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The Culmination

Prelude: Even though I use 'Mom' instead of 'Mum', this story is set in the UK. Also, everyone in this story is over 18. Enjoy!

It begins with me sitting outside of school, waiting for my mom to come get me. Odd, seeing as my mom can't drive. But that's what she said to me: wait at the gate and I'll come pick you up. I didn't think much about that statement, schoolwork and other school related stuff taking up my headspace. But during Geometry I remembered my mom's face. She was smiling – and not smiling like she always does. A glowing smile, one which made her face muscles contort into a shape which expressed her innermost happiness. It really struck me, her smile and how radiant it was. Now, I got no qualms in admitting my mother is an attractive lady. She's an Indian from India (we have to make that distinction for our American friends), has dusky brown skin, beautiful hazel eyes, long jet-black hair, and a figure which makes me blush when I think about it.

Oh yes: I have a genuine hot mom. Nothing really to brag about. 'My mom's hotter than yours' is not something a kid shouts in the playground. I could though, if I wanted to. She was 43 and, shockingly, getting better with the years: still-pert breasts, slim waist, lean legs and an ever-growing bubble butt. Not a large butt, more like the ass Maria Menounos has: a nice round peach. Want more descriptions? My mom's ass is one of those butts that looks good in tight dresses and snug tracksuit pants. Is it creepy that I just put that out there? Yes, very creepy.

Now, before you go thinking what you're thinking, I want to set the record straight: I do not want to have sex with my mother. I admire her beauty, I know she's attractive – but never has the thought of me defiling her ever come into my mind. Why? Because I'm her son. I don't want to stick anything in her vagina! Besides, even IF I wasn't her son, why on earth would she want me? My mother is a highly desirable woman, while I'm a 5'6 110lbs hairless (legal teen) boy.

So I look but I do not want to touch – and I've never sniffed her Ann Summers lace thongs. Not the red one, not the white one, nor the black one which has the bows in the middle. Okay I'm just muddying the waters now. How about I get to my story?

I was outside the gates, in my uniform, waving bye to my people. "Bye, bye," I said in my over-layered Indian/British accent. Having come here when I was 7, my accents have merged into this odd blend. Half of me sounds chavy British while the other half sounds like a bad Indian DJ: booming and way off-pitch.

I did okay in school. I floated in the region which all kids should aspire to be in: the middle. Not being noticed, just having a few buddies and focusing on the school work. Girls can keep ignoring me and growing their boobs; I will play no part in their games because doing my homework and securing my future success is far more important. Yes, in 10 years time, the prettiest girl in school, Laila, will work as my secretary and beg me to drive her home every night. Yeah! Well anyway, I said bye to a few passing friends, waited for around five minutes, and then, from the left I saw this big Mercedes just slide down the road.

"Whoa, look at that motor!" said some guy.

"Fuck, that's a hundred-grand car, man," said another guy.

The car slowed its way down the road. It was coming my way and snaking along to the empty spot which was across from where I was sitting.

I looked at it and thought, "Huh, rich guy."

The car gently hummed while it stayed parked. I'm not really into cars, so I looked past it. Then I heard a mechanical 'ah-hummm', which was the car window rolling down. Just out of curiosity, I took a quick look at the now-exposed person in the passenger seat... and almost fell over when I saw who it was.

"Mom!?"

She had a bright, gentle smile; her hair was tied back and she was wearing this pretty pink dress shirt and these dark trousers. My mom was looking at me from a bazillion-dollar car. I had one question: Why!?

I jumped down and dashed over. "Mom?"

"Get in," she said with a little wave.

No 'hello' or 'how you doing', just a little-too-eager 'get in', as in 'get in and shut the fucked up.' Yes, 'shut the fucked up', which is what she'd say with her thick-yet-somehow-elegant Indian accent.

"Mom?"

She pointed at the backseat of the car. "Go on." It was said with love, but what she was really telling me to do was shut the fuck up and get in the German-made supercar.

Being a good boy, I did what my mother said. I opened the back door and entered inside.

Pause. Big oversight on my part: I failed to notice that this car had someone driving it. I looked forward and got quite the shock when I saw him. Yes, him. A man.

He was a big man. Huge. Big as in tall and wide. Not fat, no way fat, though I'm sure he was triple my bodyweight. His car seat was pushed all the way back, and yet even while seated he still made my mom look so small in comparison.

He turned his head, his short grey hair swishing with the movement of his thick neck. He looked at me with a happy smile, just like Mom's. This 50-something man had dark blue eyes, day-old stubble and a debonair, handsome face.

I was in shocked awe, looking at this big white goliath, seeing his large hands wrapped around half the steering wheel.

My Indian mom was in a car with a big strong white man.

Wait, my Indian mom rides around with big white guys? Big white business guys drive my Indian mom around? Since when? Why did no one tell me my Indian mom is around big white men? Wait, whoa, why am I labelling him as a 'white' man? And I am making it very clear my mom is an Indian woman. Why am I labelling them as 'White' and 'Indian'?

And why do I like this image so much?

"Hello, Son," he said in an upper-crust English accent. "How's school?"

"Fine, sir."

"Oh, 'sir'." He looked at my mom. "You done well with this one, Priya."

She blushed. "Thank you, Trevor."

The way he said her name with his White British accent: "Pre-yah."

The way she said his name with her Indian accent: "Cha-rev-er."

Whoa, I was so into the differences and the way their cultures and them meshed. I loved it, seeing them come together, as friends, riding in a car, man and woman. White Man and Indian Woman.

What the fuck is going on and why is my dick so hard?

Those are the questions I had when I saw my mom blush and giggle while this white man named Trevor (very English name indeed) was smiling at her with a look which suggested more than friendship.

"Shall we go now, dear?" He said to my – hold on, did he just call her 'dear'?

She nodded. "Yes, thank you."

We stayed silent while Trevor navigated around the gawping kids. Yeah, a car, cool; I just got a hard-on from seeing my Indian mom flirt with a white guy. We all got things going on. The car went down at a moderate pace, turning a corner and then going at a faster speed.

"Bellissimo's is very good," he said in an almost-whispery voice.

"I hear it very good," my mum replied with the same tone.

"Got a good reservation."

"Hmm. Was it hard?"

"No, not really: five-pm a good enough time as any. The chef is an old uni' mate."

"Rick?"

"Yes. He's the head chef."

"Ah okay."

They paused their riveting conversation at a roundabout. I tried to wrap my head around this: Okay, my mom might have a boyfriend; a large white man might be her boyfriend. Should I be shocked? Well, she had been single for three years at that point, so how shocking could it be? Well, I didn't know she dated, nor wanted to know because, heck, I'm her son – why would I want to know? But there she was, dating... maybe. I wasn't 100% sure they were a couple. Though I did know one thing: their conversations were very middle-class and very English.

"This car is actually good about the petrol," he said.

"Hmm," she agreed with this astute observation. "It really nice; this leather is soft."

"German manufacturing, always very efficient. Hey, I read they do the parts in different countries." He paused before his next sentence. "That's just globalisation, isn't it?"

"Hmm, you don't know where anything really comes from anymore."

"Yes, absolutely... worrying when it comes to goods, food, drinks."

"Hmm-hmm. Can't trust the labels anymore."

"That is so true." He made another turn. "Bellissimo's is all fresh. I know the chef makes sure of that."

"Quality Standard."

"Right. Yes... he's got the credentials. He's fully certified."

Mom flicked her hand over at Trevor and giggled. "Why didn't you become a cook?"

"Me?" He chuckled. "You know I have butter fingers."

My head was spinning. A blasΓ© conversation followed by my mom flirting – flirting! –, and then Trevor goes and makes a sexually ambiguous statement. What the fuck is going on? I'd gone from thinking my life was normal to seeing my Indian mom make schoolgirl-like arm slaps to this big white guy. What is going on? I looked into the rear-view mirror with this 'what the fuck' look. Trevor saw it.

He talked while driving. "Oh, Son, I'm sorry to not have told you who I am: I'm Trevor and I work with your mum."

"You're my boss," she said with a big grin.

He nodded. "Technically, yes, but I don't like being thought of as 'The Boss': you all work with me, not for me."

"So humble." She rubbed his bicep and smiled again.

He glanced over at her while at the lights. It was just a glance, only lasting a second, but what it said sent shivers down every part of my body: 'I am going to fuck you. Hard'

The eyes, the smile, the gentleness in his face a mask for the fact that he wanted to fuck my mom. This white man wanted to fuck my Indian mom. Whoa. The whole polite English way he talked, that was him, for sure, he looked to be a genuinely nice guy – but this guy was also planning to stick his big white cock inside my Indian mom's... oh my god. Settle down, settle down, and I did. I wiped the sweat from my face, crossed my legs and sat quietly as Mom and Trevor discussed copper piping.

*

We got to the restaurant. We exited the car and I got a full look at Trevor. He was 6'4, 260lbs, and wore a white dress shirt with black trousers. He was a really big white man, for sure; my 5'9 mother just about reached his chest. Yes, she was 5-foot-9, tall for an Indian woman, and both of them were wearing flat shoes, which meant I was seeing an accurate impression of the size difference. Yes, I admit it: I enjoyed seeing my demure, feminine Indian mom walk next to this large white man; I liked the image, the impression and the hints that it gave.

While Trevor was walking alongside my mother, he put his hand on her lower back. I chalked that up to him just being an English gentleman, thinking that's how he was with women... women like my Indian mom. Though I was a few steps behind them, I could swear she was blushing.

Trevor opened the door for her, led her in and kept it open for me. We went in the restaurant and whoa was it a cut above Chicken Cottage. It was one of those restaurants you only see on TV, the ones in which the check-in guy asks for your reservation, signs it in, brings a waiter over and sends you to a table. We sat around the shiny brown dining table, surrounded by men in designer suits, who despite all being of different races still managed to look exactly the same. The women though, they ranged from stunning blonde to super exotic oriental. I looked to be the only teen, and because I was in my school uniform, I looked even goofier in comparison.

Trevor sat in the middle, Mom to the left of him, me to the right. The waiter gave us our menus and we quietly looked through them.

"May I take your order?" asked the waiter.

"Priya?" said Trevor.

"Oh, the salad, please."

"The steak," said Trevor. "And... Ravi, was it?"

Yes: I forgot to tell him (and you) my name. "Yes sir, I'll take this chicken, please."

We got our food and ate it. I got a honey-glazed chicken. It was all right. I tried to focus on the food because, quite frankly, I was very disturbed with how much I enjoyed watching Trevor and my mom. They had the same little chatter about mundane things like insurance, bonds, healthy eating – but they were so into it all. Not the topics per se, but each other. They couldn't stop talking to each other; they just loved listening to one another.

What I found most uncomfortable was seeing what my mom slipped into every sentence: a lick of the lip here, a little treble in her voice there, and occasionally, gently, biting down on her lip. My mom was being a seductress... eww! Gross, seeing my own mother like that, yuck. I mean, what's wrong with her? Does she not know I'm here? Does she not... hold on. She didn't talk to me much in the car, didn't say a word to me in the restaurant. It was here I knew what I was to my own mother: immaterial. I was not even noticed, not at all acknowledged while she pumped her chest up, turned on her savoury glands and gave the 'fuck me' look to her white man boyfriend. My lord, what has happened to my demure Indian mother? And why am I touching myself underneath this table?

Then during dessert...

"I minimise the heating bill by," Trevor was thrilling everyone with his heating system layout, "configuring the setup to – oh!"

He put his two forefingers on my mom's smooth brown cheek, moved his fingers up, held her silky black locks, and tucked them behind her ear.

Oh it just got real.

Mom was blushing a million shades of red. She couldn't muster a response, just a look which showed utter devotion to her white knight.

He smiled and lifted a finger in the air. "Check, please."

The waiter rushed over and Trevor placed his card on the table. The waiter went to make the transaction.

Trevor looked at his watch. "Almost seven. Do we go to my place now?" he said while looking at my mom.

"Yes, please."

Did I get a say in this at all? Of course not. I said, "Okay" and the two of them didn't respond. We're going to his house now? Why and what for? The twinkle in my mom's eye gave me a clue – but no way THAT was going to happen, not with me tagging along. No, we're just going to his house for some tea and biscuits. Tea and biscuits.

We all stood up, and again with his hand on my mom's lower back, we walked out and went into the car.

*

Most of the car ride consisted of more banal discussion between Mom and Trevor, talking about the restaurant, the food, the ambience. How did people talk about such things? It was a restaurant with food and they managed to spin it into a 20-minute conversation.

When we got to a residential neighbourhood, Trevor acknowledged my presence.

"You doing okay back there?" he asked.

"Fine, sir."

"Good, good... Your mother has told me about you, that you do well in school, that you're a good boy who causes no problems."

"I try, sir."

He turned to my mom. "Have a good one there, Priya. Takes after you."

She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled. "Thank you." She smiled at him and then looked at me and smiled.

"He's nothing like his father," said Mom, somewhat surprisingly.

"Hmm," replied Trevor. "So he really did avoid paying child support by moving back to India?"

"Yes, afraid he did."

Trevor tisked-tisked and shook his head. "That's... that's just not right." I could actually see his knuckles redden as he gripped the steering wheel.

"The raise really helped," she said.

"It was long overdue," he replied. "You earned it."

Mom worked as a solicitor's assistant, meaning Trevor is a lawyer. A well-paid one, judging by the homes we drove past.

Mom reached her hand over and gripped his bicep. "Thank you." She then looked at me and gave me an expectant look.

"Oh, um, thank you, sir," I said.

"Please, it's my pleasure." He turned the car and nosed into a curb. "Plus, I don't think I'd be able to go into work if I didn't have my spicy Priya."

Mom giggled like a schoolgirl. "Oh, you."

'My spicy Priya'? I'm assuming the 'spicy' refers to her being Indian. Still, the fact that he had a loving nickname for my mom made me feel a little uneasy. Just how close were they? I didn't want to think about it.

I had this tightness in my chest when the car parked outside his house. They exited and I followed. It was a large home for a single man, a two-story old Victorian house.

Trevor opened the door and led Mom in, his hand on her back. He left the door open for me and I followed. He patted me on the head and said, "Welcome home, Son."

The immediate area had two rooms on the left, a kitchen right across and a staircase on the right. The carpet was furry and the decor was modern yet classy. The windows had these circular decals on them – and whoa did he just say 'Welcome home, Son'? He did, and I have reason to believe that it was not a slip of the tongue.

He took his shoes off, and me and Mom also took our shoes off. I took a glance at my mom's feet and immediately popped another boner. No, it was not because I had a foot fetish. It was because she was bare footed in this strong white man's home. Wow, when I put it like that, foot fetish sounds better.

Trevor smiled, put his hand on Mom's upper back and pointed to the room on the left.

"Come on." He waved me in.

The two rooms had been converted into one large room. The dining area was on the left and the lounge area was on the right. My eyes went right to the beige couch and the massive plasma TV that was facing it.

"Sit, please," he said to me.

I took my blazer off and put it on the cushion. I unbuttoned my top button, sat on the couch and just melted into the soft leather. Trevor chuckled. I then looked to my right and saw my mom look up at him with smoky seduction eyes and a wet mouth. She placed her delicate hand on his chest, her red nails sparkling under the lights.

"May I go freshen up?" she said with a purr.

"Please."

His eyes said it all: they'd gone from 'I got a good deal on my car insurance' to 'I want to rip your clothes off.'

Mom turned and went up the stairs. My hard-on got even worse. I crossed my legs and coughed, thinking that would do the trick.

Trevor looked at me and smiled. I smiled back.

"Ravi." He pointed and sat next to me. "We need to talk."

Pause. Here's the part where the subject known as Mom's New Boyfriend (?) would say 'man-to-man.' You know, 'I want to talk to you, man-to-man.' That line makes hard things easier to say and gives off the illusion of respect. Trevor was having none of that. No 'man-to-man' here. I wasn't a man in his eyes.

I nodded when he sat down.

"Now, Son, I know you're a pretty smart kid, and you know what's going on."

"I do." I didn't.

He smiled. "I knew you would."

Now I was seeing the real Trevor. The man that cares about health care and road works, that's him, to an extent. But that's his exterior side. I was seeing the true side, the real him, the interior side. His core.

He suddenly seemed much larger. "I want you to respect our boundaries and understand that while she may be your mother, she's also a woman."

"Yes, sir." I said with a blank face.

"Good." I felt his powerful hand clasp my shoulder. "Now I want you to know that your mother is a very important part of my life, meaning you are also a very important part of my life. I care about how you're doing at home and in school. Okay? I want to know how you're doing because you being on the right path makes your mother happy and I want her to be happy."

"Yes, sir."

"I mean it, I do. Now, I know you're a good kid, but you're a little cheeky, too, right? Your mother tells me you've stayed out late a few times. Am I right?"

I actually felt a little hesitation when answering him. "Umm, just a few."

"No more," he said with a clear firmness. "None of that. Your mother knows she can come to me if you're too much to handle. So if you misbehave, you answer to me."
Hold on: was I being told off by my mom's boss? Was he actually telling me how to behave? This guy who was, technically, nothing to me? Was a strange white man telling me how I should live my life? Yes, oh yes he was.

And I agreed with him. "Yes, sir."

He patted me on the shoulder. "Good, you're a good kid."

I didn't feel weak for allowing him to speak to me like that... Okay I felt a little weak, but I didn't think he did anything wrong: he was just looking out for my mom.

I was never much of an egotist, so I really didn't mind him talking down to me, not at all. I saw that his intentions were pure and that he was doing what he felt was right, which was to take the father figure role. Oh, that felt weird, thinking of this guy as my new dad. Weirder still is that I actually kinda felt... good. Not in a sexual way, but, like, that this felt right. That he was in the right and him telling me to settle down and be a good boy was... right.

"I'm here for you as well, Son. Any problems, issues, anything, you can come to me."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Wow, did he just become my dad?

"Good." He stood up. "Kitchen is all yours, take any snacks you want, watch TV and relax in here. Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

He smiled. "Good."

Trevor turned and left the room... going up the stairs.

My mind was spinning. I couldn't figure out what was going on. I needed something to centre me, to put me in the right state of mind. Corrie. I turned the TV on and watched Coronation Street.

It was only midway during the show that an almighty thud hit me across the face: Mom was upstairs with Trevor... and I'd not heard a peep from them in 15 minutes.

Oh, I was letting my thoughts get the better of me. I figured she was chatting with him, and I'd be home before one of those Channel 4 comedy shows started. I like those. Always funny.

I looked at my watch after Corrie had ended: 9:00pm. Okay, 30 minutes, must be a long conversation, possibly about how nice his bathroom is and how she'd like to remodel. Must be giving her the name of a good builder. Now they must be talking about how much it cost him to put in that nice floor.

All right, 9:15pm, okay, long conversation they must be having. Gosh, how big a house is this? I don't even hear footsteps. They must be going into deeper topics. Okay, I'll give them an extra 45 minutes. She's a chatter. She likes to chat.

10:00pm and I'm seeing one of the Carrs on the screen. Okay, didn't think I'd be here for this long. All righty. Think I'll wait till commercial for a snack break, yeah. Seeing how he's an upper middle-class English guy, I assume he has gourmet snacks. Ridged Walkers, here we go!

I got up during the commercial break, feet bare, dress shirt unbuttoned, vest showing, pants hanging loose. I went into his kitchen area and was amazed at the size of it. It was like a regular person's living room. Why did he need so many cooking appliances? A giant oven? For who? Him. Dude, buy a condo. I liked his tiles though. Black and white. Meshing. Like my brown mom and her white boss. It's nice that they're so close and able to have such long and deep conversations. How nice is it that they come from different parts of the world and yet they've become such good friends? It's inspirational, truly.

I looked in Trevor's cupboards. Sadly, no Ridged Walkers. Instead lots of Smoky BBQ crisps. I opened one, tried one, liked it, and kept it. I then looked in his giant fridge for a drink. I expected beer. Many beer cans, stacks of them. Surprisingly, I didn't find any beer. Just water in glass bottles and expensive orange juice. I picked up a small round glass bottle of water and took it back to the living room. As I sat, I enjoyed the quietness of the neighbourhood. All I could hear was passing cars and the TV. I then opened the water bottle. It sparkled.

10:30pm and people on TV are starting to swear more frequently. What was the holdup? I came in at 8:20pm and had been sitting there for over 2 hours. How long can two people chat? It must be one of those conversations that looks to be winding down and then somehow starts back up again. I saw that happen, yeah, Mom does that all the time. I can't. My conversations last around 5 minutes. I'm a little too weird, too un-mainstream, to have regular-people convos. 'Oh, did you watch Chelsea last night?' No, I didn't, I was too busy jerking myself off to the latest Brooke Burke bikini candids. Want to discuss that? Didn't think so. I also like cats and all the boys at school like Rottweilers. Dicks.

So 10:44pm and I got a problem. I drank too much of that sparkly drink. I got on a binge and went through four of those bad boys. Damn, rich people cornered the market on sparkly water. All we get is flat water. Well, anyway, I needed to go. I went out the room and thought Trevor was swanky enough for a downstairs bathroom. He wasn't. That only left me with one option: upstairs. Groan, I didn't want to listen in on their conversation. What if Mom was getting 'emotional'? What if she was talking about her 'real' feelings? I did not want to hear my mom's human problems! But nature was calling and I really didn't want to go in this guy's backyard. Not in this neighbourhood. I can just picture it, an old lady telling him the details: 'Oh, Trevor, did you hear? Some A-rab kid was urinating in your garden. Oh it's getting worse isn't it?' No thanks. I wasn't going to give Trevor any bad press.

I looked up the staircase and felt the oddest sensation in my chest: this weird tightness. Not suffocating, more like a gentle palm on the inside of my chest. I wondered what this was. I got my answer, a little voice in my head whispering it to me.

I scoffed. "Yeah, right," I said to myself.

It whispered it again.

"No, don't be stupid."

And again.

"Okay, seriously, we joke, yeah, but that's my mom. Enough, serious."

It went silent. I got my hand on the barrister and for some reason my body was a little shaky. Seriously, this guy, this voice, it'd been pestering me the whole night. What it was saying, sheesh, I ignored it and carried on with my business. The things the mind creates, my lord, you can't listen to everything it tells you.

I got up to the middle of the staircase and paused when I heard something.

"Uhh!"

Female, soft, like someone in some sort of physical activity. Hmm. Oh right, the TV. I must've left the TV on –

No. I always turn the TV off whenever I leave a room.

I listened in again. I heard nothing. It must've been a cat. Stupid me. I shook my head and went up the stairs. Silly me, making things up in my head.

When I got closer I saw the looming second floor of the house. The upstairs was nice, bathroom on the left, followed by a row of bedrooms and, oh, look at that, right at the end of the hall was another set of stairs. He must have a loft. What a rich guy. How did he buy this place? Looks to be way too large for a single man. The upkeep must be expensive. Perhaps he brought it early and now he's sitting on it. In this market? Oh, he's making a risk –

I had no idea what I was talking about. I was just trying to block that disturbing 'Uhh' from my mind. Nevertheless, I went on up the stairs, getting to the top and –

"Uhh!"

This time harder, still feminine, but with more umph behind it. Huh... someone must've been pulling some heavy boxes around. Must be his neighbours.

It was at this point that I noticed my mom was not around. I looked at the doors, looked in the nearby bathroom, looked ahead and saw that I was pretty much alone. I shrugged. I went into the lavatory, cleaned my hands and thought about which cat I liked best (striped).

I went out and looked in the hallway again. Where were my mom and Trevor? Oh, silly question. The answer was obvious: a lounge room. Trevor must have a lounge room. You know, a lounge room: a room in which people sit and chat. I couldn't hear them; then again what was my hearing? I had human hearing. I can't hear everything. So now what had it been? Over 2 hours of chat? Not too long to wait now. I guess I need to sit downstairs and wait it out till they're done. Guess Trevor will drop us home after this, drop us off like the nice man that he is. Yes, sir, I call him 'sir' because he's such a nice guy –

"Oh god."

And my mom calls him 'God' because he's just so holy... fuck.

That was her. I couldn't deny it anymore. That was Mom saying 'Oh god' – and not in an 'Oh, that god, he's such a so-and-so' way but in an 'Oh god you're fucking me so good' way.

Oh look at me jumping to conclusions. Look, to settle it with me and my mind, I'll go over to where the bedrooms are and I'll kneel down and listen. So I walked a few steps, got on my knees...

And this is the way my world changed forever.

"Oh god! Oh god! Oh god!" said Mom. All ambiguity was gone when I heard bedsprings squeak, a bed frame hit the wall, and my mom's ragged breath.

My mom was having sex. My Indian mom was having sex. Like real, real sex. She was moaning like the girls in the porno movies. My mom was in a porno movie. My mom is in a porno movie. My mom is having actual sex. Penis in her vagina – or maybe somewhere else.

I was on my knees, shaking, trembling. Mom was having sex – but with whom? Well, unless a secret lover lived in this house, my money was on the big strapping white man my mom was drooling all over. Oh, that just tightened me up, the thought that my Indian mom was having sex with that large white man. That big white man. Him putting his big white... thing inside my Indian mother! Oh my, oh my god!

I could hear it clear as day – and if I needed more vividness, I heard something I'd heard just the week before, when I was watching a porno: I heard his hand smack my mother's butt. My mother's butt. My Indian mother's butt. I never thought about her Indian butt being smacked by big white hands – and whoa, I got an erection and I'm tickling it already. Force of habit, it's how I am most of the time, rubbing myself when I got something brewing. But this was different. This was my mom we're talking about. What the fuck am I doing? My Indian mother was having sex, sex, my mother was doing what women in porno movies do, my mom I've known all my life as a honourable and proud woman was doing the prime act of female submission and doing it with gusto as evidenced by her moans to the lord. God: someone she prays to every day – maybe also for this!? Did she want it? Did she want the big white cock? Why was I assuming it was big? Oh it was big: she was married to my 5'3 Indian dad and I'm hung like a hamster. Get real: he was big even if he was average by his white man standards. But look at him: large, in charge, oh and I saw his bulge: he's big. No doubt about it, my Indian mom was getting big white cock. Willingly.

Why? Was it because she just wanted his big white cock? No, come on, she wasn't an animal. My Indian mother would have a reason for doing such a thing. Think, think – got it: her raise. Of course! This was her thank you to him! She was thanking him with – oh that got me unzipping my trousers and jerking myself full-on.

Yes, I admit it: the idea of my Indian mother 'thanking' her strong white male boss with sex was an immense turn-on. An immense turn-on. To think she'd do that made me so very hard – not for her per se, but her actions, her doings, oh it's all so –

"Ugh!" That was Trevor. He groaned a manly groan. Shuffling was heard and then the bed springs went faster and the ramming got harder. Trevor must've been stuffing his white cock even deeper into my mom. Awesome. Hold on: why was I so happy? Aren't sons supposed to be weirded out or even angry when their mom is having sex with a guy? Pssh, I ain't no Oedipus: I loved that my hot mom was fucking a nice guy (which, granted doesn't make me perfectly normal). I jerked on.

Okay: so I was jerking off to my mom. But so what? I wasn't sniffing her panties or trying to do some retarded secret peeks of her. I didn't want to bang my mom. Not in the least. I was jerking off to my Indian mom getting it good and proper from her large white boss. I could think of no one better to fuck and own my sexy mom. He deserved her.

Three minutes into my tactful jerking off, I looked up at the door. Wooden, glossy white sheen, golden handle. Nice. Nice. Old Victorian build I'd say. Modernized, of course. Nice. Hmm. What's this I see? On the right side of the door, I see some light coming out of it. I straightened up and looked to see what it was.

A keyhole.

No, it couldn't be. No one had classic keyholes anymore. Actual holes in which keys fit. Oh, wait, I did, all over my house, actually. But this was one of those big-ass keyholes, the ones people peeked through.

And that's what I did without even thinking about it. I got on my knees, dick in hand, one eye closed and the other open.

I had my breath ripped out of my throat.

Naked giant white man on top of my naked Indian mother. I saw it and it felt like I was watching a dream, yet I also knew it was real. Real and unreal both at once.

I saw the south of the bed. Him on top, me looking at his big hairy white ass, his massive white cock inside my mother's Indian vagina, my mom's feet in the air as he thrust into her.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Mom moaned.

My mother was naked. How big this was cannot be put into words. Naked as in no clothes. No clothes at all. Naked as in physically and metaphorically. Naked as in bare, free, real, alive. This was her, and this was not my mom. This was Priyanka Arora: Trevor's Indian Bitch.

Bitch is right. Hey, I love my mom; I'm not saying it in a resentful way. I'm stating it as a fact. She was his bitch, pure and simple. Taking his cock, having it put in her and moaning like a bitch. Another way to put it is to say that my mom was not being a 'mom'. She was being used as a woman, a submissive woman, a woman under the control of a man. A dirty woman. A moaning woman. A bitch. My Indian mom was being a strong white man's bitch.

Did I mention I loved it?

And better was to come. Trevor turned around, allowed Mom to get on top (stress the word 'allowed') and got her riding his big, massive, throbbing 8-inch white cock.

I felt my balls tighten when I saw my mom's bare smooth brown naked back and ass. I was looking at my mother's wonderful bum. I, her son, was looking at her bare butt. So wrong... yet so very hot. Then I saw Trevor's big white hands float over my mom's juicy bare brown butt. He clasped his hands down hard, and I saw him feel, grope and slap my Indian mom's ass.

The big white man groping my Indian mom's buttocks. It was an action which took only a second, yet one which will stay with me for a lifetime.

What I see when I look back on that scene is all the amazing details: Trevor's large white body, naked, straightened out, his large feet reaching the end of the bed, his hands on her butt and his big white cock inside her, his big white balls ever present and full. I remember Mom: her bare naked body exposed to me, as gorgeous as I'd imagined, her skin flawless, gorgeous, she more beautiful without clothing. I remember her grinding on that big white cock, moaning over the superior size. And Trevor was just as enthralled as she was. I remember how he gripped her juicy brown butt, how he held and slapped it with due force; gentle yet powerful, like he was sending her a message: he was reminding her that she was his woman and this was his power.

Mom was sweaty. I could see how shiny her back had gotten. Her bare, long, sweaty back. Oh she loved it, loved riding her strong white boss. I could tell she loved it: I could feel her emotion, could feel her passion. It was hot, so hot it was making me sweat. She was loving it, I could tell – I could hear it. Though it was timid, I swore I heard a playful giggle come from her. I couldn't confirm it, but I could tell how happy she was. Mom was not the same woman when she was with him. I barely recognized this woman. Occasionally, I had to remind myself that this woman was my mother. Yet how could she have been my mother? She was nothing like her. My mother was good-natured, kind, generous and elegant. This woman too was elegant, yet had traits my mother lacked: style, rhythm, poise, confidence. This woman was not at all motherly, that all-important trait having been replaced by one of womanhood's more appealing characteristics: sex appeal. This woman was one with her inner self, flowing and gliding with effortless ease.

I saw Trevor smile at my mom; that smile they both shared. It was wonderful. The defining image for me was when I looked at my mother and noticed her beautiful, flowing, jet-black signature Indian hair. Her hair was bouncing in tune to her rhythmic movements. And as I watched her beautiful hair, I saw her head go down, towards Trevor's face.

And then she kissed him.

I cummed.

I looked away after I'd finished. I took a second to let the orgasm take effect, and then, without question, I knew what I had to do next.

Get away from the bedroom.

Not because I was disgusted, oh no, not at all. What I saw was stunningly beautiful. I saw my Indian mother being her true self, being a proud and happy woman. And I saw Trevor being a real man: good, strong, proud, on top and in charge of his house. The dynamic was perfect: she was a sublimely feminine woman that wanted a strong man to protect her; He was a strong man that wanted to protect and care for this woman. The sex was his reward for being himself and something they both enjoyed and felt supremely connected by. I didn't see a porno: I saw a real human moment. A real human moment shared by two people who love each other very much.

The reason I had to look away was because it was wrong of me to watch. What I saw was a deeply intimate moment between two people and something no third party should ever watch. Being her son made it worse, as I should not have seen her like that. It was wrong of me to peek. Still, I'm glad I did it.

I wouldn't do it again though. I'm a good boy. Good boys don't break the rules... often. Well, anyway, I snuck downstairs, got back on the couch... and jerked it eight times to just the memories alone.

Eventually it got dark, 3am, and Women's Beach Volleyball was on. I got out another three rounds and then nature took its course and sent me to sleep.

*

Next morning, I woke up groggy and confused. I wondered if everything I'd just heard and seen was a dream. My answer came pretty quickly when I found myself on Trevor's couch. Yep, it happened – my pants confirmed it.

I sat up and rewound everything that had happened. I wondered why I liked this whole setup. The truth: it was because my Indian mom was having sex with her strong white boss. White man, Indian woman. Yes, yes, yes, I liked it, I liked it a lot. He had a big white cock and my Indian mother took it and loved it. Furthermore, because they were now having sex, everything about what made him White English and her Indian proved to be a turn-on: she spoke with an Indian accent, he spoke with an English one; she wore sari dresses, he wore suits; she eats curry... and so does he. Okay, I might have gone a little overboard – but it was so frigging hot! My Indian mom had gone white, big and white. And so had I! I was the son of an Indian woman who had a white boyfriend. I'm so metro! This is so hot, yeah, his white hands on her brown butt, yeah, yeah.

But that's not all. What really tied it all together was that they really liked each other. Really liked each other. I might have slipped and said the 'L' word. Well, I felt it between them and I couldn't deny what I saw. She 'L' him and he 'L' her. That made me feel good, good for both of them.

"Son." A shirtless and boxers-clad Trevor came into the living room. "What's going on? Just woke up?"
"Yes, sir." He was even more massive with his exposed hairy white torso and clearly visible bulge. I then quickly remembered that this massive white man had sex with my Indian mom. I was getting a little erect from the playback.

"Well, shower, then come get breakfast."

"Yes, sir."

He walked into his kitchen.

I tried fixing myself up. I stood up and zipped up my pants. I'm glad I did, as the next image made me go 'Uhh.'

My mom in Trevor's large white dress shirt. Nothing else. Legs bare, feet bare, hair wet, body clean, and she smelt like lavender. Oh god indeed.

The shirt was buttoned up halfway, meaning I was looking at a snippet of my mom's brown boobies. And the boner rises.

"Mom?"

"Ravi," she said with that all-is-great smile. I smiled too.

"How, umm, how."

She smiled and nodded. "Oh, did you hear? Did you hear us do that? That?"

I shook my head. All the moisture left my mouth when I replied, "No."

She looked at me with a pout. "No? Well, what we did, Son, that?" She walked out the room and then poked her head back in. With a big smile, she said, "That was just me thanking him for dinner."

The End
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