“Mum, you’ve got to stop this.”
I was getting close to my wits’ end with her. Dad died in a motorway pileup when he ran into a thick bank of fog. He had been driving, cautiously we were told, and braked well in time to stop behind a stationary truck but a big all-terrain vehicle slammed into the back of him and he was crushed under the truck in front. He never stood a chance and Mum just went to pieces. Scarcely a day went past that she didn’t collapse to the nearest chair sobbing, maybe two or three times. As often as not I would come home from work and find her still in her nightclothes and an old threadbare bathrobe; the sink would be piled with dirty dishes, beds unmade, the house not cleaned, no food in the fridge or cupboards and the laundry still unwashed in its basket.
Today was just such a day and I’d had a hard shift on my multi-drop deliveries, fighting the traffic, humping heavy boxes of stationery up flights of stairs. I was tired, I was weary, I faced an evening of cleaning and cooking when all I wanted to do was sit in front of the telly with a beer or two and relax for the weekend. Financially, we were comfortable thanks to Dad’s foresight in taking out mortgage insurance so the house was Mum’s but I had to work to pay the household expenses. I had to quit college and come back home for that because I dared not let her live alone; she talked sometimes about ending it all and each day I came home from work wondering if she’d be on her bed with an empty pill bottle.
I thought back to my father, and to how he would always speak to her firmly, decisively. “Mother, look at me.” Her tear-stained face turned up at my order as I tried to imitate Dad’s tone of voice. “Dad’s been gone more than two years. You have to move on and start pulling your weight around here.” I had her attention so I continued: “Get yourself cleaned up and dressed. Now!” That final word was snapped at her as I pointed my finger to the passage door.
“Yes Tom.” There was a momentary flash of interest in her eyes and, to my amazement, she rose and left in the direction of the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, she came back downstairs dressed in a flowery cotton skirt and white blouse although she was still in her slippers. From the doorway, she asked, “Is this better Tom?”
Now, I matured quite late and I was only just starting to look at girls when Dad died. Mum was just Mum when I was a kid and all Mums are pretty to their little children. Since we lost Dad, she just became a Mum who didn’t care about her appearance. I looked up at the sound of her voice and was surprised at the change. For the first time I saw her as a pretty lady; her clothes clean and bright, a light touch of makeup and her black hair neatly brushed into the pony tail I always liked. I thought she looked so young and fresh.
“Mum, you look lovely, so much better than your pyjamas. Make me a cup of tea then sit and talk with me.” I made it sound like an order: her eyes twinkled as she moved quickly to put the kettle on.
That must be the secret, I thought, she needs someone to tell her what to do all the time. Maybe she’s one of those people who need a firm will and a commanding voice to motivate her. I watched her preparing the tea and looked at her anew. Her figure was sort of average but yes, she was very pretty, maybe even more than pretty.
Mum set a mug of tea before me then sat opposite, arms on the table, one hand resting on the other with her own mug in front of her. We sat in silence for a minute; I felt that she wanted to say something and that it was going to be difficult for her so I waited patiently. Eventually she began, “Thank you Tom, for ordering me like that.” She took another deep breath and continued, “Your father always used to tell me what to do and that is what I miss about him most. I don’t know why but I just cannot seem to motivate myself. I need a man to tell me what to do all the time. She reached over and laid her hand on mine. “Will you be that man, Tom, will you run my life? Please?”
It was my turn to pause; where was this going? I wondered. “What exactly do you mean, run your life, Mum?”
“Just that: you tell me what to do, like you told me to get cleaned up and dressed, you told me to make you some tea, I did those because you told me to.”
“Does that mean I would have to tell you every little chore and stand over you to make sure?”
“Oh no Tom, what your Dad would do was tell me each morning my tasks for the day. Some tasks were lumped under one which he always called ‘the usual’, which would be make the beds, wash any pots, dust around and have a meal ready when he came home. So he would maybe say something like ‘Today, do the usual then the laundry.’ Things like that. If he told me before he went, I could do it all but if he didn’t tell me, I would sit around not able to decide to do anything, not even dressing because I didn’t know what to wear.”
“I don’t know, Mum. This all seems a bit weird. Were you his slave or something?”
“Perhaps I was, in a way, but I needed him to control and order me. I was happy obeying my man.”
“Even if he told you to do something you really didn’t like?”
“If he told me, yes.”
“And that is what you want me to do? Boss you around and you will obey me, whatever I say?” She nodded her confirmation so I continued: “Dad had to tell you what to wear, too? OK, we’ll go to your bedroom and see what clothes I have to choose from.”
I followed her up the stairs watching her skirt sway from side to side with each step; I was almost mesmerised and bumped into her when she stopped to open the bedroom door. She went straight to her wardrobe, opened it and invited me to inspect the contents. There were many different styles and colours in the dresses, skirts and tops. I looked through them, pulling one or two out, looking at the garments before putting them back.
Mum was just standing, waiting patiently and as I stepped back, she opened the top drawer of her chest of drawers. It contained her lingerie: bras and panties. Those at the front of the drawer were plain, bog standard cotton underwear but as I riffled through, I realised there were many much more sexy and daring towards the back. I wondered what she was wearing now but my bet was the plain stuff.
I looked at her with new eyes; perhaps the sexier underwear had put a new complexion on this situation. She looked more content than I had seen her since Dad died. She looked back at me in quiet submission as an idea started to form in my mind. Returning to the wardrobe, I said, “Pick your favourite.”
She sorted through and pulled a sleeveless dress out; it was a dark blue silk with a gold braid trim. The neckline was cut deep front and back with a two-inch wide strap over each shoulder. She held it out and gazed at it, an enigmatic smile just touching her lips. Her eyes were a little misty.
“Put it on, Mum.” She never gave me a chance to leave the room or even turn my back; she just started unbuttoning her blouse and took it off before dropping her skirt. She was standing there in just her bra and panties: my prediction was right, plain white cotton. She picked up the dress and was stepping into it when I stopped her. I went to the drawer and selected a matching dark blue set of undies in flimsy lace; handing them to her, I told her she was to wear them. I also noticed a suspender belt with the bra and panties.
“Do you have any dark stockings?” She opened another drawer and pulled out a packet. Putting the stockings next to the underwear on the bed, she pulled her cotton panties down and stepped out of them then reached behind her back, unclipped her bra and allowed it to slide off her shoulders. Strangely, she did not appear embarrassed although there was a shy smile on her face. Mum had not done a sexy strip tease, just efficiently removed her clothes but seeing her standing there naked had the obvious effect on my young man’s body. Her breasts, a lovely handful, were firm and perky with light brown aureoles and darker little button nipples, she had a slightly plump abdomen and her pelvic girdle was broad. Starting just a couple of inches below her navel, Mum’s pubic hair was a large untrimmed triangular thatch.
I watched as she dressed: she looked really sexy in her underwear before she stepped into her dress and zipped up. Her bra combined with the tightness of the dress to push her boobs into an attractive cleavage. The dress hugged her torso and flared in the skirt that stopped just short of her knees, showing her legs, shapely in the nylons. I asked her what jewellery she had and selected a lapis lazuli pendant and matching dangly earrings. The pendant nestled just above her cleavage. I found her a pair of black shoes with a 3” heel and she stood before me looking as attractive as any of my fantasies.
“I’m going for a shower; you phone Ristorante Roma and book us a table for 8:00 then call for a taxi at 7:30.”
We parted, she to the tasks I had given her, me to the bathroom. I stripped and soaked myself under the streams of water as I soaped up my erection and pictured Mum in her sexy underwear: after just a few strokes, my cream was swirling down the drain. I completed my shower quickly and walked to my own room carrying my clothes without bothering to dress. I picked out a pair of smart fawn slacks and a white shirt and no tie. A smart dark navy blazer completed my dress so I returned to the kitchen and saw Mum sitting at the table looking relaxed and beautiful.
“Did you get us a table?” I asked.
“Yes, Tom, and the taxi will be here in soon.”
.... There is more of this story ...