A New Outlook

"Those are called nipple clamps," I tried to whisper to my mother and hopefully maintain the fairly innocent expression on both of our faces, and control her tendency to squeal and shriek when sometimes confronted with unaccustomed experiences.

"Are you kidding? They don't really attach those things to their, uhm... sensitive areas? I mean really..." She stuttered and stammered, hopping back and forth on one leg like a child. The other shoppers staring or laughing at her obvious discomfort. Her mischievous eyes were edged with furrowed brows and a grimace creased her dusty pink-glossed lips. That same shade of pink was beginning to blend in with the pallor of her plump cheeks. As she gulped a big breath, the quickly reddening flesh tones began to creep down her neck and slowly spread over her abundant cleavage.

She dropped the package containing the silver-chained alligator clips as if it were on fire. Quickly moving away from the display case containing various exotic studs and rings, she hastily sorted through the table of elbow-length gloves and lacy stockings.

My mom and I were on a mission to change her wholesome image, atleast for one night. Her name is Rebecca, most people call her Becky. She is straight laced, prim and bible-belted. She is a terrific mom and a thoughtful provider, and she was once a wonderful wife. But my asshole dad rudely disappointed her and left us high and dry. She retreated even more into her conservative shell, aging before my eyes.

After knocking around at a few boring, low-level jobs, she finally caught-on at a small shock-style, advertising firm. It changed her outlook on the miserable world. Suddenly, every day she burst through our front door with lively stories of secret office romances, or wild behavior in meetings and lewd suggestive ideas for marketing products. Becky would even repeat risqué jokes to me and sit through entire movies featuring naked people. She mentioned more often, that people who laugh and break down conventional barriers seem to be so much happier with their lives. I loved her new attitude and the glow it brought to her.

She also enjoyed the time she was spending with younger people and their refreshing outlook on life. Her coworkers included her in Happy Hours and opened her up to the internet and all that was involved there. They would call at night for her to join the group and help to diagnose some relationship problem or sexual hang-up that always happened to pop-up. They even took pains to compliment her figure and convinced her to try some more modern styles. The staff photographers even got her to pose for some racy pictures, saying that she had the erotic look to attract a youthful audience. They literally got her to let her hair down.

Becky is only in her early forties but for almost ten years, has been an old maid. Her strawberry-blonde hair was usually piled in a lifeless lump atop her ashen freckled face. She wore horn-rimmed glasses to work even though her vision was quite good. Her lips were normally painted a shimmering shade of pink, her one concession to makeup, with the nails to match. And those electric blue eyes glowed, even under the unadorned lashes and pale brows.

Yoga kept her trim and flexible, while also supplying me the taboo opportunity to appraise her lithe figure on a less than motherly scale. She was not overly top-heavy but she sported more than just a pleasing handful. Her long legs looked solid in skin-tight leotards and her round butt had a pleasant jiggle that appeared firm and shapely in casual dress. And she looked great in heels, when she finally abandoned the sensible shoes.

I am the only child, Robert. She calls me Robbie. Atleast I think I'm the only child, my father liked to dip his pole into other ponds. I am twenty three, a college grad and fairly athletic. My hair and eyes are brown and I weigh about one-ninety on a six foot frame. But nobody really cares about my looks. Back to my mom.

The reason for the new temporary change of appearance was the ad agency's annual Halloween costume party. This year, with the successful completion of a lucrative campaign for an adult sex store, the party was given an xx-rated theme. The clients sponsoring the event were anxious to see their new partners promoting the product to their own employees. There would be games such as bobbing for sex toys and relay races with strap-on devices, cookies and cakes baked in indelicate shapes and prizes for different categories of sexy costumes. And my mom was "urged" by her bosses to participate.

Her women friends at the company had revealed to her a new lifestyle, but a lot of it was still mysterious for her, and embarrassing to converse about. The only person that she knew well enough to even consider talking with about these things, and admitting to her many insecurities, was me. We would spend evenings talking about sexual positions or when conformity butted against freedom, she was anxious to learn new things and have an informed, modern approach to her new horizons. Becky accepted that as a Liberal Arts major and a confirmed horn-dog, that I had a certain appreciation for most things porno. And though I may have to patiently explain things and suffer through some nineteenth century morality problems of hers, I would never allow her to be embarrassed in public. Mom was like a delicate flower whose petals were just opening.

The girls had instilled in her the notion of "do what feels right for you," but they hadn't explained how she should battle through her conflicting emotions. They told her that she could be so much more than just a wife or a mother, that there was an aching, sensuous woman trying to crack through that shell that's been formed around her. And most importantly they stressed, "labels are only applied to you by other jealous people!" They wanted her to explore her inner being and not be afraid of what that might entail. All of the young ones had dabbled in extra-marital affairs, lesbianism, S&M, and many other practices she found to be exciting to hear about but a little scary to contemplate. But it did set her mind to seeing the world in a new light.

So she was determined to try something unique for the upcoming party, and I was recruited to help. We discussed and then rapidly dismissed costume ideas covering a sexy vampirine, a naughty nurse, a slutty school teacher, a bad-girl baby sitter, and the list went on. Becky noticed the cover of a men's magazine that I had, and liked the alluring image of a woman in bunny ears and cotton tail. But thought that the low-cut top and conveniently hidden bottoms were a tad too revealing. She settled on a cat. We both agreed that cats are inherently sexy but playfully aloof. And with only a few basic alterations to her Yoga outfit, she felt that she could be comfortable yet flirtatious.

That didn't exactly work. No matter what she tried, or how well she sewed, the resulting costume always looked homemade and a bit comically half-assed. Not quite the image that the new sponsor was selling. So we headed off to one of the company stores, that I happened to have a little familiarity with. They didn't have exactly what she imagined, but I convinced her to explore the racks, that there may be some combinations that might be favorably assembled. She was fairly easy to convince, and energetically took to shopping the racks. I was surprised at how quickly she felt at home, though an occasional object or article could cause her to hoot with unsuppressed guffaws. Slightly unconventional clothing was okay, appliances that she couldn't conceive a purpose for until I told her, would elicit stifled shrieks of laughter.

One thing captured my attention as her fingers deftly sorted through the shiny, slick or clunky fabrics on display. I took a step back to observe the clothing and accessory choices that caught her eye. Some of my personal favorites bordered on sleazy or titillating, the kind that would convince me to slip some hard-earned folding money into awaiting garters. And though I knew a few young ladies that made these types of outfit look amazing, and I could picture my mom filling out some Spandex or leather gear, I wasn't entirely comfortable with pushing this bawdy attire on my conservative mother. But as I watched in silence, her browsing habits snagged my attention.

She was more interested in the quality of the material and the lines they formed, than apparently in how much of her body would be exposed. Something I could not identify at the time had come over her like a reassuring cloak. She was feeling much more confident in her sensuous figure and wanted to present it in it's most flattering light. Becky was entitled to a store discount as an agency employee, but in all of her clothes shopping, she was never cheap. When I mentioned that there was a section of the store devoted to higher-end merchandise, rather than the gag gifts and tired, old theater costumes surrounding us, she was eager to be shown the way. The women who catered to a little wealthier clientele shopped these aisles. On this small shopping spree, she was wearing cargo shorts and sandals, with a loose fitting Polo shirt and bra. She looked casual and cute in a next door mom kind of way. And she had also applied some touches of makeup to her eyes and cheeks, nothing loud but very appealing. One small step in the process, I guess. At this point anything that brightened her outlook was a good beginning.

As she fingered sexy silk camisoles and velvety corsets, she seemed more attuned to how they might enhance her figure than in what they concealed. She laid gauzy stockings across her bare thighs or tried on strappy heels and did a few quick toe-raises, Watching for the muscle contraction of her toned legs, and then the flirty spring in her healthy chest. She couldn't keep her blue eyes out of the full length mirror. And the image it reflected was of a woman that she was anxious to know. Different size and widths of shoes made her chest bounce in various patterns, something that we both found intriguing, though for different reasons. And she completely floored me when she asked me to stand behind her and gather her shirt-tails up to the point of glimpsing her pink bra, so that she could gauge the appearance of frilly or gossamer gowns on her body. I felt an unaccustomed rush when my fingers brushed along her vibrant, warm back. And then she turned slightly and whispered that my touch felt heavenly on her tingling flesh. She smiled in a demure, charming way, and both of my heads began to stir in a crazy, disillusioned manner.

I had on occasion, helped to zip up her dress or fasten a necklace for her, and felt oddly attracted to her tempting but off-limits, torso. But being so close to her and feeling her warm skin under my touch like this, was causing an unexpected arousal. Then she innocently calmed my nerves with her questions, which were accompanied with the trademark snort of embarrassed laughter that I loved so much. I snickered as she spoke quietly into in my ear, if I thought that certain outfits made her look "trashy" or if her boobs would bounce too much if she wore one of these without a bra. That caught me off guard, I always assumed that she slept in a bra. Her hands moved deftly between short skirts and slinky gowns, bras and panties, everything naughty and inviting was snatched. She picked-out shoes and tossed them to me as she went. After a few minutes, she had gathered an armful of choices and I was carrying assorted pairs of shoes when she asked me the way to the ladies dressing rooms. I pointed towards a cluttered path and attempted to hand her the pumps, when she grabbed my sleeve and dragged me to the back.

I protested that I couldn't go back there with her but she argued that she had already seen young couples heading that way, and most of the guys did not come back. "Besides," she reasoned, "who else can give me an honest opinion on whether I'll look sexy or silly?" Then she giggled a bit and I dutifully followed along. This was the first moment when the little voice inside my head began to scream, yelling that my mom's build was going to fill-out any of these nasty outfits quite nicely. And that I might have a front row seat for the unveiling. My level of sanctimony is lower than most, and that nagging voice has often led my actual head, to follow my smaller head, into some exciting situations... though they didn't all end well. I had a difficult time resisting that voice.

When we located an open stall in the dressing area, I deposited my bundle on the small bench and prepared to depart. I could already feel the prying eyes of the other stranded guys as they shuffled aimlessly; pointing-out to each other the two pairs of legs under some of the doors, listening for the telltale grunting and banging, or silently wondering what the relationship was between some of the couples, particularly ours. I figured that I would just wait out in the dirty movie section, while she tried-on her bounty.

However, she wanted me to stay so that I could voice my opinion as needed, and she wouldn't have to keep calling for me, or cover herself every time she opened the door. She actually wanted me inside with her, in the changing room. The voice convinced me that this might be fun. So I absorbed the unspoken innuendos from the crowd and stepped inside the tiny cubicle. Now we just had to adjust to the cozy accommodations. Solitary confinement in prison would seem luxurious compared to this claustrophobic closet. There was one small molded-plastic bench, two battered coat hooks and graffiti-scared mirrors on all four sides. Even a small person extending his arms, could easily touch the two opposite walls. And I'm sure that the room capacity was exactly "one." I'm certain that amorous couples did enter together and probably had to crawl all over each other to have any sort of fun and avoid hurting their backs. But what do two people do who are attempting to maintain a certain decorum?

I had developed a recent appreciation for my mom's stunning physique and it felt oddly kinky to be in the same close quarters as she sampled some suggestive outfits.

These were clothes that she planned to wear to a company function, and she expected me to apprise how well the eventual final ensemble showed-off her voluptuous curves for fun, without getting her fired. Funny thing is, she would have found all of the articles to be indecent even as underwear, just a few weeks before. And now, these items of erotic lingerie most commonly worn by strippers and video queens, would comprise the "look" that my mom wanted to be seen in, and for her son to judge. This is where I owe a sincere thanks to Madonna, for enticing women to fashion their underwear as outerwear. And for whomever planted the seed of this new sensual rebirth of my mom's sexual identity. I failed to comprehend the full collection of clothing that she had piled on the small, battered bench. This was more than a Halloween costume, but I was entirely too dense and uneasy about my predicament, to form any rational thoughts.

The little voice in my head was screaming again. Growing up, especially during those awkward years after puberty hits, and when you begin to ogle the soft curves and light swish of any passing female, the woman that you are around most often and have the best vantage position to watch, is usually your mom. And once you learn to understand the real meaning of the terms "MILF," "C-Cups" or "incest," you discover that the sweaty, sleepless nights in bed often involve the taboo fantasy of mom's cleavage and attractive rear end. More images bombard your brain real and imagined of mom bending over, mom sunbathing, mom in a light summer rain wearing a sheer top and mom pleading for a warm, moist massage while you two are both naked and have been drinking... Wait- this can't be happening. Mom is shopping and I am helping...end of story.

But ofcourse you understand that the whole concept represents the most forbidden of sweet fruits, and that nothing resembling that nasty, lewd vision would ever be permitted to happen. Until you find yourself in a 6x6 mirrored box, with your mom balancing her warm hand on your shoulder, as she wiggles out of her undies. I didn't grasp it at the time, but this excursion to the xx-rated costume shop would change the course of both of our lives. It was like standing on the shore of a serene lake, and tossing a harmless pebble into the deep waters. The ripples just flow in all directions in ever-widening circles, if they encounter an object they merely pass around it and keep going. What starts as something innocent and minor can spread in any direction.

In the first minute that she was barefoot and reduced to skimpy panties and remarkably sheer pink bra, we exchanged nervous giggles and could both feel the heat from our reddening cheeks. That naïve body temperature rise, may also have been the result of a subliminal sexual tension filling the crowded confines of our plywood cell. In three seconds, my eyes were immediately drawn to the two erogenous zones of her alluring torso that were only barely masked from my curious orbs.

Aside from her exquisite physical beauty which not even a blind man would fail to see, it's strange what details that your subconscious eye detects. With a very brief scan of her slight, pink panties I was struck by the absence of stray pubic hair peeking from underneath the scalloped edges. Her curls must have been neatly, and recently trimmed, because no small wisps of her honey-blonde hairs showed. The faint shadow of her "Y" revealed a reddish-brown tint in the shape of a small arrowhead, aimed lasciviously at her vagina. This from my shy mother. My eyes grew wide and my breathing momentarily faltered sending my gasping face upward. I was studiously hoping to avoid her own eyes when my vision stopped at the heaving, noticeable target of her swelling bustline. The scoop-necked material was struggling to hold back the fullness of her dew-covered mounds. The perky, brown nubs were threatening to poke through the sheer fabric, from which it seemed I could see every tiny ridge of her areolas. I never even imagined that she owned sexy, lace underwear like this, or that in my wildest dreams she would ever stand infront of her drooling, leering son in this easy state of undress. It may not have been so easy, she let-out a short shriek of nervous laughter as she assayed the absurdity of this ticklish situation. But I was struck that she didn't move to cover her near-nudity or lecture me in some manner. It almost was an exercise that she felt compelled to accomplish. Becky was unsteady at first, but appeared determined to go through with it.

Those sparkling baby-blues of hers zeroed-in on the rapidly expanding bulge sprouting in my jeans. And she didn't act especially cautious about the guilty pleasure she was experiencing in it's discovery, or the contented smile that dimpled her ruddy cheeks. My booming erection seemed to be causing more discomfort for me than for her, and in these tight quarters, it was mere inches from her bare belly with nowhere to hide.

When she reached for the first garment, a faux-leather bustier that consisted of four inches of black material and some leather thongs, and was completely backless, a glimmer of her motherly instincts took hold. She cautioned that maybe I should turn my back and close my eyes, while she tried-on this initial piece. I faced the wall, almost scraping my nose, feeling like a cross between a third grader placed in "time-out," and a bratty kid spying on mom as she peeled out of her underwear.

I stood with my eyes defiantly narrowed to thin slits, sneakily peering at the sultry reflection in the mirror. My hand was jammed in my pocket, subtly fumbling with the huge hard-on trapped in my denims, trying to hide the rather obvious betrayal of my emotions and also give it room to breathe. This small cubicle made keeping any appropriate distance an impossibility and I was continually amazed that she wanted me in here with her. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her bra flutter onto the plastic bench and then I felt the pressing warmth of her flesh against my sweaty back as she shimmied the panties along her thighs and kicked them away.