Chapter 1: My New Mother

Martin

Normally the fastest way to the airport would have been to use the Messeschnellweg and then a short stint on the Autobahn, but that logic doesn't apply when the summer holidays are on, so I was slogging through the city towards Hannover-Langenhagen. That gave me time to think about the upcoming reunion with my mother. Reunion is perhaps a bit of a big word, considering she'd only been to Switzerland for twelve weeks, but even though I was eighteen already, that was the longest I'd ever been separated from her.

I love my mom, no doubt about that, but don't think I've been sitting at home moping. Having the house to myself for three months? Puleeze, which young guy would not love that. Granted, most other guys would have had female companionship, or parties, probably constantly. I'm pretty sure I was the only virgin in our class, and I have my damn brains and my stepfather to thank for that. There were no parties with a platoon of hookers or anything, I had used the chance to go naked for all that time without mom thinking I'm weird. It's my guilty pleasure – sue me.

Mom and I were born in East Germany. My father died in 1987 in a car accident. From today's perspective it's surprising that our family's Trabant had gone fast enough to have a crash in the first place, but the thing had no safety features beyond seat belts and the guilty party in this accident had been a drunk tram driver, who'd thought he had right of way because his vehicle weighed thirty tons.

I was only nine at the time, so the fall of the Berlin wall in 1989 and the reunification of Germany a year later are things that I didn't quite understand yet in their enormity. What I did understand was why we were suddenly moving to the west. Mom had worked in a kolkhoz, so that job went out of the window when the wall went down. She found work as a florist in Hannover and soon she met Gerd, the owner of the chain of flower shops she was working for. They got married in 1994 and I was actually quite happy, because at the time I thought my mom was too young to be without a husband and second, because Gerd was wealthy, I mean REALLY wealthy.

But it soon turned out mom was little more than a Trophy wife. Not in the sense that my stepfather didn't love her, but, Jesus, he made the pope look like someone from Sodom and Gomorrah. I was too young to think about that at the time, but I bet mom had never gotten any other sex than a quick missionary bang with the lights turned off, if even that. He loved mom, but he wasn't very expressive about it. And he accepted me like his own son. He wasn't a bad man. Not at all, but he had all the passion of a dead fish.

With no-one to admire her, mom stopped caring about her look. She wasn't badly groomed or anything, but while other women were working out to avoid getting bigger or keeping gravity from messing up their boobs, mom left it at making sure she was eating healthy. As a result, she had developed a tiny bit of a tummy and gravity had dragged her boobs down pretty badly. But who was there to notice but me?

Not that I made up for my stepfather's unwillingness to sate her desires. Incest is as illegal in Germany as it is elsewhere in the world. But seeing my mom naked wasn't a rare occurrence. Sometimes she would call from the bath, asking me to bring her a bathrobe or a towel or she would walk back from the bathroom to the bedroom topless. Of course only when my stepfather wasn't home. He was so uptight he would have freaked at the thought of a son seeing his mother without clothes, which is ridiculous. If you want to make sure that your son doesn't start fantasizing about his mother, make sure that he grows up with seeing her naked occasionally so he'll learn that it is perfectly normal.

For me she had always been mom. That she was a woman was a biological fact, but I had never seen her as a sexual being. I can't remember having ever gotten as much as an erection seeing her. As harshly as it sounds, but I guess my mom's lack of motivation to do much about her aging process may have had to do with it as well. By the time I was fourteen and started to look at female bodies with different eyes, mom was thirty-four and she'd not aged well.

A year ago, not too long after my seventeenth birthday in 1997, after only three years of marriage, mom and my stepfather came to the conclusion that they had simply drifted apart and got divorced. It was a rather amicable split. We got to keep the estate and the big house and dad even sold his business to mom for the symbolic price of one Deutschmark, which redefines the term generosity as it makes double digit numbers of millions every year. In compensation he got two thirds from the family's bank-account, but the remnants were still somewhere around twenty million. With this generous starting capital, he emigrated to America, where he was right at home with his prudish lifestyle. But as I said, it was an amicable split and they still call each other on their respective birthdays and he gives mom advice if she runs into a snag with the business.

I finally arrived at the last roundabout and turned my concentration back to the road. The driveways into Hannover airport can be tricky and it's easy to end up at departures when you wanted to go to arrivals and vice-versa. Today it was arrivals and I parked the car right across from the exit of Terminal B. There was still some time before mom's flight from Zurich would arrive, so I could go up to the viewing platform.

Mom had surprised me three months prior when she sat me down and explained that she wanted to change her life radically. She told me that at thirty-eight she still had a few good years ahead and wanted to use them. It had been a talk that spanned most of the evening and involved the consumption of wine in generous amounts. I don't know if it was the booze or if she had planned to do so, but mom had been VERY straightforward that day and also admitted her sexual frustration of many years.

The details about mom's love-life or lack thereof had actually been a bit too graphic for my liking, but I was happy that she'd decided to book six weeks in a beauty farm in Switzerland. Considering that she'd paid more than she would have for staying in the ritziest hotel in town, I wondered if she was getting her personal pool boy included who would take care of her sexual frustration. She even seemed to have made a friend as she talked increasingly more and more about some guy called Andy in our email exchange. It didn't seem to be something romantic. More like a guy friend.

Little did I know what awaited me when I saw the jet of Swiss Airlines sail down the glide path. Waiting until I could see that it had landed safely I left the platform and made my way towards Terminal B.

I started to wonder just how many people could have been fitted in that small airplane as one person after the next left through the gate and none of them was my mother. I took out my mobile, checking if I had perhaps missed a call or a message that she'd be on another flight, but there was nothing. When the next person stepped out I knew it was not mom, who walked out, but I didn't mind. For the moment I was distracted by that stunning creature. There was no pink-coloured Samsonite on her baggage trolley, so it couldn't be my mother. The only thing that bomb shell had in common with my missing parental unit was the hair – long pitch-black hair. Europe is pretty liberal in comparison to most parts of the world, but what that girl – perhaps twenty-five – was wearing bordered on the scandalous, even here.

Her jeans, if it were jeans, could just as well have been a body painting and I wasn't sure that that guess was so far off. They tightly hugged her long shapely legs and from what I could see from the distance, a pert little arse as well. But that was nothing in comparison to the tight blouse she was wearing, with a neck line almost down to the navel and a cleavage that redefined the meaning of 'copious'. Her knockers were very substantial to say the least. Don't ask me about the face, I wouldn't have noticed it if she'd worn a horse-mask. My eyes were glued to the most amazing tits I'd ever seen.

She sauntered past me and winked at me, making me gasp. Women of that level of hotness NEVER winked at me, I turned around to look a little longer and she slowed down, looking back at me as well.

"Should I go home without you, Martin?" she asked with a giggle.

If you find a dent in the floor of Hannover airport's Terminal B – that's where my jaw dropped like a lead balloon.

I looked at her and then it dawned on me. That was MOM. She wasn't anything like I remembered her and quite obviously she had not only lain in a tub full of mud, her face plastered with cucumber slices for twelve weeks. Her nose looked different, the wrinkles were gone, but there was still the little mole right next to her nose that had always been her running gag, claiming she was Cindy Crawford's lost twin. And, fuck me sideways, now she was definitely looking the part.

I hugged her, more on instinct than anything else. Hell if that girl was an imposter, good ol' virgin me had at least gotten a hug from a chick that was even hotter than the weather outside. I tried not to be too conspicuous, when I put my hand in my pocket, trying to re-arrange my hard-on to a less obvious position, which is not easy when you're cursed with a rather large appendage.

That's right, it's a curse. You may be a guy wishing to have a bigger one – don't. Nothing is as humiliating as a girl offering to take you to bed and then she starts to cry and runs off because she's scared of what you've just unpacked. Happened to me. That's why I was still a virgin.

We walked to the car in silence all the while mom was smiling and I was horrified that she'd seen the bulge in my pants and tried to steal secret glances at it.

"Want me to answer the obvious question you're too polite to ask?" she inquired as I pulled out of the parking lot. Surprised by her directness I managed a very dignified answer of 'uh'.

Mom just giggled. "Okay, the obvious one is the boob job. I wanted something smaller but then they would have sagged from the start. Then, lipo-suction to get rid of my tummy, firm up my arse and to make my thighs look like something you don't find on an elephant. The nose job to get rid of that ugly honker in my phizog and a bit of lifting, but not too much. Just enough so I don't look like Winnetou's tobacco bag anymore."

"I like your nose, it looks cute," I blurted out, but mom surprised me again, when she snorted.

"Martin Fentner, I just walked out there with boobs that make me look like a melon smuggler. Are you really trying to tell me you've noticed my nose first?"

"Well, I tried to be polite," I admitted with a blush. "It's not easy to admit that you get turned on by your own mother. It's just wrong."

She only giggled again and let me continue the drive home. I was completely shocked. My own mother, who had neglected her body for years, was looking like an utter bombshell. I'm a bit of a medium-sized boob-man, normally not interested in big knockers, but even without having seen them in their full glory, that sorry excuse for a blouse left little doubt that whoever had sculpted mom's new Bristols definitely knew what he or she was doing.

I offered mom to stop at a restaurant, but she declined, saying that she had eaten before the short flight from Switzerland. Once home, I carried her luggage to her bedroom, but she asked me to leave it there as, in her words, there would be ample time to unpack. Instead she went down to the wine cellar and came back with two bottles of the most expensive French wine we had. There were people who lived a whole month on what one bottle cost. Putting down two glasses, mom assumed a lotus position on the couch, facing me.

All my brain capacity was below my waistline as mom had undone one more button on her skimpy blouse and it became obvious that she was not wearing a bra. She showed even more of that massive cleavage. It was strange seeing mom so youthful. She truly looked more like twenty-five, especially since the plastic surgery wasn't as obvious as with some of the celebrities you see. She didn't have her lips bloated for instance, in fact they were the same thin lips she'd always had and I think it looked good on her. And she still had more than two different face expressions as she had obviously forgone the use of Botox. There was no other way to say it, mom was mind-bogglingly beautiful - and sexy as hell. My eyes were practically glued to the bits of her mammary flesh showing.

Until this day I don't know how I managed not to dribble when she suddenly unbuttoned her blouse and exposed her humongous new breasts. "Like them, baby?"

"Wow," I uttered and without thinking – not that I was capable of coherent thought at that point – I leaned forward and touched them, gently kneading the large orbs, enjoying the feeling of her nipples growing against my palms. It took me a while until I realized I was fondling my mother's naked breasts and my hands shot back as if her boobs were red-hot. Mom just smiled and put her glass back on the table. While I was still trying to find a suitable apology, she turned around, leaning back against my chest and guided my arms around her torso, putting my hands back on her large knockers.

"Massage them for me, baby, from the base towards the nipple. It's needed to settle the implant properly."

"I'll probably need both hands," I quipped to gloss over my nervousness. "God mom, your tits are amazing. I thought they'd feel like plastic."

"I've spent a lot of money on the best implants possible," she said, sipping her wine with closed eyes and leaning a bit further into me. The reasons for that became obvious when I realized that I was no longer massaging her boobs like I was supposed to, instead I was fondling and twisting her nipples. Her hand was shaking and she nearly knocked the glass over when she put it back on the table. Mom's hands covered mine as she leaned further into me. My nose was buried in her black hair, picking up the sweet scent of her shampoo. With her hands covering mine, mom gently directed me how to stimulate her sensitive nipples. Her heavy breathing was giving instant feedback that I was doing it right.