My Mother, The Supermodel

MY MOTHER, THE SUPERMODEL

This is a complicated story – emotionally complicated anyway. I'm not sure if I'll be able to bring myself to write everything down, but I'll try.

I'm not used to writing this kind of thing, either – personal stuff, I mean. What I normally write is reports – very dry; very business-like. But this ...

Sorry, I'm beating about the bush. I'll try to get on with it. I'll give you the central facts first.

Fact 1: My mother is a famous fashion model. Well, she used to be a model – she's been more or less retired for a few years now – but she's definitely famous. If you saw her picture you'd know her instantly. She's the one with the slender, vulnerable look – with her fine blonde hair combed across her forehead like a boy's, and her oddly gawky limbs. That's the way the papers described her anyway. One journalist called her a 'willing victim'. He wrote that her eyes said 'Hurt me, please.' I was really shocked when I read that, but my mother laughed. It was par for the course, she said – all part of the publicity machine.

And, if you're wondering, she's nothing like a victim in real life. She's been very successful, and she looks after her own interests very well. She's a professional. The 'victim' thing was just a look. In fact, everything's a 'look' in the fashion business. Don't believe anything you find on the fashion pages. You're seeing just what they want you to see – that's all.

Anyway, slender, waif-like and exploited – that was my mother's stock-in-trade, even when she was in her middle thirties. (I've studied the pictures, so I know.)

Fact 2: This is a non-fact, actually. She has to have a name, so I'll call her Chloe. That isn't her real name, of course – though the name she works under is similar: just a single word; two syllables.

Fact 3: My mother is Hungarian – or, at least, she comes from Hungary. She's British now. She came here in the early eighties, and married my father not long after. Her English is brilliant – she hardly has an accent, though it comes through now and then when she's excited, and sometimes she puts it on for effect. (That's part of her allure, they say. It's what gives her that exotic quality.)

Fact 4: She divorced my father five years ago. She kept the house in West London and the Bentley and a lot of cash in the bank. I don't know all the details – and they're not relevant here anyway – but he slipped up somehow and he paid for it.

I think they're still friendly. Dad's loaded, so I doubt if he misses the money or the house. And my mother? Well, I don't know. I've never really been able to tell what she's thinking or how she feels. She looks happy, anyway. There was no big trauma as far as I can see.

OK. Now me. First, I have nothing to do with the fashion industry, beyond the fact that I was brought up in a house with fashion people always passing through, and with huge fashion pictures, mostly of Chloe, mounted on every wall. I think that did have an affect on me, actually – but I'll come to that later.

It isn't completely true to say I was brought up in that house, though. From the age of eleven I was sent away to private schools – first to a Prep School, and then, when I was thirteen, to a Public School. (If you aren't familiar with the arcane British education system, 'Public' School means 'private' and expensive. Sorry if that's confusing. I know it's weird.)

When I say 'sent away', I mean I went to boarding schools – both of them a long way from home. So I only saw my parents in the holidays, or when they came to school for the occasional visit. And that affected me, of course. It meant I grew up independent – which was the point of the exercise, I suppose – and I felt rather detached from my parents.

It's difficult to explain, and it's probably hard for people who weren't sent away at a young age to understand, but in some ways my mother and father were more like colleagues than parents. Though that isn't quite right, either. They were kind and supportive and they looked after me and advised me about my life and so on – they did all the important parent things – but they had their own lives to lead as well. I certainly wasn't the centre of their world. I was just somebody who happened to be part of the family – like a cousin or a nephew, perhaps. I don't know – does any of that make sense? Anyway, there was always a certain distance between my mother and me from the time I was very young – and perhaps that's why she wanted me to call her 'Chloe' instead of 'Mum'. And that's another central fact.

Let's fast forward. The last thing you need to know is that I studied geology at university and after I left I became a well-site geologist. That meant I got to travel all round the world, expenses paid, on contract. But, as a result of my itinerant life-style, I never quite got round to finding a home of my own – so, at the advanced age of twenty-six, I was still based at my mother's house. I wasn't there very much, you understand – I spent months and months abroad at drilling sites and on offshore exploration rigs – but , when I came back to Britain, I went 'home' to my large and rather comfortable room at Chloe's place.

Oh, and my name's Jonathon. You might want to know that, too. But that, I think, is all you need in the way of background.

Alright. The thing I want to tell you about – if I can manage it – happened two years ago. I'd been away for a long time, in China, and I'd been getting pretty fed up, so when I got the opportunity to come back to Britain for a quick visit, I jumped at it. I phoned my mother, of course, but she didn't answer, so I texted her instead, saying when I'd be home.

I got to the house around nine in the evening. There were lights on, and I let myself in and called out to say I was back, but nobody answered. So I took my bag upstairs and dropped it off in my room, then went straight downstairs again to look for Chloe.

She wasn't in any of the rooms at the front of the house, but we have a room we call the "back parlour", and I thought she might be in there. I made my way through to the back (as I said earlier, it's a big place) and, sure enough, the parlour door was open a little way and I could see there was a light on. So I said 'Hello', and went straight in.

And I got the biggest shock of my life. The back parlour isn't very big, but it's large enough to have two settees in it. One is end-on to the door as you go in; the other one is against the wall to the right. When I went in, I saw two people, neither of whom I knew. One – a youngish, dark-haired woman – was perched on the edge of the settee directly ahead of me. The other, a man, also fairly young, was standing in front of her, very close. The man's penis was in the woman's mouth.

I froze. They were both staring at me – because, I guess, they'd heard me speak before I came in – but they obviously hadn't had time to get his cock out of her mouth. I remember the woman looking at me with wide, startled eyes – and with an odd bulge in her cheek where the man's cock-end was nestling.

My first instinct was to apologize – and I'd actually opened my mouth to say sorry when I heard a sort of gasp to my right. So I looked round. I saw my mother, sprawled on the other settee, with her legs wide apart and her light grey dress pulled up. She was masturbating hard – her whole hand moving on her exposed pussy. I noticed her panties lying beside her in a pale little crumpled heap. Somehow that detail – the fact that she'd deliberately taken them off to masturbate while these two strangers were in the room, made the scene all the more shocking. I was stunned. And the word 'sorry' didn't make it past my lips. I just stared at her. I couldn't move or speak.

And my mother stared back at me, wide-eyed, with her hand still there between her legs, but frozen now.

It probably didn't last very long, but that moment felt like an eternity. Then my mother took her hand out from between her thighs and flipped her dress down over them. At about the same instant, I heard the other two moving. When I looked back at them, the man had turned his back on me and was hurriedly zipping up his flies – and the woman had sat back a little, with her hand covering her mouth.

Still nobody spoke. I wanted to. I tried to, but nothing came out. So I just turned on my heel and walked right out of the room again. I went back through the house to the front door, and straight out into the night.

I didn't decide to do that – to leave. My feet just sort of walked me out by themselves. My conscious mind had nothing to do with it. I don't think it was even functioning at that point.

I was half way down the street before I heard my mother calling. I stopped and looked round. She just stood there, under a street lamp. I could see her feet were bare. As I looked at her, her shoulders slumped. She was probably close to tears. I felt sorry for her – really sorry – but I couldn't do anything. So I turned round again and went on. She didn't follow me.

I walked to the tube station and got a train to the West End. Then I went to one of the hotels in the Strand and took a room. I'd come out with nothing except my credit cards, so I had to buy a toothbrush from the concierge. When I got to the room, I took a miniature of scotch from the mini-bar and drank it straight off, in one gulp. Then I had another one. I sat on the edge of the bed for hours, just thinking and drinking. I'd practically emptied the fridge by the time I went to sleep.

You may be feeling puzzled about some of that. I mean, yes, of course it's a shock to walk in on one's mother while she's watching an act of fellatio and masturbating herself, but what they were doing wasn't illegal, was it? So, you may be asking, why didn't I just back out and close the door politely, and then enjoy the red faces when the three of them emerged a bit later? After all, we were all grown-ups. We could have had a good laugh about it when the blushing stopped.

But there's quite a lot I haven't told you. I'll do it now.

You see, growing up with a famously beautiful mother has an effect. And let's not forget the sex. My mother had always been breathtakingly sexy and I'd always known it. And so had everybody else. When people found out who I was – whose son I was, that is – something always changed. There was a kind of awe about them in the way they treated me – in the way they looked at me.

And sometimes there was more than just awe. I remember my first term at university, after the news got out. There was a Saturday night in the Union bar, for example, when a bunch of drunken rugby players decided to sing loud choruses about my mother's attributes and supposed sexual tastes, knowing full well I was there. I just had to grin and bear it while they detailed exactly what they'd like to do to Chloe. (As a team, you understand – to do things as a team. They had a joint pornographic fantasy about my mother for an hour – and all in my hearing.)

It was my own fault, too. I could have kept quiet about my mother's identity, but I'd advertised it almost from the first day I arrived at the place. Why? Because of girls, of course. I'd discovered long ago that women are fascinated by the fashion industry, and telling them I was Chloe's son was an almost sure-fire way to get them into bed. (Well, some of them, anyway. Well, quite a lot of them, in fact.) I used my mother's celebrity, and her incredible sexiness, to get sex for myself. So the price I paid, of course, was male jealousy and drunken, obscene comments in the bar. But it seemed like a reasonable bargain at the time, and – here comes a confession – I was perversely proud that my mother provoked all those dirty ideas.

There, I've said it! I wasn't really embarrassed when I overheard blokes saying what they'd like to do to Chloe. I enjoyed it. I smiled quietly. I took pleasure in it.

So, as I expect you can tell, the story gets complicated. And that's why it's going to be so hard to explain what happened next.

Something else happened while I was at university – something so bad that I shocked myself.

I'd been out one night, drinking, and I came home pretty drunk. I was alone. I hadn't scored that night and I felt randy, in that drunken, don't-give-a-damn way you probably recognize in yourself from time to time. So I booted my computer up and, like solitary drunks the whole world over, I started surfing for porn.

Except the porn didn't really do it for me. I tried for a while, searching for the perfect picture, but none of the women I looked at measured up. Measured up to what? To my obscure desire. There was something lurking underneath the drunkenness – some sort of need – and I couldn't find the thing to satisfy it. I must have spent an hour opening and closing windows – flitting between sites, getting more and more frustrated. And then I googled 'Chloe'. Without thinking. Just like that. And there she was, in a whole array of pictures. Thousands of them. My mother posing for the world – sometimes subtly, sometimes raunchy. My mother looking back at me, out of the screen, giving me the look that turned the whole world on.

And I did what thousands, maybe millions, had done before me. I unzipped my pants and got my cock out.

I wanked off to my mother!

I don't remember what happened after that, but I must have gone to sleep. I woke up the next day with a horrible hang-over and a sense of guilt that got stronger as the hang-over wore off. I couldn't forget the fact that I'd been masturbating to pictures of my mother. The memory stayed with me. It haunted me.

And the guilt never really stopped. I never masturbated to her again – in fact, I avoided looking at her pictures as much as I could. But the urge was always there. Until the night I walked in on her and her friends having their little sex party, I'd been keeping myself on a tight rein, deliberately suppressing my filthy fantasies about her. But now, suddenly, I'd discovered that Chloe really was as dirty as I'd always pretended she was – pretended, of course, without really believing it.

But now I did. Now I knew. And it turned my whole world upside-down.

So maybe you can understand how mixed up I felt – how really jumbled up I was emotionally – after I'd walked in on my mother and her friends that night. Because seeing her there, masturbating, with her little panties by her side, watching the other woman sucking the man's stiff dick, had been exciting. Incredibly exciting! It had given me a terrific jolt – a huge sex shock deep in the guts.

And, at exactly the same moment, I'd felt an enormous surge of shame. I hadn't run away because I was angry with my mother, or even because I disapproved of what I'd caught her doing. I'd run away because I couldn't deal with my own guilt. To talk to her that night, after I'd seen what I'd seen, would have been a total humiliation. I think I'd have melted if I'd had to look her in the eye.

The next morning I woke up in the hotel with a hang-over which didn't clear 'til lunchtime. I mooched around London all day, then I called Chloe from a phone box at about six that evening. (I'd left my mobile at home, of course, so she hadn't been able to phone me. I think she'd been trying all day.)

We didn't talk much. I said I'd be home soon and Chloe said she'd be in, and that was that.

We didn't say much when I got there, either. She met me at the door and put her arms round me and kissed me on the cheek. And we stood like that for a long time. And then, when she'd finally let go of me, she said she'd make dinner. And I went to my room for a while, to wait.

I don't want to go on and on about what we said to each other that evening. There was a lot of tension between us – that must be obvious – and it was difficult for us to talk about the previous night. It was for me, anyway. But eventually my mother raised the subject. She said – in that slightly stilted way of speaking she has when she's being serious:

'You have to understand, Jonathon, that I have sexual needs. I'm a sexual person. I have an active sex life and it isn't conventional.'

And that opened the floodgates for me.

We'd been drinking quite a lot through the evening and I suddenly felt the urge to make things absolutely clear to her. So I told her what I've just told you – that I hadn't been judging her when I ran out on her, but I hadn't been able to deal with the fact that I'd been so turned on by seeing her like that. And I remember my mother put her head on one side at that point and listened very carefully. She looked so expectant, in fact, that I had to go on and explain everything. So I told her exactly how I felt. I told her about my dirty thoughts, and I told her about my guilt, and eventually (though it was hard) I confessed about the time I'd masturbated to her pictures. And then ...

And then she smiled.

I know what you think happened next. You think she came over and kissed me, and took my cock out, and sucked it a bit, maybe, and then I fucked her. And then we both lived happily ever after in an incestuous mother-son ménage. But none of that happened. The most I can say is that there was a shift in our relationship. Because, although I'd been terrified that I'd shock her with my confession, my mother wasn't upset at all. She seemed quietly intrigued – intrigued and satisfied.

I don't remember everything about the rest of that evening, but some things she said stuck fast in my memory. One was:

'Somebody told me once that doing catwalk modelling is like doing striptease with your clothes on. And she was right. That's the way it feels, and that's why I like it.'

And another one was this:

'You have to understand, Jonathon, that fashion people – people like me – need to be looked at. We need those stares. And the staring is always about sex. Because when someone says a model is beautiful, they really mean she's sexy, don't they? And I hope you think I'm beautiful, so you must think I'm sexy as well. You can't separate them, can you? Nor can I. Nobody can.'

And something else: 'I'm happy you found me like that last night. I'm happy you saw me. It is ... kinky and exciting, isn't it?'

And finally: 'To masturbate to a woman's picture is a compliment, isn't it? Don't you think so, darling?'

That last one rocked me. I thought about everything she'd said afterwards, about how she really needed those sexual stares and how she was excited that I'd caught her. And I thought about what wanking meant to her – about the compliment thing. It was as if I'd finally seen right through her pictures, to the real Chloe. I understood how fashion and posing and sex were all the same to her. And how I was part of that as well.

But that, for a while, was all I could allow myself to take in.

What happened next? Well, as I said, I was only in London on a flying visit, so I left after a few days. I stayed at home most of the time I was there, but my mother and I didn't talk about sex again. I did, however, load up my laptop with pictures of her before I left. I'd abandoned my self-imposed prohibition against looking at her. After all, if Chloe didn't mind me looking – if she positively encouraged it – why should I stop myself?

I went back to China for another spell. Then I went on to a long job in the Philippines. I did a lot of screwing around in both places. My mother had really lit my fuse. I had a sex explosion all over the Far East.

I didn't go home again for about a year. When I did, I made a point of e-mailing my mother well in advance, saying exactly when I expected to be there. She replied almost immediately. I've still got the message. Here's what she said:

"Hello, darling,

It's lovely to hear you're coming home. But I must warn you I'm going to have a special party the weekend you arrive. About thirty people. And 'special' means sex, darling. You probably guessed, didn't you? That doesn't mean you won't be welcome. I'd love to have you there. But it's up to you. Think about it.

Love,

Chloe xxx"

As you can probably guess, I thought about it a lot. And I was really torn. Part of me was desperate to be at that party, but the other part was repelled by the thought. The whole thing was so decadent – to go to my own mother's sex party! But it was delicious as well – deliciously wicked, in fact.

In the end, I put the decision off. I flew home and decided to wait until the day of the party to make up my mind.

When I got there, Chloe was obviously on a high. Her beautiful face glowed as she let me in and she couldn't stop talking about the party. She'd already cleared most of the furniture out of the big reception room we have at the front of the house. She'd scattered huge red cushions and rugs all over the thick carpet we have in there, and she'd made a sort of plinth in the middle of the room, composed of two big mattresses, one laid on top of the other. She'd swathed the walls with rich hangings and shawls with lots of gold and red and yellow in them, and there were big ceramic bowls of condoms and piles of fluffy towels scattered about strategically. The room looked like my idea of an old-fashioned Turkish brothel. It gave me a hard-on just to look at it, even when it was completely empty.

My mother didn't actually ask if I was staying for the party. She just carried on as if I was. And I was finding it increasingly difficult to turn down the invitation. That deliciously wicked excitement I'd felt when I first read her e-mail was an almost physical taste in my mouth. It was a thickening at the base of my throat. It was a constriction in my chest. It was a dark, low pulse, beating through my cock and balls.

I understood how turned on Chloe was by the thought of me, her son, watching her have sex in public. And the fact that it excited her excited me. It was like a feedback loop of arousal: her excitement fed my excitement fed her excitement, and so on. As she'd said, it was very, very kinky. I'd be a licensed voyeur at my own mother's orgy and she'd be putting on a sex show especially for me.

But there was a powerful objection to the idea as well, and, after dinner that night, I mentioned it.

'What if somebody recognises me there tomorrow night?' I asked her. 'I mean, that wouldn't be good, would it?'

But she'd thought of that already. 'Darling,' she said, 'There'll only be one person there who's seen you before. That's Paula, the girl you saw sucking Eric's cock that night. Eric won't be there – he's on a shoot abroad. And we can trust Paula. She won't tell anyone, I promise. I already told her I invited you. She loves it! She says it's sexy.'

I still wasn't completely convinced though. 'But who will people think I am?' I asked her. She had an answer for that, too.

'Well, Jonathon,' she said carefully. 'I do have guests here from time to time. You know, young male guests. And some of them stay for weeks and weeks. Everybody knows I have younger lovers sometimes. We can pretend you're one of my pretty boys. I've already chosen a name for you. We can call you Boris.'

So that's how I became Boris for one night.

She didn't stop at renaming me, though. The following morning, over breakfast, she asked what I was planning to wear to the party. I hadn't thought about it much so I shrugged and indicated the clothes I had on – jeans and a tee-shirt. 'Just these,' I said, 'though I might put some clean ones on.'

Chloe shrieked with laughter. 'You can't!' she said. 'You can't go like that!'

I was about to say that I didn't have anything else, but she rushed out of the room. When she came back, she had a bundle of clothes in her arms. 'Go and try these on,' she said. 'Then come back and show me how they fit.'

So I went upstairs to change. I have to say, they weren't my style at all. She'd given me a pair of tight black leather trousers and a little brown waistcoat, also made of leather. I struggled into both and went downstairs to show her – and she shrieked with laughter again.

'You're supposed to take your tee-shirt off,' she said. 'You must be bare-chested under the waistcoat. And are you wearing underpants?'

I admitted I was.

'Go back and take them off,' she told me. 'The trousers are tight for a reason. Underpants are not it.'

So I dragged myself back upstairs and changed again. When I came down, my cock and balls were bulging obscenely through the thin, skin-tight leather of the trousers, and my chest was bare, as instructed. My mother licked her lips.

'That is so much better,' she said. 'Now you look ready for the party.'

And, amazingly, she reached towards me and grabbed my bulge. I stepped back in shock, but she came forward playfully, and got hold of me down there, actually cupping my scrotum.

'That is what all the women will want to do when they see you tonight, Jonathon,' she said. 'And most of them will do it. You must get used to that.'

Then she let go of me and laughed merrily. I don't remember what I did then, but I know I was blushing. In fact, I was so embarrassed I went and hid in my room for most of the rest of the day. I didn't go downstairs until I heard the party starting.

Actually, I nearly didn't go down at all. But in the end my curiosity – and, I admit, the sheer perversity of the situation – got the better of me. So I went downstairs and sidled in through the door of the party room, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

It really was a decadent scene. My mother had rigged up red lights – of course the lights were red; what else would you expect? – and she'd pulled the heavy velvet curtains closed. And there was a sort of hush in the room. I don't mean silence. People were chatting quietly, but with a suppressed and palpable excitement – as if they knew something major, something really intense, was about to happen. And of course they were right.

The other thing that struck me straight away was that most of the people there were beautiful. I use that word advisedly. They weren't just attractive or good-looking. They were truly beautiful – both the women and the men. I think I'm reasonably good-looking myself, and I keep myself pretty fit – but I felt I stood out like a sore thumb in that company. I was like an ugly duckling on a river full of swans. In fact, I felt so uncomfortable that I slid over to the far corner and backed into it, trying not to attract attention.

Which was a complete waste of time, because as soon as I settled there, Paula, the dark-haired woman I'd seen sucking the man's cock that night, floated up to me. And the first thing she did, by way of greeting, was exactly what my mother had predicted. She slid a hand between my legs and began to stroke my balls through the leather trousers.

I tried to be cool and Paula smiled. 'It's good to see you here ... er ... Boris,' she said. 'Your m-, I mean Chloe, was a little afraid you might not come.'

And all the time she said this, her hand was stroking my balls, and making forays higher up, to trace the outline of my cock with her fingernails. I stopped being cool pretty quickly and Paula let me go with a laugh – just in time probably, because I was in of danger of cumming inside those trousers. She stepped back and looked me up and down.

'Is this your first orgy?' she asked bluntly. I had to admit it was.

'Good,' she said, with a breathy laugh. 'It's sooo nice to have a virgin here.' And she turned away with a delicious flirt of her arse. I wondered if I'd be within my rights to grab her and throw her down on the floor and fuck her then and there, but I didn't know the etiquette for parties like this – and nobody else seemed to be screwing yet, though there was a fair amount of fondling going on. I looked round for my mother – was I really going to ask her if it would be OK if I screwed Paula right away? I don't know. Maybe. But anyway, Chloe wasn't around. In fact, I got the impression everyone was waiting for her to make her entrance before the proceedings really got started. So I went and got myself a drink instead, and then I just stood there, taking in the view.

As I said earlier, they were beautiful. And there were a surprising number of women there. I suppose I'd expected it to be a mainly male gathering – just a bunch of blokes all there to fuck my mother – but I was wrong. About half the group were women and it seemed to me that a lot of them were models of some kind. They had that special something models have – a look, an attitude. I don't know what it is exactly, but they had it. They were people who accepted admiring glances as if they were their right. They basked in the attention. As I stood there, frankly staring at them one by one, I knew they felt my gaze on them. They were like sleek and pampered cats. Their eyes narrowed and they almost purred with satisfaction as I looked at them.

I was grateful to my mother for insisting on the clothes I was wearing. I really would have felt out of place in my jeans and tee-shirt. All of these people were wearing expensive, gorgeous costumes. There were some really sumptuous fabrics – and a lot of leather as well, and PVC and rubber, as you'd probably expect. And some of the women were wearing such ridiculous spike heels that I was sure they'd never be able to walk more than a few yards in them. A few of the men had already stripped down to posing pouches, and several of the women were in corsets. There was a definite whiff of fetish about the place.

One of the women stood up and sauntered over to me. She had long dark hair with a slight curl in it. Her mouth was very full and red – like a plump, bruised plum, I thought – and her eyes were heavily made up – also, I thought, like bruises. She was wearing a rich purple sweater with a high roll neck that covered her throat but, below that, she wore only little panties – black with a sort of sheen to them, and very tight across her pubis. She stopped a couple of feet from me and put her hands on her hips, inspecting.

'I haven't seen you here before,' she said. It was like a challenge. Then: 'You don't look like one of Chloe's regular guys. Are you good at fucking?'

She had some kind of foreign accent – German maybe, or perhaps something from further east. I was out of my depth and I'm not good at witty replies, so I just said: 'Wait and see.' She smiled then and turned, and slapped the full curve of her arse hard with the flat of her hand.

'Perhaps I will,' she said, and she flashed me a smile over her shoulder as she left me.

Just then my mother walked in. Well, to be precise, she appeared in the doorway and paused until she had everyone's attention – which happened very quickly, because she looked stunning. There were excited oohs and aahs, and at least one Bravo!

She was wearing white – a short, pure white dress in some flimsy material that fell to somewhere around the middle of her thighs. The dress had only one shoulder strap. One breast was covered; the other was bare. (I was amazed at how firm and perfect that naked breast was.)

When she had everyone's attention, my mother did a twirl. The flounced skirt of the dress whirled up, and we got a cheeky glimpse of her bare bum. Then she advanced into the room, doing the model walk – placing one brisk foot directly in front of the other to make the dress hem swing. And as she walked, her face went blank – just like a catwalk model's, or a stripper's.

When she reached the middle of the room, she stopped in front of the piled up mattresses. And she looked round, taking in all the faces. When her eyes found mine, she beamed – a great big happy grin. Then she reached behind her to unzip herself, and her dress slid down her body to her feet.

She stepped out of it precisely and delicately. She was naked, except for her high heels and her jewellery. (There was a gold bangle on her forearm, and a black choker round her throat with a green stone set in it.) Her body was amazing. I have no idea how she'd preserved her figure, but she was perfect. I took in every subtle curve, 'til my eyes reached her pussy. And that was entrancing – a thin, neat split, naked like the rest of her, with, above it, just a little tuft of light brown hair.

Chloe stood there a long time, revelling in our stares. Then she reached down and ran her fingers lightly over her peach, her slit.

'Good evenink, darlinks,' she said, laying the Hungarian accent on thick. 'I hop you're feelink fery horny.'

Then, in her normal voice: 'Paula? Have you got the hat, please?'

And Paula stepped forward, holding a top hat out in front of her. They'd obviously discussed what they were going to do in advance.

'I need five men,' said my mother to the room at large. 'Paula has pencils and paper. When she comes, please write your name on a piece of paper, and put it in the hat.

'Just the men,' she added with a wink. 'The girls can have me later.'

Paula came round to each of us in turn, and each man wrote his name on the scrap of paper she gave him, then dropped it hopefully into the hat.

Everyone, that is, except me. When Paula reached me I shook my head. She made a little moue. 'Pretty please?' she asked, fluttering her eyelashes. But I murmured 'No'. What was she thinking of? I was kinky enough to want to watch my mother getting gang-fucked – but to join in? Of course not! I wasn't that far gone!

When she'd collected all the names, Paula took the hat back to Chloe, and they made a big production out of drawing the first name out. My mother put her hand in and rummaged round, then pulled a slip of paper out with a flourish. She read it. 'Jason', she said.

And Jason – a tall blond boy, with the chiselled features of a male model – came forward. He'd stripped off already, in anticipation. My mother knelt on the mattresses and took his already stiff cock in her hand, then brought her lips to the head and began to suck him. It was all so casual but – to me, in my innocence – so shocking that I didn't know whether to watch or turn away. But then my mother looked up, with the cock still in her mouth, and caught my eye. She wanted me to see her like this! Feeling my eyes on her excited her!

Abruptly, I got a mental image of her pussy, of her cunt, all wet and glistening from this extreme excitement. And I got a sudden thrill myself, from deep behind my balls right up my cock: a sharp, hard pulse of spunk and blood!

I watched until she released him from her mouth, and then he returned the favour – sprawling on the mattresses with his head between my mother's thighs. I saw her face screw up: I saw her ecstasy.

And then he fucked her. First my mother rolled a condom onto him, then he had her on her back, with her legs drawn up and her ankles crossed behind him. He was staring down at her, with his hands braced on the mattress, and he fucked her very slowly with long, deep strokes.

Chloe panted hard and her face went red. When she came she cried out and then, almost incongruously, she was laughing wildly – laughing and spluttering, while the boy went on fucking her 'til he came. When he'd finished he pulled out of her slowly, being careful not to lose the condom, I suppose. And straight away, my mother, still on her back with her legs aloft, turned her head.

'Paula, quick!' she said. 'Another one. Give me another name.'

Three more men had her, each in a different position. One took her doggy style, and then on her side as she scissored her legs around him. She straddled the next one and bore down on him hard, forcing the orgasm out of him. The last one rolled her back onto her shoulders. He had her like that, standing and thrusting down into her from above while she maintained the shoulder stand with her elbows braced against the mattress, her hands supporting her hips. It was sexual gymnastics of a kind I'd never have believed possible. I was so lost in it all that I hardly noticed for a second when Paula shouted 'Boris is next!'

But when I looked, I saw she was holding the top hat with a scrap of paper poised above it. She looked at it carefully, as if she was confirming my name.

'Yes, it's definitely Boris,' she told my mother loudly. 'I wonder why he's looking so bashful?'

Chloe laughed merrily, the way she had that morning when she'd grabbed my balls.

It was impossible, of course – since I hadn't put my name in the hat. But I was trapped. I must have coloured up. I know my face was burning. But the two of them together were like a magnet, drawing me on. I stumbled through the crowd until I reached them. My mother knelt up on the mattresses and reached for the waistband of my trousers.

Paula helped her. I was trembling and terminally awkward, but they stripped the trousers off me, then took the waistcoat off as well. Everyone but me was laughing. And it was Paula who took my prick in her mouth first, while my mother knelt back, watching and grinning on the bed.

I might easily have cum into Paula's mouth. I'm amazed I didn't. And then, when Chloe leaned in and took over, with her soft lips enveloping my glans, I nearly came again. I imagined my sperm pumping into my mother's mouth! It was such a powerful picture, I don't know how I stopped myself doing it for real.

But Chloe wanted more than that. She released my cock and lay back on the bed with her legs apart.

'Come here and lick me ... Boris,' she murmured.

I knelt down and burrowed into her warm pink cunt. The heavy aroma of her sex was instantly in my nostrils; her dew was on my lips. Her hips bucked under my face the instant I found her clitoris. I flicked the nub with my tongue to torture her – to get a kind of revenge for the way she'd played with me.

I did that for a long time. All around me I heard the excited shouting of the crowd. They were urging me on – urging me to push Chloe over the edge.

When she came, her thighs clamped hard round my head and her juices squirted into my mouth. She didn't let me go for a long time. She just lay there, writhing, with my mouth on her open cunt.

Finally, though, she let me come up for air. When I looked into her face, I saw triumph there.

'Now fuck me,' she said. 'Fuck me hard.' And she opened her legs again, to invite me in.

Paula waved a condom at us, and my mother sat up and took the packet. She split the foil with a thumb nail, then popped the rubber in between her lips. She took my cock in her mouth again, and I felt her tricky tongue deftly manipulating the condom onto me. Then she lay down again and waited for me with challenge in her eyes.

I hesitated for maybe a second, then I lay over her and squirmed in between her thighs. I pushed my cock end up against the slick warmth of her slit and thrust it in. I buried myself in her and I felt her gasp almost before I heard it.

And then I fucked my mother.

I don't know how long I lasted. Chloe was so lithe under me, and her cunt was so wet, so slippery, but so tightly moulded to my cock, that I lost all sense of time. But I know I fucked her hard, with all my reservations banished.

I remember how I came. I was staring down into her face – and her eyes were open all the time. When it hit me, when the spasm struck, my back curved rigid and my mother stiffened too. We froze for a long moment as my sperm pumped out.

And then, almost languidly, my mother put her arms up and took my face between her hands. And she pulled me down and kissed me hard, almost savagely, on the lips.

'I told you I was a sexual person,' she whispered. 'And you are too. You fucked me very well. You fucked me well.'

And all around us everyone applauded.

What happened next? Well, everything. My mother's raffle – her five-guys-out-of-a-top-hat-fuck – had just been an appetizer. When that was over, the full banquet could begin.

I went back to my quiet corner for a while, to recover and watch the action. There was a lot of fucking and sucking going on – as well as spanking and wanking, as the man says in the film. And my mother was insatiable. I'd have expected her to need some recuperation time after all the screwing she'd done, but she went straight into a three way session with two other women. She was – they all were – enthusiastic and amazing.

Later, I watched as three men buggered my mother in turn, with her shouting and shrieking and swearing on all fours on that mattress bed. And, while I was watching, the woman I'd met earlier, the one in the purple jersey, crept over to me and took my cock into her mouth without a word.

Then, later, as I was fucking her, I looked up and saw my mother smiling down at me. She slapped me on the arse to urge me on, and I came for the second time that evening, inside the girl with the mouth like a bruise and the long curled hair.

Later, much later, when things had quietened down, and only a few determined couples were still fucking gently here there, my mother came over to where I was sitting on the floor and cuddled up to me. She nestled her head in the crook of my shoulder and began to talk.

'You know, darling,' she said, 'I did read your text that night.'

I didn't understand her for a moment, but she went on: 'Remember? The night you came home, and Paula was sucking Eric's cock and I was masturbating?'

Light was slowly beginning to dawn. 'Ye-es,' I said, cautiously.

'Well, I read your text before,' said Chloe. 'I knew you were coming home.'

'You knew,' I said, 'but you still ... '

'That's right,' she said. 'We still ...'

'Was Paula in on it?' I asked.

'Both of them,' she said. 'Paula and Eric. But I was so upset when you ran away afterwards. I hadn't expected that. I didn't think it all out, I suppose. I was scared I'd lost you for such a long, long time.'

I didn't speak. Chloe snuggled closer and closed her eyes.

'That's why I'm so happy now,' she said. 'I'm so happy and relieved you're back.'

And then, I think, she fell asleep.

And so did I. We both did.

And I think that's all. I think I've told my story.