It’s nearly midnight and you’re crouched behind the tall, scrawny hedge of a beach house down the way from where you’re staying, watching your mom—naked and on her knees—delivering one hellacious blow job to a young guy on the back porch while his two buddies, with their shorts off and shirts shoved up around their armpits, call out encouragement.

The thing that crosses your mind as you watch—of all the things that could cross your mind right now—the thing that sticks out is how your friends back in high school were right. Your mom does have big tits. Not something you ever gave much thought—because it’s your mom. But if you put that aside, then looking at her, okay—yes—her tits really are something, how they swing and shimmy as she bobs her head sliding her mouth along that guy’s shaft, a quick downstroke then a slow upstroke.

Nude under the porch light, your mom looks like those English girls modeling in the nudie magazines Artie Depster would steal out of his dad’s workshop.

Heavy breasted, good-sized ass, but nicer legs - not the sticks some of those models seem to have, which made their high heels look too big for their feet.

The guy is leaning back against the porch column at the top of the steps, giving you a clear view of your mom kneeling there, working his crank like a pro—or what you’d think was a pro blow job, if you’d ever seen one.

She’s energized, working his crank, holding his balls in one hand, bracing herself with the other, and doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, keeping the rhythm, in time with the music playing on the radio.

Your mother had already finished with the two guys sprawled on the settee, leaving one guy dandling his own balls, the other stroking his fingers across his belly as they both watch her suck the guy standing against the pillar.

You don’t recognize any of them, but the way she’d greeted them when she first came up onto the porch, they all seem to know each other really well.

Every summer your mom brings you to the shore for a few weeks, always staying in the same house while your dad stays in the city, working through the week and then driving out on the weekends to join you.

As far back as you can remember there’d be nights your mom would put you to bed, telling you she was going out to dig some mussels.

When you were older, she’d leave you watching television and head out, wearing her low cut, two-piece swimsuit, usually a new one she’d bought for the season. Carrying a trowel and a large bucket, she’d head out, to try her luck digging mussels she’d say as she disappeared into the beachy darkness.

You didn’t think anything of it, picturing her with her bucket and little shovel, walking the moonlit shore, stopping to dig up the blue-black shellfish from their refuge in the sand, not giving it any more thought.

Only thing is, for as long as she’d been going out to dig mussels, always well after sunset, she never brought back a single mussel. Always something wrong—like, none in her favorite hunting places, or the temperature wasn’t right, or they were all too small to eat—always something. A couple of times when she came back and you were still up, she’d be wobbly, drunk, once with a black eye, and she’d tell you the little buggers fought back, tell you she’d be sore in the morning and to let her sleep.

Of course, it wasn’t until after you were out of high school you bothered to learn that mussels aren’t harvested from the sand along the shore. Whatever it was your mother was doing, it wasn’t collecting mussels.

Tonight, like always, Mom told you she was going out to dig mussels. She tucked keys, dark glasses, coin purse, and aloe vera—for sunburns she couldn’t possibly get after sundown—into the pockets of her shortie cotton cover-up, and headed off with her bucket and trowel. You weren’t terribly interested, but maybe a little curious. You were too old to stay in watching re-runs on television, and a couple years shy of slipping out to try your luck at the bar up the street—notorious for underage drinking, but fierce in their demands for ID—whether it was fake or not. So you decided to follow her and see where she thought she could find mussels, since this summer could be the last vacation you’d get to take with your mom and dad before you headed off for college.

As soon as the slap of her sandals on the back porch steps faded, you slipped out after her.

She was easy to follow, the light color of her cover-up and the pale skin of her legs shining in the moonlight helped to keep her in sight as she walked along the shore.

You trailed her to a beach house about a quarter of a mile from where you all were staying. The house was dark, but the covered back porch was lit up, giving a yellowish glow to the back yard with its patchy fingers of grass extending into the sand toward the shore. A radio, balanced on the railing wrapped around the porch, played summery rock tunes from a local station, its long lance of an arial glittering as the breeze shook it.

On the back porch, two guys lounged on the wicker settee, feet up on the low bamboo table, beers in hand, and another guy stood leaning with his ass against the porch railing.

The house, set back from the street behind a shallow bit of a front yard, stood between tall, ragged hedges on both sides, giving it a good deal of privacy on either side, leaving a view of the shore from the comfort of the back porch. Parked in the dirt driveway to one side of the house, sat a beat-up station wagon, and behind it a shiny red Mercury Cougar. At least one of these guys had money.

Your mom went up the wooden railroad ties that served as steps up from the beach into the patchy back yard, then climbed the steps onto the porch.

You pushed in close, getting a better view of the back porch, while still concealed in the branches of the hedge.

The guys seem to recognize her, one guy calling out, Hey! Mrs C! and the other guy calling back toward the house, Guys, pussy’s here!

From the way she patted their cheeks and kissed the tops of their heads like schoolboys, it was clear these weren’t strangers. Laughing and chittering together, this seemed to be a regular thing.

She leaned over the longish-haired blond guy on the settee, holding out her hand for whatever it was he was smoking. He took a drag and handed it to her.

Couldn’t be a cigarette, the way she drew so long and hard-on it, then held her breath, before passing it to the dark-haired guy leaning against the porch railing. He took a drag and passed it to the moustached guy on the settee.

Reaching into the ice chest, she pulled out a beer, cracked the top and took a swig. Not the refined sipping you’d expect of her, drinking orange juice at breakfast, wine at dinner. No, she threw back her head and took a deep swallow. Finishing, she gasped and dabbed at the trickles of beer at either side of her mouth.

Okay, okay. You could see this might be a way for your mom to let off a little steam. Your dad drank, but didn’t smoke grass. He’d given up tobacco and made her quit when he did. Maybe this was your mom’s chance to take a break from the housewife routine your dad preferred when he moved her to the suburbs, commuting into the city for work. Seek out the most likely place for beer, weed, and music and make the best of her summer—with guys half her age.

She began to sway with the music, kicking off her sandals and stepping up onto the bamboo table to dance barefoot with small languorous steps, forcing the guys to move their feet.

The moustache guy said something you didn’t quite catch and your mom leaned in toward him, untied her top and flipped it to him, landing it on his face. She put her hands on her hips, leaving her breasts to dangle in front of him. He leaned forward and took hold of her breasts with both hands, squeezing, the flesh bulging between his fingers. She slapped his hands and pulled free.

She gave him a goofy sort of scowl, puckering her lips in a tight little ‘O’ as she massaged herself, telling him not to squeeze so fucking hard. They’re not bean bags.

Another surprise. Your mother never, ever said fuck. Not that you ever heard, much less let strange guys handle her tits.

She took the cigarette from the dark-haired guy leaning against the railing and clipped it between her teeth, leaving her hands free to slip out of her swimsuit bottoms, doing a little hop to get her foot free, then threw them to the blond guy.

Stepping off the table, she flopped down between the two guys on the settee, her legs relaxing, falling open.

Moustache guy twisted to face her, resting his arm along the back of the settee and reached between her legs with his other hand, tickling at her bush—something you never ever considered your mother having—parting her with his fingers, stroking the glistening pink spot revealed in the porch light, which she didn’t seem to mind at all. Putting her hand behind her head, she closed her eyes, giving herself to it.

This was not the kind of thing you expected of your mom. She was never the kind to cut loose, go wild over anything. She was the levelheaded one, the calm at the center of the storms your father spun up with his outbursts over world events, sports, or the infractions of thoughtless neighbors. To you, she was the pillar of rectitude, in her well-done hair, sensible shirtdresses, and cat-eye glasses. Even the two-piece swimsuit seemed a bit much for her.

The blond guy, twisted toward her as well, running his fingers up her leg, up her belly, and then up to her breast, fingering her nipple with gentle pinching.

Squirming under the attention, she took hold of moustache guy’s finger and worked herself with it, throwing her leg across his knee, opening herself up, then throwing her other leg across blond guy’s knee. They didn’t seem to mind sharing her between themselves.

At a break in the music, the radio deejay called out the time between announcing the tunes he’d been playing. Your mom jerked forward, saying it had to be a short visit tonight.

Standing, she eenie-meenie-miney-moe’d them, ending with a flourish of her regal finger, pointing at the blond. She knelt between his legs, unbuckled his shorts, and with a command of ‘up, up up’, slid them down to his ankles. She took him in her mouth, wetting him with a few quick, deep strokes, then climbed up onto the settee, straddling him, guiding him in as she settled.

Satisfied with the fit, she began to ride, slowly at first, then more swiftly. His head lolled back, even as he massaged her breasts. She steadied herself with both hands nearly encircling his neck. Her gut deep grunts got faster and faster, until she reached a hand down between them, and worked herself. He gave out with a long, slow groan, ending in a barking yip, making the other two guys laugh and set them to yipping and howling at the moon, a couple of yappy dogs set off by squirrels.

Through the grunting climax he managed to tell them they could fuck off. Taking her hips with both hands, he arched his back, thrusting up hard, holding fast, and giving out with a long ‘oh shiiiiiiiit.’ Keeping herself upright, she had the one hand between her legs, her other still at his throat, her thumb up under his chin. You couldn’t see her face, but she had that taut, upright posture of a woman in charge, even as she kept his throat in her grip.

She didn’t bother waiting to see if he’d finished. She released him and dismounted as he made a show of collapsing. He left his shorts clumped around his ankles.

She side-stepped, stretching her leg to move between the settee and the table, then kneeled between the legs of the moustache guy.

Shoving his shirt up, exposing his chest, she leaned in and bit at his nipples, chewing them with enough enthusiasm for him to protest.

Unbuttoning his shorts, she commanded him with the same ‘up, up, up’—the schoolteacher releasing the students for recess—and slid his shorts down to his ankles as well.

Pressing his knees apart, she went after his crank with more concentration.

It was hard to see clearly, so you shifted slightly to one side, but could not go further without moving too much into the light from the porch. So you couldn’t see a full profile, only the bit from the side, with her jaw dropped, stretching her cheek, the shimmy of her tit, and the flash of his flesh as her head bobbed and twisted, sucking him off.

The obstructed view added to the mystery of what she was doing to him and this aroused you all the more, trying to imagine your mom’s face—the face in public, shopping, chatting with the neighbors, quizzing the waiter about a dish on the menu—this face sucking a guy’s cock.

Cock. Even whispering the word as your mom worked this guy made the flesh of your own crank bind against the crotch of your swim trunks.

She seemed to freeze, her mouth down on the moustache guy as he grabbed her head, his hips shooting up, which seemed to lift her slightly, up off her heels. When he relaxed, she relaxed as well and finished with a few more bobs until she let him pop out.

She settled back, eyeing him and her handiwork. She picked his beer up from the deck and took a swig, making a show of rinsing her mouth before swallowing.

Handing his beer back to him, she stood up and counted noses, asking if she’d got everybody. Then as if discovering the dark-haired guy for the first time, moved toward him, a little dancing and swaying, then pulled at the waistband of his shorts, to look in and see what he had waiting for her. She pretended to see nothing, then went fishing down his shorts, reaching out the bottom, waggling her fingers.

He watched her with narrowed eyes, tolerating her joke at his expense, until she pulled her hand out.

These are in the way, she said, pushing his shorts down to his knees, and gave out with an ‘aha!’ saying I knew there was one more.

She turned him around, clamping herself against his back. Reaching around, she took hold of his crank in one hand, and clamped her other hand to his chest, and played him like a flesh instrument.

From this angle you could see him firm up in her hand, and the face he made, reacting to her stroking his chest, his cock getting larger and harder.

Then, as if satisfied with the results, she turned him around and pushed him against the column and dropped to her knees and took him in her mouth.

He stood with his legs apart, his back arched, his shoulders against the column, giving her room to suck deep.

Her downward strokes were quick and the upward stroke slow as if savoring the flavor.

The other two guys watch, sated, relaxed on the settee, their shorts still down around their ankles, passing yet another joint between them.

You can see the dark-haired guy rising to climax by the way he arches further into her stroking mouth, going up on his toes, his arms thrust out, his hands curling into fists. He doesn’t grab her head the way the other did, but seems intent to feel all of it undiluted, nothing more than his dick and her mouth, his balls in her hand.

When he comes, the growl bursts out of him, trailing off in a long, low ‘uhhhhhh,’ his hips spasming with the contractions of orgasm.

She doesn’t let go, but takes it all, dining on youth.

From the doorway, a newcomer applauds. The dark-haired guy leans down, grabbing up his shorts, as the others laugh, pulling up their own shorts as well.

Your mom rises and sits on the table, holding her fingers out to be filled with a cigarette.

Drawing on the cigarette, she rakes her fingers through her hair, restoring it to some order. Naked as she is, she is queen of her little back porch kingdom, exercising power over the boys who were more than eager to validate her reign over them.