I had just cycled home from school when I saw her sitting on the floor inside the house near the door. Her long brown hair were draped over her blue eyes and shoulders and she was holding a half-filled glass of red wine in one hand and nearly an empty bottle in the other.
“What happened?” I asked as I felt a knot forming in my throat.
“Nothing, don’t worry.”
Fearing the worst, my heart started beating wildly and my knees became weak, so I quickly sat down opposite her.
After a few seconds, I again said: “What happened, Mom?”
Taking a deep breath and lifting her big eyes she replied: “I’m in big, big trouble.”
“Because of money, what else. I took a loan to buy this house and now can’t pay it back,” said my mom Karen as she stared at the floor and took a swig from the bottle.
“Don’t worry, Mom, everything will be fine.”
“How will it be? The guy I took the money from wants it back and I don’t have it.”
“Can’t you give it back little by little?”
“It’s a huge amount and you know my stupid job doesn’t pay that well.”
I nodded my head as I was well aware that we were always struggling financially because her salary as sales assistant in a pharmaceutical company wasn’t much.
“He says he will throw us out of the house if we don’t pay up,” she said getting up and dusting her jeans with her hands and tucking in her shirt.
Hearing that my face turned red and I stared at her in panic.
“If you don’t want us to get thrown out on the street, you will have to help me, Mark.”
“Yes, sure, of course.”
Although we had faced many difficulties - Dad leaving us after I was born fifteen years ago and our constant shortage of cash – this was the first time I was seeing her so sad and that brought tears to my eyes.
“He says he will forget all the money business if I send him my photos every day.”
“What do you mean?” I asked in genuine confusion.
Sitting down at the dining table, she tied her long brown hair in a bun and looking straight at me said: “He wants me to send him at least two photos every day.”
“That’s just stupid. Is he crazy?” I said wondering why anybody would want photos.
“I don’t know, but this is our only chance. Since neither I nor you have cell phones that have two cameras, could you take my photos?”
“Sure,” I replied although I was still confused about why he wanted Mom’s photos and that too every day.
“Thanks. Let me wash my face and then you can shoot them. And you also go and wash yourself.”
When I came back she was wearing the same clothes, but now her long hair cascaded over her shoulders and her blue eyes were looking bigger as she had put mascara on and the bright red lipstick was making her lips look even more fuller.
She sat down on a chair in kitchen and placed her elbows on the dining table and her palms under her chin. I clicked two or three photos with her cell, capturing her big blue eyes, high cheekbones, sharp nose and her hair falling on her shoulders.
Then she stood up and put her hands inside the back pockets of her jeans, so I shot couple of images of her front body in that pose.
She took the cell from me and after looking at the photos thanked me and got busy preparing the dinner.
For the next two days she asked me to take more or less similar photos, with only the setting and clothes changing.
On the fourth day, it was a Friday, I was in my room reading an old Archie comic when she knocked on the door and said: “Time for the photo shoot, see you in five.”
My first thought when I saw her standing in the living room was, “that’s weird.”
She was wearing a transparent white shirt under which her red bra was clearly visible and black shorts.
“I know this is too much, but that’s what he wants. Let’s get on with it,” said my thirty-two-year-old mom when she saw me looking at her and began walking briskly to the couch.
Resting her arms on the back of the couch and bending down a little, she placed her big boobs on the back of the couch. As I adjusted the cell for the shot, her huge breasts occupied nearly the whole frame. What was making the situation more difficult was that her shirt was so tight that the buttons were struggling to hide her modesty against the crush of her voluptuous chest. When I placed by eye behind the lens, I could clearly see the white skin of her cleavage and how the two mountains were shielding the peaks inside her red bra.
The way she was pushing her breasts out reminded me of the two photos of her I had stumbled upon in my aunt’s attic a year ago.
In one of the images taken just two months before her marriage according to the timestamp on the photo, Mom, then sixteen, is standing on her knees on a bed and is topless with only her palms covering the bottom part of her already handful boobs and her nipples. Her black hair are swept back, exposing her bare shoulders and neck completely, and her flat stomach and belly button are bare. As if that wasn’t erotic enough, the top two buttons of her jeans are undone.
In the second photo taken when she was around twenty three, she is standing with her arms stretched over her head, her legs are wide apart, and the wind is making her long hair dance around her neck and is pushing her T-shirt against her skin, revealing the perkiness of her breasts.
In the image her mouth is slightly open and her eyes are half closed and the way the cropped shirt is touching her skin and her shorts are revealing her thighs show that she is well aware that she is oozing sexuality, but is proud of it instead of ashamed.
These two photos have been my companions on countless nights since I stole them from Aunt’s place.
“Come on, hurry up,” she suddenly said bringing me swiftly back to present.
I immediately took two or three photos and shuffled back to the kitchen as I didn’t want her to notice the effect she was having on me.
Where are you going?”
“Just getting water,” I replied clearing my throat.
“OK, hurry back as we have to take one more.”
When I came back, she was lying on her back on the carpet with her arms behind her head and one leg slightly raised. Her hair were caressing her forehead, her eyes were closed and her big breasts were rising and falling in pace with her breathing.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said opening her eye.
Standing near her long legs, I took three photos in quick succession.
The next day, as I was walking back to my room after finishing the bowl of milk and corn flakes, she said: “Get ready, we are going to Angus.”
“Huh? Why?” I asked turning toward her.
“Because I want to buy some stuff. Now get ready.”
Angus is a market that sells all sorts of second-hand goods ranging from TV to pots and pans to clothes. It’s more than an hour’s drive from our place. We have been there few times to buy dishwasher, TV and clothes.
“So why not buy them from town?”
“Come on, we haven’t gone anywhere since last week. I’ll treat you to your favorite steak.”
“OK,” I said giving in to her pleading.
“Great,” she replied dusting her hands on her broad hips over her nightgown.
Since she was driving, I spent the whole time flipping radio stations or looking out of the window.
The market, if it can be called one, is in the basement of a long abandoned building.
There’s a long passageway and on both sides of the passageway are small single rooms that are filled with goods from floor to roof.
We passed through shops selling bedcovers, pillow covers, towels, etc., and reached the area where jeans, jackets, skirts, shirts, etc., were packed on top of each other.
Mom went to five or six shops, but I hung around in the passageway. She was in a shop for quite some time so I peeked inside and saw her looking at a full-length dress. She signaled at me with her finger to join her, so I squeezed past all the clothes stuffed on the racks.
“This is beautiful, isn’t it?” she said lifting the dress from the counter and pressing it against the front of her body.
“Yes,” I replied hoping that we could get out of the shop soon.
But she was in no hurry. After selecting the dress, she began looking at skirts.
“What do you say?”
“I don’t know, it’s fine,” I replied even without looking at her.
“It looks very good,” chipped in the guy running the shop.
I turned toward her and saw the skirt was even shorter than the shorts she was wearing but didn’t say anything.
“Now show me a top that will go with this,” she said to the man.
He pulled out three or four tops but Mom rejected them instantly. So he disappeared behind the counter and showed one more to her. She picked it up and placed it against her huge chest but the top was so small that it did not look bigger than a bra.
“Nah, it’s too much,” said Mom to my relief although she kept holding it over her boobs.
“It’s perfect,” said the guy putting his fingers on the sides of the top and pressing it against her chest.
“I have the perfect thing to go with it,” he added as he again bent down and reappeared with skin-colored pasties.
The second I saw the pasties lying on the counter, I turned red as this was the first time I had seen them in real life. I immediately turned my face away from them.
“Also try this top, you can return if you don’t like it,” said the guy in final pitch.
.... There is more of this story ...