Flesh

Your mom was always a bland dresser, which was ironic, because your mom, body and soul, was anything but bland. And though it was both body and soul that she had a lot of, it was her body that people, mostly men, noticed first. Sometimes it was all they noticed. And it was her body that you had the most concern for. Christmas was coming up, and you wanted your mom to have a good one (soul), but you also wanted to get her something that brought her a few steps closer to that panoramic cliff's edge, where she could slip off, her large breasts and smooth legs flailing through the obstruction-less air, into a wholesome sea of aggressive men below, with their aggressive arms, aggressive palms, and aggressive cocks, all three hard in contrast to your mom's soft, smooth tits; pulling her in all directions using every part of her that had enough distance from her core to use for leverage.

Yes, this Christmas you'd get your mom something that would be a gift to her and you both. Her and you and all lucky men out there. And what do women love, and men love seeing on women, and sons love seeing men see on their mom? Clothing of course.

But you couldn't just go out and buy your mom a Borat-style one piece bikini, as much as you liked to fantasize about her gallivanting up and down a crowded beach in one. It just wasn't realistic. You cringed at the thought of her beaming face, daintily tearing through her own Christmas wrapping over a small box, and the sudden change in expression that would come as she lifted the little bundle of neon green strings up to eye level.

No, you'd have to play your cards right. You spent months leading up to December, starting in July, looking through every outlet and mall for the perfect piece of fabric to wrap around your mom's pink flesh. You were blindsided by a revelation when the girl working at one store approached you, to your dismay, and began probing you about what you were looking for, hoping to help you in some way. Your cock got rock hard as you listened to her, and you hoped she didn't notice your face becoming red-hot and forehead becoming sweaty.

This had been the first girl you talked to in years, other than mom of course, and you felt like you were going to orgasm just from the mere conversation. When she asked you who you were buying women's clothing for, you almost embarrassed yourself by saying “it's for me.” Luckily you caught yourself last second and instead you came up with “it's for my girlfriend.” This pretty much made your chances with this woman non-existent, but you were kidding yourself if you thought you ever had a chance to begin with.

She said “oh, then maybe you don't want to get red then,” and she laughed.

You looked at her baffled. “Why not?” almost afraid to ask, fearing you were out of the loop of some commonly known factoid all normal men and women were hip to.

“If you want your girlfriend to draw every set of eyes in the room, get her this red dress right here. You ever wonder why women wear red lipstick?”

You thought about it for a second, but nothing came to you. You didn't even know where to start.

“Because red is the color of passion.”

“So blue then?” you probed shyly.

She made a buzzing noise suddenly, like you were a failed gameshow contestant. “Blue might be worse. At least with red, men will be intimidated by her. Blue doesn't quite have the intensity of red, which is good if you don't want guys to pay as much attention to her. But... it'll make her approachable. Which is worse.” She smiled.

You just stood there.

“I learned all this in a Psych class,” she said, as if she could read your mind and the confusion therein. “Oh, and all of this works for guys too. If things don't work out – I mean, I'm sure they will. You know what I mean though – try wearing red to work or school a few times, y'know, just to build a nice aura about yourself, and then come every once in a while in blue. The girls will be approaching you and not the other way around.”

Your cock twitched in your pants. Listening to a girl talk about your potential sexual exploits as if they could possibly exist was quite the thrill.

She continued “oh, and some black.”

“Black?”

“Yeah, it'll make you look professional. Girls like that. But...” she thumbed through the rack, “you know, it's also a slimming color on women and it might make your girlfriend look too serious for any funny business or flirting.”

That was the exact opposite of what you wanted. But you didn't want to look suspicious. A part of you suspected that any moment this pretty girl would realize that all this about your girlfriend was a just a giant ploy to get your mom ogled at work and on the streets. So you bought the the first black dress she pointed to.

You kept your head down as you pulled money out of your wallet and handed it to the girl's soft hands. She then said half-jokingly, “just make sure she doesn't start wearing more red and blue. If guys see her in this” she held the dress up in front of her admiringly, “all the time, and then one day they see her in hot red without warning, they're going to blow a gasket. 'I never realized she was so sexy,' they'll say. And then they see her in blue and think 'oh, she looks so nice and normal, like an everyday person, I think I'm going to talk to her.' No, no, no. That's a no-go. Strictly black from now on.” She said and smiled.

You forced a smile back, but deep down, you wondered, and hoped, that what she was saying was true.

As you left the store, arm pits damp with sweat, and your heart racing, you decided you'd do all your shopping online from now on. But you felt like you had caught your second wind with this new information at your disposal. You felt like a sly fox just knowing about the art of color and attraction. A hacker in the program of life.

You were able to find two more dresses online, both setting you back a pretty penny. Both low-cut, perfect for exposing your mom's cleavage. But innocuous enough so that your mom wouldn't realize you were making a carnival spectacle of her perfect tits. She would be starting a new job next year and the guys at her work would love her. You doubt they ever had a piece of meat quite like your mom, soft and warm, cramped in their offices in between their rock-solid bodies.

First a gorgeous set of tits attached to a serious and professional business woman. That's how they'd see her 4 days out of the week. But on casual Fridays, there'd be a Russian roulette chance that she'd come looking like sex itself, a red ember, burning, even in their peripheral. Her comically large tits, no longer slimmed by the illusion of black fabric, and given their just-deserved framing in a border of bright attention-grabbing red. Men would glare, but they would keep their distance, held back by an invisible force-field that is the projection of their lizard brains. Unaware that she's the same woman, regardless of what she wears.

Then on other days, mercifully for them, she comes in, and like a mirage a mile-off in the desert, she's a cool shade of blue, beckoning thirsty men over through the hot sands. Her tits are the sirens on the rock surrounded by the blue Mediterranean sea, beckoning sailors over with the music of their size, shape and movement.

This was going to be great.

On Christmas day, she opened her present with greedy eyes. And when she got to the box and opened it, her face changed to an expression of strange bewilderment as she pulled out a bundle of fluorescent green strings, then letting it unfurl into a Borat-style beach bikini, she sat on the floor in silence.

Though part of you were hanging on by a thread, hoping that wouldn't be the reaction, you began laughing, as you reached under the couch to pull out her real gift. Your mom began laughing to when she saw you pull out the red box. She threw the bikini over her back, her tits jiggling as she did, making you regret even more that you didn't live in a world where that present was appropriate for a son to give his mother, and even more, a world where you could expect she'd wear that without seeing an issue in it.

Your mom had a second go and tearing open her gift. You clutched onto your Nintendo Switch box apprehensively. Her eyes lit up. “Nice!” she said as she held the black canvas, the same color as your intentions, in front of her face. She admired it for a bit. “This is perfect, sweety, thank you!”

“Mom?”

“Yes, sweety?” she said without looking up.

“There's more.”

“What!?” She pulled passed another layer of cardboard, and her wide-eyes reflected the second gift's scarlet back at you. It was the same color as your red-hot passion to see her wear it in public. “You're too good to me.”

You were about to be even better. “Mom?”

She snorted to herself, half expecting it again. “Yes, sweety?”

“There's more.”

She laughed as she dug past another layer of thin cardboard hiding the depth of your giving nature (giving in more ways than one). And her eyes were now reflecting blue back at you, like the sky and the ocean. The color of your calm knowing that you pulled it all off. “Santa Claus really is real,” she said, and she looked back up at you lovingly. You looked down at her tits as they jiggled at the rhythm of her pleasure wrapped in her plain-white pajama top.

Professionalism

Your mom's first stroll down the catwalk of her workplace turned plenty of heads. Her face was great enough, but her tits, which were held firm as her apparent resolve in the chest of her outfit, were the main cause for coworker rubbernecking. Visions of motorboating and suckling danced in their heads like sugar plums. Your mom's sugar plums. All in all though, men kept their distance. Your mom always seemed busy, no matter what she was doing, and even those who dared venture toward her desk for small talk, felt like they were getting in the way of something important she was doing, even as she smiled up at them.

Three guys in the office in particular, men known for their constant need to score with women in the office, and not totally unsuccessful, but like all men, less successful then they'd like to be, which, like all men, was 100% of the time; they had their eyes on her. And while they usually had no problem rolling out their reverse three-stooges act in order to hattrick women, especially the new girls, behind locked doors with them, your mom looked like someone who would have them fired for bothering her. So they stayed away. 2 of them assuming they'd never see their chance. The other one hanging onto confident hope that their day would come.

Passion

And then one day, on a particularly warm casual Friday, she came in like a fireball, scorching the hearts and loins of all the men, and the envy of the women who had the double edged sword of blessing/misfortune of looking at her. She was impossible to ignore. Her tits bounced about with slight movements and her most benign statements felt dangerous and feral. She was all they all wanted but she was too hot to touch and they kept their distance, even more than usual. On that day, no man talked to any woman, as they were too sheepish to approach your mom, and too disinterested in any other female body there.

More covert pictures were taken of your mom then than on any other day. Most of all by our 3 protagonists. The fat one had a particularly good one of your mom bending over to grab a TSI report from the bottom shelf. He shared that one with his buddies, who all hooted and hollered at the bar after their shift.

This was what casual Fridays would be like every time your mom came in in that red outfit. Even after some of the guys built a rapport with her and they could joke and flirt on any other day, the red days always made them shrink. But boy did it build up the pressure in their pelvic region. One day, in one, or a few, of them, this pressure would blow. It was only a matter of time.

Approachability

It took a while for your mom to hit them with the finishing blow, but when she did, on that one fateful Friday in August, it completely knocked down the Tower of Babel erected from black and red bricks that loomed over all who witnessed it in awe and terror. It was now a blue heap of ash below their feet. Your mom had never made as many friends in her life as she made on that day. It was like a pressure valve had been released, and her male coworkers felt safe when rounding her desk and having their eyes fill with that calm, shapely blue. Her tits, looking better in this than anything else, now seemed like they were on their side. Almost as if she'd pull down her top and show them at the merest suggestion. They knew better of course, but the base feeling itself, and the relaxed atmosphere that her presence created, allowed for them to talk to her like they were her oldest friend.

This was when our 3 protagonists made their most headway. The good-looking one sat on her desk with his coffee and asked her how her day was going. When she said it was good and smiled, there was no sense that she was only being polite, or that there was any Mona Lisa malice in the way her lips bent. The funny one grabbed the back of her chair, stopping her slow rocking back and forth in its tracks. Before she could even turn around he had already landed a well-conceived joke. She looked up at him, laughing. The fat one stood there, seemingly harmless. Though with his phone, he was able to land an upskirt shot as she uncrossed and recrossed her smooth legs.

After making their good impression on her, they all huddled in the washroom at lunch time to see if her panties were blue also. They were slightly disappointed to see them, being the most boring shade of white is all. How could a woman with such flair for color not wear those colors where they really counted? If only they knew.

Your mom's status as coworker, as sex pot, and as the sister-they-never-had grew and grew as the months past. Each one compounding and complimenting upon the others, building up a cacophony, an angelic choir, that danced in the heads of all the men in that office. But 3 in particular were able to make the most of it. So much so that her colored visage ended up being a factor in their car pool. On most days, she sat there, in any of 4 seats, looking like she was the First Lady being driven from checkpoint to checkpoint. But some days, she was like hot metal in the car with them. They didn't talk as much on those days. They felt like even if she were to accidentally brush them with her tits they'd end up with burns. And then, always just in time, she'd be in their with them, in that aqua blue. On those days they had no qualms about putting their palms on her shoulder or back or kneecap whenever she made a joke. She didn't seem to mind, nor would she have minded on any other day, but on blue days they just felt so safe doing it.

Things were going nicely for the most part. The one problem they could foresee, a problem they never had with any other coworker of the finer sex, was that the rapport they had built with your mom, being that it was mostly established on her blue days, ended up being without sexual tension, at least on her part. They had become her harmless friends, guys she could joke around with. And while their status as her friends, friend as defined by those who want the best for you, was clearly contradicted by the various candid photos they took of her, including up her skirt, and the things they said behind her back, both about her and her weirdo son who never talks, your mom was too cozy with them to feel anything more than a limp sense of comfort and good vibes.

This wasn't the biggest obstacle as far as they were concerned though. If anything, they were in the best place they could be. Being in her friendzone meant she trusted them.

It was funny. The second you met those guys, you didn't like them. You could feel their intentions dripping off of them. So when time came for your mom's company Christmas party, and you watched them drive off with her in blue (which you recommended) in the back seat of the fat one's car, you knew that something was up their sleeve. You could see it in their faces.

Her office floor was crowded with smiling coworkers, who'd normally be sitting at chairs, looking down at their desks where now plastic cups and liquor bottles took the place of TPI reports. Christmas music played over the intercom and guys leaned in to give your mom a hug when wishing her happy holidays. When men offered her drinks, her “friends” smiled, knowing what the intentions of such giving attitudes were, but the result would be that she was being loosened up for the three of them and the three of them alone.

After all, when she would start to feel too inebriated for the crowd, it was her friends she'd cling to for help. Her tits jiggled as she took shots and waved her hands in front of her scrunched face. At one point, her blue strap fell from her shoulder, and as she hopped up and down and waved her hands, trying to get a grip and not be dragged away by the strength of the vodka, her coworkers stared on, seeing that her right tit was less than an inch away from falling out of her dress.

She noticed with only a second to spare and she saved herself from embarrassment, and all of them from joy. When she felt a hand squeeze her ass, and she turned around to see a lineup of possible culprits, all looking off in other directions, she decided the night was getting to rowdy, so she got the attention of her friends, the only guys there she could trust, and they all went to their wing of the office, where nobody else was. All the other men watched as the good-looking guy and the funny guy had their arms around the small of your mom's back and carried her off.

Everyone knew what was coming her way, but the horny men, because of the unspoken code of all men, didn't want to cockblock. And the women, being envious of your mom and the attention she had soaked up like a sponge for the past year, relished in what was going to happen to her.

Serves her right for having those stupid fat tits, the women thought.

Serves her right for having those stupid-phat tits, the men thought.

Serves her right for being stupid while carrying around these fat tits, her “friends” thought.

Serves her right for having those stupid fat tits that were stupid-phat. Stupid mom, you thought, and you felt giddy and proud just thinking it. “Stupid mom with your fat stupid titties,” you said as you slowly massaged your twitching cock on your living room couch.

Not one person spared a thought to your mom's soul. And thoughts were on her body in this very moment. And rightfully so. Your mom's heart was big. But her tits were bigger.

Her “friends” got her to agree to 3 more shots after getting her away from the rest of the party.

And then everyone in the office knew that it was over when a blue dress shot over the height of the cubicle and latched itself comically onto the spinning ceiling fan, obscuring one of the light every time it passed over, making it impossible to not notice from the other end of the office exactly what was going on.

Your mom's shoes went over next. And then her plain-white underwear and bra, without color or style, landed as meagre heap on the floor in front of the cheering crowd.

The suspense was unbearable, as images of what your mom's tits looked like without that dress over them filled the minds every red blooded male there. Eventually, one person who was drunk enough, inched his way to the other side of the office. He could hear slapping noises, muffled mmmm's and male voice going “yes, yes, yes” in hushed but deliberate tones.

He peaked around the corner to see it.

He gasped as he saw the 3 cocks invading her person, each one a different flavor like the 3 colors framing her tits. The 3 owners of those cocks looked at him and grinned. He knew they were too proud to be against him filming this magical moment. And he knew she was too deliciously liquored up to stop him. This was the most legendary thing to ever happen at this office. There was no way he'd let it be destroyed by the sands of time. He pulled out his phone to film. Your mom's thick body filled his frame.

Professionalism

Her tits were comical as they bounced, in stark contrast to how they looked in black. There was nothing professional about her now. She had been ripped from that and had been made into a vector point for extracting pleasures of various kinds. There was a professionalism about it, but not in any traditional sense. She was a professional at giving up her holes, and her birthday suit was her uniform for doing so.

Passion

Her body was being invaded. There was nothing left of her to be intimidated by now. Her naked body screamed lust and passion and all the spices life had to offer. But now it was all out of her control. Instead of watching her from a distance, men would see her inches away from the camera as they watched this footage, getting to see every inch of her invasively and without any sense of danger. Just a comfortable set of mouse clicks away from watching your mom, naked and getting fucked, at their leisure. An open book of passion and flame that they'd have access to without limit or cost.

Approachability

And as more men joined the fray, it became just how obvious how approachable she really was in this moment. Is there anything more approachable than someone who barely knows you're there? Your mom was the most beautiful empty husk in the world during this hour long hiatus from banality and expectation, and like any empty vessel, she was an instrument for their experimentation. And extension of their mad internal ravings. In her present state, without even one article of clothing to her name, she was the best and closest friend they ever had. A selfless good samartian giving her all to each and every one of them and asking for nothing in turn. She was a saint. And all without saying a single word or forming a single coherent thought. And what's more approachable than that? To use someone's very body, and the spaces inside it, all without one single negative judgment, not even internally and unspoken, from the person them self.

The spell had been broken. The code had been discovered, and all that wiry tension and anticipation and hope had snapped, clearing all its evil from the horizon. Above it all, after the widow black, the blushing red, the waterfall blue, and all the other colors in the rainbow and shades in the light spectrum, in the end, her most important color was the smooth pink of her flesh. It was the figure behind the curtain, now being exposed like a naked empress in front of her snickering court.

Exposed

Your mom without her glammer and glitz and flare. This was the real her. Not one thread disgracing her sacred body. Not one garrish crayon to desecrate the Mona Lisa. Just her, as she always was, and how she always should have been. Nowhere to hide. Nothing to improve or downplay. Nothing to contrast or expand her personality. Just her beautiful god-given form, laid bare like Eve before the apple, available for the whole world to see. Only in a world as fallen as this did you have to manipulate all the variables and soothsay all possible outcomes just to give the world your mom as she actually was.

And it was only because of the sin of clothing that you were able to give them more than just your mom as she was in her most natural state. You had given them your mom as she was on the inside. Not the inside of her soul. The inside of her body. Which was even more precious and profound. Your mom wasn't any more professional than she was, which was a lot. She was no more a figure of passion and sex than what she already had to give. You shouldn't have needed mental tricks to show the world she was easy to talk to and down-to-earth. All you needed was the color that represented her as she was. And that color was soft pink. The color of her flesh.