunningly beautiful in an under-stated way. As elegant as any actress he had seen on any silver screen. In an instant, his peripheral vision took in her full, sensuous lips, the low decolletage of her black silk dress, the promise of paradise nestled between her breasts, her flawless legs. And the white rose she held in her hand.
"Yes ma'am. May I be of service to you?"
She smiled and a star went nova in his heart. She had such a simple face, such an ageless and loving face, surrounded by a halo of curled red hair. Not a cute red or even a fiery red, but a red that spoke of deep and uninhibited passions. A red that accented the red lips which spoke his name.
"Gregory. Call me Elli."
Recognition hit him like a ton of bricks. "Mo...!"
Her finger was already across his lips, freezing the word in midair. Her eyes approached closer.
"Call me Elli. I'm your birthday present. I'm your ideal girlfriend. I feel like I have known you for years, and I've been looking forward to our meeting here tonight, monsieur. I hope you're hungry."
She smiled again, a smile that he had never seen before, despite all the years he had lived with her. Though it was, on second thought, a smile he recognized. He had seen it before on a website. On his moth... on Elli's website. Her arm slipped through his, and he was escorting the most beautiful courtesan in the world across the lobby of one of the best hotels in the City of Love.
Several men gave her more than a cursory glance as they walked toward the restaurant.
The meal began with an ice-filled bowl covered in a bewildering array of seafoods, a bottle of white Bordeaux and long sticks of dry, crackly French bread. There was sparkling conversation over his progress in college, his vision for his future, and much laughter over the French gossip that Elli shared. On one occasion, a middle-aged man of obvious wealth and position passed by their table, recognized Elli, and exchanged very discrete greetings. Greg was introduced only by name. The gentleman' s envy at Greg's position was obvious. She told Greg later that the man had been a business partner of a previous client, and the woman he was sitting with was one of several mistresses.
The next course was filet mignon in a light burgundy sauce and a bottle of Cabernet Franc. Elli began teasing him with her words and her body and her eyes. He caught himself glancing at her breasts. The wine was going to his head, and he loved it.
They went dancing, real body-contact dancing to a real orchestra. He could feel her breasts brush against him, and every time it happened, his body betrayed its arousal. She could feel his hardness against her, and he knew it. Her lips brushed his cheek. He inhaled the fragrance of her hair and dropped little kisses on her neck.
She pulled him outside into the sweet night air, and they walked through the gardens. It was there in the dark shadow of a large tree that he first kissed her, tremulously at first, hesitating, then with greater confidence and passion as she pressed her body into his. His blood roared in his ears.
She was Elli with the red hair and French accent, a beautiful girl in her twenties that he had just met, a perfect girlfriend indeed, who hung on his every word and laughed at his lame jokes, whose fragrance had him intoxicated, whose slightest touch caused his penis to throb uncontrollably--and delightfully. Beneath her simple, black silk dress, she wore no undergarments. His fingers told him that. Her body called to him, teased him, beckoned him to go further, to seek and to claim the ultimate prize nestled between her thighs.
She was his mother, whom he fought with over finances and schedules, whose occupation shamed him, who never listened, who barked orders or issued deep sighs of frustration, the ever-demanding critic for whom he would never be good enough. A jolt went through his mind when these facts came to the fore, and he felt himself withdraw. Then it was the feel of her hand on his arm, her fragrance, a glimpse of her breasts, the lilt of her tongue, her roguish eyes that laughed at his discomfort, and she was Elli again, and the blood roared in his ears.
She was Elli the Courtesan, pulling in a six-digit income rubbing elbows with the wealthy and powerful, master of four languages and with degrees in Psychology and International Finance, wizard manipulator of human males, always in control, genius of erotic seduction, yet always as detached as she needed to be, chameleon, spy, adventuress, slut, queen. Here she was, plying her exotic trade with a naïf, not so much to seduce him as to impress him, to demonstrate her secret talents so he would admire her, respect her.
Respect her? She was his mother. His mother. And she was playing the role of Elli full out, using all her sexual wiles and tricks. Perhaps she should throttle back? The boy was aroused, very sexually aroused. Even as she thought this, she was brushing her exquisite breasts across his arm, letting him penetrate his nose into her hair, training him to kiss her neck just there, practically on command. Operant conditioning. Pavlov's puppy. She could feel his erection against her hip, her belly. She was his mother. Elli rubbed her belly against his erection, making it jump, as she gave him her most come-hither smile, letting him drown in her eyes. She was his mother and she didn't know. She didn't know how far she was going to take this. To allow it to go. She could feel his desire, and it thrilled her to a degree that she did not comprehend.
She could feel his desire. Of course she could. She was Elli the Courtesan. She was always in control of the game even as the game consumed her. They pirouetted around the dance floor, and he kissed her ear. She ever so briefly brushed against his erection and felt his entire body respond like the plucked string of a cello. The blood roared in her ears.
- - - - - - - - -
It was five hours and two bottles of wine later. Five exquisite hours of excess and surrender and aerobic seduction. These rich young men, unaccustomed to the power games of the truly powerful, were always so easy. So transparent. So easy to lure on, one step at a time, giving them just a taste here and there of what they lusted for so deeply. Here, little puppy, here little Pavlov. It was all so funny.
It took him three tries to get the key in the lock. He almost made it the second time, but she rose on tiptoe and bit his earlobe, causing another peal of laughter and the key slipped out. Then they were in, the door securely snugged. The lights were on low, the bed seductively pulled down. There were fresh flowers. Elli had always found fresh flowers an aphrodisiac. The client always found an aroused Elli to be an aphrodisiac. And she was so, so aroused.
She slipped softly into his arms after he lost the jacket and tie. She nibbled at his lower lip as he slipped out of his shoes. He nibbled at her upper lip as she kicked off her heels. He was laying on his back looking into her eyes. Did they always look so young and helpless at the climax of the game? She straddled his lap, allowing her skirt to bunch up around her hips, totally conscious of the iron-hard lump that pulsed only one layer of fabric beneath her bare genitals. He gasped. She bent forward slowly, leaning on her hands, and kissed him full on the mouth deeply. She felt the last vestige of his hesitation disappear. His hands slid up her sides and cupped her breasts. She rewarded him by slowly grinding her crotch against his erection. Here little Pavlov.
His kiss suddenly echoed her own intensity. His hands crushed her breasts. Suddenly she was rising, as his powerful muscles raised him to a sitting position. He whipped the wisp of silk dress over her head and tossed it aside. His powerful hands lay her down on her back. In a few seconds, his clothing flew across the room and he pinned her against the mattress with his naked body, and covered her lips with his own. One hand snaked over her hip, then between her thighs. Tentative fingertips found her professionally trimmed labia. She laughed inside their kiss and expertly withdrew a knee to grant him access. Good little Pavlov. Here's your treat.
Two naked bodies slowly and sensuously writhed against each other. His mouth descended to her neck and she gasped at the sudden erotic charge. His lips descended to her breast and his mouth devoured it gently, hungrily. Again she gasped at the unexpected, but exhilarating erotic charge that pulsed through her body. Fingers pressed gently and her last defenses eagerly parted and welcomed him into the moist cauldron of her soul. She heard herself moan with a degree of passion that surprised her. She normally did not give up control so easily. But it felt so good to do so this time. Why this time? To surrender herself. To give in completely and let the feelings wash over her like a rising storm tide.
After all, this time was special. Knees parted her knees. Thighs pressed against her thighs. His hungry mouth was at her throat. Time to surrender herself. His erection paused briefly between her lubricated labia, then plunged deep into her vagina. Her head rocked back of its own accord and she fought for breath. Oh god, why was it so good this time? So incredibly good. His young strong body against her, taking control away from her, having its way with her. So incredibly good to surrender, surrender, open up totally and surrender to his hard thrusting cock.
He was pounding her, pounding into her, lighting every fire in her loins and in her brain. Oh god oh god this was so incredible! Surrendering to his hard cock. Surrendering all control and all guilt and all shame to the glory of his thrusting cock. To the exquisite naughtiness of Gregory's magnificent cock.
Her entire nervous system thrummed with a tsunami of sexual power. Her vagina clamped down. Her back arched. Her eyes flew open! She stared into the face of Gregory! Her son Gregory? Gregory! Oh god Gregory! Oh GOD Gregory! Oh GOD OH GOD OH GOD OHHHH...
...GOOOOOOOOOOOOD!!!!!!!
The tsunami of her own orgasm slammed down without pity, crushing her under the mindless mass of it.
Gregory!
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Makenna
- 11.08.2020
- 6
- 0
- Category:
- Incest
