When he tried to inject his huge whanger
A young man aroused his girl's anger.
As they strove in the dark
She was heard to remark,
"What you need is a zeppelin hanger."

I knew mother was trying very hard not to disrupt my life or my home.

In the first few days, after she moved in, mother stayed in her room and apologized frequently for interrupting me, no matter what the reason. She did not say a word as she moved about my home unless spoken too and in all respects, treated me differently than I had ever been treated by my parent.

If truth be told, the only reason I let her move into my expensive multilevel penthouse condo was simple guilt. The burden of guilt for being a child and then growing to surpass the success of my father and father. I know that mother had taken Journalism in University many years ago, but gave up any thought of a career when she became pregnant with me. Dad, being the sole bread winner, had assumed the duties of the 'man' - his wife, my mother, had given up her life to be the perfect 'woman', wife and mother. I had heard a part of an argument to this effect, when dad walked out on mom less than a year ago.

Sure I could afford to have moved her into her own apartment, paid for all her necessities and allowed her a life that may have echoed what she gave up many years before. I gave her the option and you know what? She chose her own place... but admitted the reasons for her decision was that she did not want to disrupt my life. So I did what I thought any responsible adult man-child would do, I ordered her to take my spare bedroom and move into my home.

Of course, seconds after I said it, I regretted it.

My mother understood me better than I thought; and she left most of her personal possessions in storage and moved in with less than two large boxes of clothing and toiletries. She cleaned the house, between the days that the maids did not come, and cooked on days that I had yet ordered in food. Since I had not lived with anyone for several years, this dainty intrusion into my private life was accommodating, to say the least.

After dad left her, mother tried to get a job - she did have a Journalism Degree after all - yet none of the dozens of applications even responded much less showed interest in hiring a middle-aged woman with no working experience. This put her into a depression that she tried unsuccessfully to hide from me. I paid for her to take craft lessons, but none of those took her interest. She had stopped associating with her friends just after dad left her, most of whom had been friends with the both of them for many years. She took less interest in her personal welfare - gaining twenty pounds before the divorce even finalized. And when that day came, dad being the smuck he is, fought and won half the family home so that it had to be sold and the proceeds added toward the trust of the final settlement.

Oh, did I mention that dad left mom for a younger woman. She is mid-thirties with big breasts and an IQ the same as her shoe size.

No wonder mom was depressed.

So she moved in.

The first days were not uneventful, as she got used to my schedule and my odd mannerisms. You see, being a broker for venture investments with customers worldwide, I happen to be working twenty-four-seven. Mom learnt this quickly when she realized I had four cellular phones, three of which I asked her not to answer if they rang. At any one moment in time, I normally had one stuck to my ear as I walked around my home.

"Mom?"

Her smile was rarely the bright happy grin of our earlier years, but she tried to brighten up for me whenever I was in the room. Though I would have to be blind not to see how much she was in emotional turmoil. "Yes honey?"

"Why don't you go shopping tomorrow? Get something for the dinner party on Saturday."

Her smile slowly disappeared, "'Dinner party'?"

I completely forgot. Another odd mannerism of mine - I was often so busy that some things simply were lost in the pace of my life. I had three secretaries working for me, and I still managed to forget things! It was time for an explanation, "A German client and his wife are coming in for the weekend, I asked them to dinner here Saturday night. He has is the CEO of a corporation that has a slush fund that they are interested in investing through us."

Mom started to look horrified.

"Mom! Don't worry, its catered. All we have to do is show up."

"Oh... it would be better if I went to a movie that night. I would not know how to act around... your clients."

I had to agree with her - having my mother at a small, intimate, but formal business dinner was not my idea of ideal. Yet I had known it would come to this at some point when I first considered the consequences of her living with me. It would be better if she became accustomed to my fast pace life and adapted appropriately. "Nonsense mother! Go buy a sexy dress that shows a lot of cleavage and thigh and don't worry about it!" It was an off-hand remark at best.

Mom turned red immediately at the mention of cleavage and thigh that it amused me, her being embarrassed in this way. I am her adult son after all - and well past the years of embarrassment. I was about to tease her on it when the cellular in my hand began to ring. "Hello?" I waved to mom as I moved away from her to return back to my home-office.

The conversation, with mother, was at an end.

Mom sat silently and sipped at the same glass of white wine throughout the evening. She wore a matronly flowered print dress that I hated as soon as I saw her in it, but there was no time to ask her to change it, and which made her look like a suburbs mother at a business function. She caught my eye several times through the supper and the subsequent coffee, trying to let me know that she knew she was very out of place and apologized for that fact.

After the German couple departed and the caterers finished cleaning up and had left for the night, mother came to the doorway to my home office. "I'm sorry how it went honey."

I turned away from the email I had been replying too, and gave her a soft smile. "It was the first time mom, it will get easier."

She nodded negatively, "I think it best if I make myself scarce the next time."

"Nonsense!" The male side of me took over, while my brain screamed for me to agree, for my middle-aged mother to hide whenever I do business within my home. It would be unfair though, to hide from my business - as so much of my life is a cyclone of business people and functions. "We will have to work on it a little mom, don't worry about it."

She was silent but did not look convinced.

"Look mom its easy, your pretty and smart. You were just never exposed to these type of people before." Thats an understatement; foreigners, upper class, and very wealthy. The latter two, incidentally, that I was working toward becoming.

She looked nervously at me but nodded in agreement.

"I was serious about showing some cleavage and thigh." I don't know why I said that.

Her face began to redden yet again while her arms came up and crossed over her ample chest defensively. I had to hide a smile at seeing this unconscious manoeuvre.

"Next time you go shopping, don't go to those economy stores - go to the most expensive place you can. And don't worry about the money, its all on me."

"I don't know honey... !"

Interrupting, "I do mom! Follow my lead and we'll make a great pair!"

After mother slowly turned away and went to her room I was regretting the discussion and doubted she will ever compliment me enough in a social setting that it would help in any of my business relationships.

Mother, from that moment forward, turned to me for advice on most anything involving what she did or how she looked. All in the name of educating her. With subtle suggestions I got her to enrol at a fitness place to get rid of those 'divorce pounds' that she carried around with her. She was constantly bringing me catalogues and showing me pictures of what she thought I would want her to wear for our next 'function'. Usually she was wrong in the items that she chose. Yet, slowly, she began to have an idea what I thought she should wear from her underwear to her makeup.

After weeks of being bombarded by questions, and constantly being apologized for being interrupting me, I came home from the office to a home cooked dinner and my mother dressed in clothing I had picked for her.

My mother is an attractive woman, if she were otherwise, I doubt I would have let her attend my last dinner party. Lets face it ugly people just don't get the attention that an attractive person does. Its unfair, I know, but fuck you - I am rather good looking myself.

As an attractive middle-aged woman she had a round face with wide blue eyes. She was on the short side and, still, over her normal weight. Yet this weight made her look voluptuous rather than fat - her bottom, thighs and hips broadening. Though she was overweight, currently, she had always looked voluptuous as I grew up. It was her large round fleshy breasts, looking rather over-sized on her short sexy frame.

She stood in the foyer nervous but excited in her new black silk blouse and black leather skirt. The hem of the skirt about mid-thigh and her blouse unbuttoned so that a generous amount of her cleavage showed. She wore black hose with black heels. What was the most striking thing was that her hair was completely different - changed to a shorter stylish cut that was no longer dark brown, but a light reddish brown.

Mom looked very good.

"My god... mother!" I dropped my briefcase and took the few steps before I wrapped my arms about her waist to give her a big hug. "Damn you look great mom!" It was not only the fact that she looked good, which she did, but that she had tried to hard to please me - to fit into the life I now lead. If she was to live here, with me, it could be no other way.

She squealed with delight when I lifted her off her heels and squeezed so that she could barely breath. I leaned back and saw how wide her smile was and that small glitter in her eye, both that had been missing for years.

She playfully slapped my chest when I let her go and said, "Oh honey! Stop it!" I could see that she did not mean it though, she needed my praise like a person needed to eat. And mother, had not been properly complimented in a very very long time.

Mom lead me to the dining room where she served me my favourite meal.

It was a very delightful evening.

Throughout, I wondered absentmindedly if she wore the thigh-high stockings and lace bra and panties that I also purchased for her.

The supper ended early when I heard one of my cellular phones playing Beethoven's 5th Symphony from my briefcase by the door.

The next meeting was also at my home, a last minute affair to have a few people over to sample some of the wines I preferred but in reality, to flesh out a strategy for defending against a potential lawsuit. The caterers served finger foods as I walked around pouring wine from one of two bottles that the caterers kept chilled for me. There was one other person from my company there and seven from a client corporation.

Mother stood to the side, silently nursing the same glass of wine for most of the afternoon. She looked fabulous in a tan blazer and short skirt, a white blouse beneath - professional and very sexy. I caught more than one male client checking over the attractive middle-aged woman with the sexy legs. I saw that she was polite but nervous whenever someone attempted to strike up a conversation with her.

Ah well, you can dress up monkey and bring him to the dining room table, he is still a fucking monkey - as my boss likes to say.

This was how mother fit into the party that day. As soon as it was over I looked for mom and found her sobbing behind the closed bathroom door. Evidently she thought she was a monkey as well. I left her alone with her embarrassed misery.

The next day we had our first argument since her moving into my home. Mother stood in my bedroom doorway in an old gray sweatpants and an ugly knit sweater. She stood the whole time with her arms over her chest, which I was discovering was her self-defence mechanism when she was feeling self conscious of her body.

Her voice had risen until she suddenly took a calm breath and said, "Perhaps I should move out."

That was her ultimatum. She had money from the divorce - not a heck of a lot, since she barely contested fathers abusive claims.

If I continued to force her to attend my little gatherings, making her wear those expensive and revealing clothing, drink more alcohol than she had in the last ten years and generally make a fool of herself - then she would leave. She felt out of place and humiliated.

Evidently this all came about because my boss, sixty four year old grandfather of twelve and happily married for forty one years, had fondled mothers ass at the party. More than anything else and I think it scared her. She had two others standing by her that were all talking about some topic when my boss had introduced himself and stood next to her as the other two talked. For nearly five minutes mother had stood there while my ancient boss, the primary shareholder of our company, roughly fondled her round backside above her short stylish skirt.

I was packing for a Hong Kong trip when she came to the doorway to start this argument. It took a bit of self control not to break out laughing when she told me about my boss. The old man was well known around the office as a leach, who went through pretty young secretaries every three months and bragged about the pros and cons of each sexy experience with his secretaries at high level meetings. He was, of course, one of the 'old school' of businessmen.

The fact that he was fondling the ass of a woman twice the average age of his secretaries, I thought it rather amusing. On the other hand, mother had never been treated this way by any man, had never dressed provocatively so that every male openly appraised her.

So I changed the subject, "I thought you enjoyed the 'new look'?" It was a phrase that meant the results of my directions to her body and person - up until the party it was openly used between us. And always in a positive light.

Her cheeks turned red yet again and she shifted upon her bare feet. "I thought I did... no, I do, I just don't like how others look at me when I dress that way!"

"So, you like dressing like that for me only?"

She paused, and swallowed heavily and then became defensively, "And why shouldn't I? Your my son and I love and trust you completely. Besides your the man of the house now!" I was surprised at the venom in her response - uncharacteristic of mother.

That last statement also took me by surprise - proving that she and I had used the same logic when I would not take 'no' for an answer after I asked her to move in with me. "Your right mom, I am the man of the house now. I will be back in a week and in that time I want you to fill up the credit card I gave you - buy more short skirts, revealing blouses, sexy panties and bras, and lots of thigh high stockings! When I walk back into my home next week I expect you to look damn sexy!" My voice had risen during my lengthy instruction.

Mother turned, her hands coming up to hide her sorrow - it was possibly the first time I have ever rose my voice in anger toward her.

"Your not leaving... and that is it!" She started to run away from my open door, down the hallway to her own room. I left her with one final order before I had to rush out of here, "I never expect to see what you have on now... ever again!"

Well, mother looked very good when I returned from overseas. I took one long measuring look at her, she standing still as if on display, before I retreated with my bags to unpack.

I ordered Indian food that night, and as I scooped it onto a plate, mother standing to the side waiting her turn at the aromatic food, I asked without looking at her, "Are those thigh-high stockings mother?"

Since the answer was not immediately forthcoming, I simply turned my head toward her and glared into her fearful eyes. My will easily dominated her own and she finally answered in a small quivering voice, "Yes honey, they are."

Good. That was one little fetish I had always enjoyed with my ladies, something that I thought increased a womans sexual appeal by leaps and bounds. The fact that I had asked my own mother goes to show that, for me, I had crossed some invisible boundary between and mother and her child. She was more than a mother to me now, she was a woman as well.

I took my plate up to my personal office on the top floor and slammed my door.

That night, and for days afterwards we did not say a word to each other. In fact, things were down right cold between us. Yet, to mothers credit, she wore short skirts, heels and revealing blouses each and every day.

The next get together was at my bosses, and he had made a point of asking me to bring my mother. Mother cried silently in humiliation while seated in the passenger seat as we drove to the impressive house on the outskirts of the city.

Upon returning from the party, mother was silent and fought back tears until I closed the door to my home and then she turned on her heels and tore into me before our jackets were even off! "Well, are you happy? Whoring your mother out for your boss to feel up!"

I kept my calm, having predicted this confrontation. I knew my boss and I knew he could not keep his paws off mothers round sexy ass, even with his wife a few meters away. "Did he touch you again mom?" I put my coat squarely and slowly onto the hanger.

"Touch me!" She was becoming almost shrill. "You tell me how to dress... you make me go to these parties where I stick out like a sore thumb... then you don't even seem to mind that your boss... he... !"

"He what mother?" I think my calmness was adding to her hysterics. Throughout the evening I had barely seen my mother, since I had been bombarded with people wanting conversations with me.

She took a long breath to calm herself before she answered, "That monster put his hand up under my skirt!" She wore an off-white leather skirt that was one of the longest skirts I allowed her to purchase, since it was tight enough to show off her curves and still revealed her attractive legs - just touching the tops of her knees. Mother suddenly hide her face in both her hands and sobbed loudly in humiliation.

My next question quickly stopped her sobs, "Did he put his hand beneath your panties mother?"

Both of her thin hands dropped from before her face and she looked at me surprised.

I hated asking a question more than once, at work or home. "Well did he?" My voice left no doubt that I wished an answer - immediately.

Finally, "No".

Before she spoke another word I took a few steps to stand before her, her head tilted up to look at me. I reached between us and unbuttoned the new swede coat that she wore before pushing it off her shoulders and holding it in my left hand. Our eyes were still locked as I reached around my parent and immediately grasped her left ass cheek above her clothing with my big strong right hand.

Mother gasped and fell forward into my chest as my grasping hand held her in that position against me. In such close proximity she could not look directly up into my face, it was such a sharp angle, instead pressed her face into my hard chest, with my hand-made linen shirt as a buffer.

Slowly, to make my point, I groped every inch of that cheek until I could feel mothers hot breath gasping into my breast. Then I began to pull up mothers skirt until I slide the hand beneath and onto the lace bikini panty beneath. I half expected to find one of those ugly middle-aged over-sized white satin panties some women liked to wear. Instead I found a tight lace panty that I immediately guessed was from my forays into the lingerie catalogues with mother and almost wished I could see how it looked upon her rather than touch it impersonally as I was.

Without the leather skirt her ass felt softer and much more pliable as I roughly fondled it. My hand slide lower so that I felt warm very smooth skin of her lower buttock and her thighs. Mother was, indeed, wearing stockings as instructed.

With a parting pat upon her rear I let the skirt fall back down and then stepped back and away from her. Mother nearly fell from loosing her balance, as she had been using my chest to stay upright, but quickly caught herself. She opened her eyes and was surprised to find that I was holding out her coat for her to take.

Befuddled she took the coat and slowly looked up into my eyes.

"Am I a monster too mom?" I paused to see what her answer would be but mother opened and closed her mouth twice without a sound. "I am the son that you love and trust - remember?" Don't you hate when someone uses your own words against you? "If you don't want someone to touch you mom - your wise enough to get them to stop." I had almost said 'old enough'.

I strode roughly past her and retreated up to my room - it had been a long difficult night. Made more difficult by the memory of that soft bottom in my one hand.

The chill in my home was gone the next day, mother even smiled at me as she brought breakfast up to my personal office. When she left, I could swear her bottom had a little extra wiggle beneath the short skirt. Then as I ate and read my email, I could hear her downstairs singing happily.

Wow - talk about a reversal of personalities. Things had not been that great in my parents home even, long before the divorce, that I can only remember a single time mother had been so pleasant and that was before I was even in high school.

Hell, maybe I should grab her ass more often!

Well... that last thought killed any idea I had about reviewing my morning email. Was that what caused this shift in mood? I knew it wasn't the old man, my boss, grabbing her ass that done it - so it had to have been her own son's hand. Wow, the implications were too incredible to imagine.

So incredible I dismissed those thoughts immediately.

Taking the tray down to the kitchen, mostly uneaten, I found mother seated at the breakfast table eating in silence.

Mother saw the barely touched food and asked concerned, "Anything wrong honey?"

"No mom, I just wanted to eat with you." She brightened up immediately and jumped up from her chair to take the tray and remove the food from it to a place at the table across from her.

I sat down as she did this, she standing just to my side.

I looked down to admire her shapely ass and thighs from behind, as she wore a short charcoal wool skirt. With barely a thought I reached up and placed my hand on the back of the nearest knee.

Did I not tell my mother that she could stop any unwanted touching - does that mean her inaction told of her desire for me to continue?

Mother paused for the briefest of seconds and continued setting my place as my hand slid gently up the back of her soft smooth thigh to just beneath her skirt. Nor did she seem to even notice when I suddenly felt the warm smooth skin of her thighs, above the stocking just below the curve of her buttock. With a firm squeeze of the soft inner thigh, I removed my hand and sat forward and picked up my fork.

Mother moved around to the other side of the table and began to eat as well, often looking toward me. I caught her eye a few times and she gently smiled but could not keep our eyes locked and turned down to her plate.

I finished first, having the habit of eating very quickly unless its a fine dinner in the company of stylish people that I wished to impress. Mother saw that I was done and put her fork down, whipped her face with the cloth napkin and then asked, "Can I ask you something honey?"

Here it comes, I thought, she was going to ask me why I was feeling her up. In truth I had no idea. Oh sure, last night I would have said it was to teach her a lesson and not to act so childish - but now, I was not so sure. I simply nodded for her to continue.

With embarrassment mother asked, "Do you think your father would still have left me if I had been... careful in my appearance like I am now?"

The question took me by surprise and I felt the tension leave my tightened shoulders. "I don't know mom. Maybe." We had never really talked about my parents marriage before, nor even the recent divorce.

There was a pregnant pause that I knew she had more to say and so I sat silent. This was what a man does, listen at the proper times. Listening to mother about her theories why dad left her for a much younger woman was a part of that.

"When we were younger... I wouldn't do things for him." She could not meet my eyes but I could feel her embarrassment fill the air of the kitchen. "Then as we got older I... he didn't... I wanted too, but... !"

I reached across and took mom's hand, it was cold, "Its OK mom." In truth I wanted her to stop for my sake, I did not want to hear the private intimacy that went on between mom and dad.

She caught my eye for the first time since she started this strange discussion, and there was an odd twinkle within it. "He was the man of the house too."

It was like being hit by a hammer to the side of the head - if I understood mother correctly, mom was telling me that this was her second chance, and she would not screw this one up like she did with dad.

What the fuck did all that mean anyways?

Maybe I was over thinking all this! Prayed it was so.

Mom, thankfully, changed the subject, "Do you like how I dress honey?"

In general, of course, I'm the one that chose and even purchased every item of clothing I've seen her wear in weeks. I was feeling very nervous, adolescent - and I hated it. "Yes."

She smiled softly, "I think I look good too." Her pupils were boring into mine and I tried to keep the hood of obscurity between us, so as not to interpret that gaze. Mother laughed suddenly, nervously, and much of the tension in the kitchen seemed to dissipated, "I did not even know I had legs until that first time I saw you look at me in that first dress you bought."

It was there between us, unspoken but no longer transparent. I was the man of the house and as such mother was willing to do anything for me.

No, that was incorrect.

Mother wanted to do things for me.

That was the extra twinkle in her eye.

"I've got to get back to my email, there were several that needed to be replied too this morning." She nodded and pulled her hand from my own, which I realized was very sweaty.

I stood and started to leave - but stopped in just a few steps. This was my house, this was my mother... and that hard hitting, fast paced part of me caused me to turn to see her exactly as when I stood. I strode purposely over to stand behind her chair and leaned over at the waist. Mother tilted her head to the far shoulder exposing her long white neck, before that, on her chest, the fleshy white cleavage. My lips came into contact with her warm skin just at the nape of her neck.

Even though my kissed lasted only a few seconds and was, in retrospect, rather chaste - mother sighed hoarsely and began to breath in a laboured manner.

Quickly I strode from the kitchen, anxious to get away from my parent - though I could not get away from my thumping heart and near-hyperventilating breathing.

What the fuck was wrong with me? I'm not some low class incestuous demented man. God damn it! I'm a man who only wanted to rise above my station - and was doing a damn fine job of it if truth be told.

Its not my fault, as you can see, it was mothers!

How could she come to this... this... decision?

God damn it! She was an intelligent, learnt, woman. She had no prior predisposition toward incest than I did, to be sure. Fuck, dad used to tell me that mom was a virgin when they met. Mother telling me to find a nice girl, a virgin if I could, to marry - just like dear old mom.

One thing was for sure - I hate how I was acting. Me, the one so in control - I dominate every board room and meeting I attend. Its what brings in the money - why my boss is looking at me to assume the reigns of his little empire. Why could I not just get over this fucking crazy idea that mother had toward me, her own god damned child by the way, and get on with life?

Perhaps it was not so much about getting 'over' this idea of mothers', more so than accepting it and moving on.

I felt it, that excitement when I made a score at work, when I find the one thing that I can use to win over all others. This was it, the answer to the situation in my own home.

Imagine how easily my home life will be if my loving mother, and I use that phrase with a much different meaning than ever before, does all that the man of the house tells her to do. She would be the perfect decoration on my arm as I fight my way toward the money and power that I had always dreamt of. Sure I'll have to give her a few pats on the ass, or perhaps a squeeze of those round tits, and maybe give her some very un-family-like kisses when she has been particularly good. It would not be so bad, forgetting that she was my mother - she was a very attractive woman when she dressed properly - a few squeezes may actually be very enjoyable.