Fat Mom Pole Dancing Ch. 06

I apologize, Gentle Reader. It has been far too long since we checked in on David and Annette. This is one of my favorite stories since it's, at least in part, autobiographical (I'll leave it to you to figure out which parts). I have mild OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder for those of you who didn't have to suffer through psychology classes as part of your B. S. in Education curriculum), and other projects just kept me busy. But I woke this morning with my muse chastising me for leaving this story, enjoyed by many, if the reviews and stars are to be believed, hanging. So let's check, shall we, and see how David is doing at stripping away the last of his mother's inhibitions and making her understand that her weight gain is NOT a bad thing.

Chapter Six

I felt his eyes on me and watched in the mirror as I grasped the pole and took an exploratory swing.

I felt muscles, long unused since my days taking gymnastics, flex and pull.

I wondered, briefly, if I could still pull off a roundoff-back handspring combination and then laughed.

"What?" he asked from the chair where he sat naked and erect, drinking a beer.

I smiled, did a passable swing around the pole, and managed to stop, facing him, without a stumble.

"Oh," I said, hanging onto the pole and doing a little swinging back and forth, "about 30 years and 125 pounds ago, I was a pretty good gymnast. I was wondering if I still had any muscle memory."

"Well, you're looking terrific," he said.

"And you, my darling, are prejudiced," I said, giggling and trying a high kick that only got about to waist level.

He stood, and I thought he was going to come to me, but instead, he said, "Practice. I'll be right back."

As he walked to the stairs, I felt a rush in my belly as I watched that lovely swimmer's ass as he started up the stairs.

When he was gone, I figured I'd do as he told me and practice. By then, the music had cycled through a few songs, and Sarah Vaughan's Black Coffee was playing. I held still for a few seconds to pick up the beat and then started just, well, moving.

This was something new for me, and I didn't really know what to do. The only time I had ever even seen a woman do a pole dance had been on television in the background of some scenes from The Sopranos, and Open Stage Night at the Cow Palace.

I felt ridiculous and awkward as I kept my right hand on the pole while letting the rhythm take my hips. It seemed to me that on TV and at the Cow Palace, the pole dancers had always had at least one hand on the pole. I did a few experimental swings and quickly realized that I would need to work on my conditioning and strength if I was going to do this regularly.

I extended my right leg, heel on the floor, and began slowly easing down in a front split position. As the angle at my crotch approached 90 degrees, I felt the beginnings of a strain on those adductor tendons that close your legs.

"Oh my," I thought, "I'll need to do a LOT of stretching."

And it hit me, making me laugh, that at some point, I had agreed to do this at the Cow Palace. I straightened, extended my left leg, and began slowly easing down again. Nope. There it was, that strain as my legs approached 90 degrees.

I put my feet together, both hands on the pole, and started moving my feet apart, seeing how far I could get toward a side split, the Chinese Splits I used to be able to do, and lay my thighs flat on the floor.

It turned out I couldn't even get to 90 degrees that way before those tendons started begging me to stop.

By then, Marilyn Monroe's breathy version of I Wanna Be Loved By You was playing, and I did a few tentative swings on the pole, testing the muscles I would need.

And dammit, I was sweating. It was warm and humid in the basement, but mostly, even this little bit of exertion was more than I was used to.

I was concentrating on the music, wondering how long it would take to develop some calluses on my hands or if there was something like, I don't know, "stripper gloves?" Something like the golf gloves or batter's gloves in other sports. And that's how I thought of this, as a sport, not necessarily as a dance.

I was so startled, I damn near lost my grip when I heard sharp clapping.

I giggled and turned, watching him walk closer, clapping his hands to match each step.

"Not bad for an old broad, huh?" I asked.

With no warning, he slapped my ass hard enough to make me flinch away and yell.

"Stop putting yourself down," he snapped and then smiled, "And not bad for anyone. Much sexier than some skinny co-ed at school."

I smiled and said, "God, I do love you."

I started to reach for him, to kiss him, hell, to drag him to bed and jump his bones. The exercise got to me. Christ, I could smell myself.

"No," he said, catching my hand, "You need to practice. You're on stage Thursday."

I laughed and said, "Then get out of here, Distraction."

He left, and I went back to work.

Then I had a thought.

I went upstairs, smiling at the way David sat at his desk, so serious, his laptop open and his fingers tapping away. I gathered my iPad from its charger and went back downstairs. I knew better than to disturb him before 5:00 p. m., which he considered "quitting time."

Back in the basement, I Googled "How to pole dance." Sure enough, there were pages of videos. I started looking through them and smiled when I found one, obviously homemade, by a woman about my age, and while not as big as I am, she was certainly no skinny girl. There were no fancy titles or anything to suggest professional production. Just this matronly woman dressed in a very skimpy bikini, with a headset, some background music, and a pole.

Her patter was good too.

"Whether you're looking for a fun way to exercise," she said, just looking into the camera, an upper body close up, "or ready to spice things up with your significant other," she accompanied that phrase with a wink and a Groucho Marx eyebrow waggle, "let's have some fun."

As she moved to the pole, she kept talking. She described herself as walking by the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door after a shower, looking, and deciding it was time to do something about her "mombod." She tried the usual stuff. Jazzercise and Pilates at the gym. Swimming. Running. Walking.

"Then one time, I was on eBay looking for a table for the spare bedroom, and I ran across something labeled 'Stripper Pole.' I bought the damn thing," and she touched the pole, "and a new form of exercise was born."

She did a quick swing around the pole, her arm extended so her shoulder almost brushed the carpeted floor while her opposite leg went straight up.

"It's fun, it's easy on your joints," she said, and her smile was infectious, "annddddd," she dragged the word out, "it DOES work in the bedroom," she finished with another wink and eyebrow waggle.

"SO," she yelled, "LET'S GET POLING."

Some of that generic music you associate with CVS or elevators started, a medium tempo with just enough of a melody line you thought there should be lyrics.

"SWING with me," she said and did a simple swing, both feet at the base of the pole, her right hand hanging onto it, and just sort of allowing gravity to swing her around until she completed a circuit of the pole and was facing the camera again.

"Turn off the video and don't turn it back on again until you can do that," she said.

So I did.

And I hadn't felt that awkward since I started gymnastics LO these MANY moons ago.

But as with anything, repetition worked, and it started to feel natural.

I smiled, working on swinging, getting used to carrying my weight on one arm, slowly increasing speed, testing the strength of the ball and socket joint of my shoulder.

And a line from a long-ago exchange with a gymnastics coach came back to me, not for the first time, but with more power than usual.

"Practice makes perfect, right?" she had called to the six of us standing in a line.

"YES!!" we all responded.

"NO!!" she cried in that voice that seemed to rattle the walls, "PERFECT practice makes perfect. Sloppy practice makes sloppy."

She glared at us.

"SO DO IT PERFECTLY!"

I stopped what I was doing and rewound the video. This time I watched the angle of her arms, the way her feet moved, how she pivoted, even the way she pointed her toes, something that I did have muscle memory about. You don't score in the 9s on a floor routine without nicely pointed toes.

I broke it down then, just like I had done as a pre-teen gymnast wannabe.

The grip like this.

The arm extended this much with the elbow still bent this much.

The pivot foot like this.

((swing))

"No, not quite."

Hips turned a little.

Leg swings like this.

NO DUMBASS, LIKE THIS!

Time lost meaning, as it had those long ago days when I would work to nail that roundoff/back handspring combination or leave muscles so exhausted they cramped as I tried to master the kip up onto the uneven parallel bar.

I was sweating. Not "perspiring" as they might say on a television commercial. Not "glistening" as I would learn was the euphemism when I moved to Alabama. I was sweating, sweat dripping off of my nose, my boobs and armpits soaked when I cried out, "YES!" as I did one perfectly.

It was the simplest thing you could do as a pole dancer. Just one swing around the pole, my right hand on the pole, my left leg extended at waist level, my toes pointed properly, my left hand pointed properly, my right foot pivoting and, perhaps most important, my smile staying on my face.

I did another twenty before I managed another perfect, but then it was only twelve for the next one.

By the time I looked over and saw David standing in the doorway, I could do a half dozen perfect swings. Sweat was pouring off of me, but I smiled as I did one more, and fucked it up, nervous since he was watching.

I was giggling and said, "Okay, that was practice, now watch."

I stood, listening to the music, Peggy Lee's Fever, picked up the beat, and did four perfect swings for him before I stopped, quitting while I was ahead.

"You like your sweaty mom?" I asked, throwing my arms around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss.

He caught my wrist in his hand and pulled my arm straight up. I giggled when he bent, sniffed, licked, and said, "I like my Mom, sweaty, stinky, and sexy as hell."

Our conversation in the kitchen came back to me, and I brushed my fingertips across his lips.

"Use my mouth to show me," I said.

He smiled, bent, put his nose right in my armpit, and sniffed deeply.

"Your wish," he said, standing and looking down at me, "is my command."

He took my hands and lifted them until they were straight over my head, and my palms were touching the pole.

"If you release the pole," he said, smiling, "I'll stop, and that's all you'll get today."

"And if I don't?" I asked.

He grinned that boyish grin that always made my heart, as they used to say, go "pitty pat."

"Then you'll get what you like," he said, slowly easing to his, no, my knees.

My emotions bounced like the ping pong balls I saw once in a demonstration of how a chain reaction works. There were about a thousand, anyway, it seemed like that to my eight- or nine-year-old eyes, ping pong balls placed on mousetraps. When a ball was dropped into the middle of the array, the trap sprang, sending both balls flying that sent four balls flying that sent 8 balls flying until all traps were sprung.

I felt the same way as I could smell the body odor of my armpits from my exertions and sweating. I could only imagine what I smelled like between my legs.

But he was kissing there, and that terrible/wonderful pressure low in my belly was already building again. I realized, in a sudden epiphany, that the exercise and, yes, the dancing, well, the swinging on the pole, watching myself in the mirror had been a turn-on for me. When I looked down and saw just the top of his head as he gave me what I wanted, I didn't care what I smelled like. I realized that it was wonderful, and I believed with the pure belief of the acolyte who has a vision, that this was natural.

Sooooo, I didn't try to hold back. And I damn sure didn't want him to stop. So I exerted almost superhuman self-control and resisted the urge to entwine my fingers in his hair and pull him to me. I was wanting the pleasure his mouth could give me, and loving the fact that he seemed to want it too.

"That's right, Baby," I let myself say, "That's the way. Get up in there like Mommy likes it."

And he did. The word "rooted" came to mind, the way he was pushing into me with his face. I had this image of a dog I once saw, well, a pair of dogs. The female was in heat the the male was behind her, licking like crazy, his back already arched in the "ready" position.

That's what this felt like. This wasn't making love. Hell, it wasn't even fucking. This was something down at the animal level, back when our ancestors were living in trees and the only things that mattered were finding food, avoiding predators, and procreation. It had that kind of "instinctive" feel to it.

And I LIKED it.

My hips were rocking against what he was doing with his mouth and his face. When I felt my orgasm building, I didn't try to hold back. I didn't try to make it linger. I thrust harder, feeling the way my nether lips were hitting his face and reveling in it as that wonderful pressure built.

I came with a hard contraction deep in my belly, and I even liked the way he coughed when the force of my female ejaculation overwhelmed his mouth and ability to swallow. He coughed, spattering my belly and his face with my love honey, the scent of my release suddenly thick in the air.

"No," I said, my body shuddering, fighting the urge, almost the compulsion to dig my fingers into his hair and pull him against me. But I remembered what he said, that if I released the pole, it would be over. And I did NOT want this to be over. I settled for whispering, "Stay with me."

My hips were still thrusting, and I felt a second wave coming. I didn't want to lose the moment.

His hands grabbed my ass and he squeezed, hard enough to make me cry out and cum again.

He hung on as I came, and when I slowed down, he squeezed harder, almost forcing a third wave from me.

I would have collapsed if I hadn't had the pole to hang on to.

His mouth was sucking gently now as I tried to get my breathing under control. I could feel how swollen I was. The pressure he kept up, that tender encouragement, had me at that point all women know, just as the orgasm was starting to pass the point of no return, and he held me there. I felt an odd fullness as my inner lips, those delicate labia minora that David liked to play with so much, were swelling from the pressure kept up.

And suddenly there was a sensation I recognized. That overwhelming need to PUSH that brought my son into the world was suddenly upon me.

"Oh, God," I managed as I released the pole and entwined my fingers in his hair, not pulling him to me but pushing him away, "David, please, Baby, you have to stop."

He fought me, and I almost surrendered to that need, that COMPULSION, before I finally felt him release me.

"What's wrong?" he asked, looking up, and for an instant, the little boy who had once ruined one of my cast iron frying pans by scrubbing it with Brill-o until I had to start the seasoning process over, was back in my life. He had that same, I-thought-I-was-doing-a-good-thing look on his face.

I shuddered, both hands in his hair, fighting the compulsion until I finally pushed it back down, and then dropped to my knees to face him.

"Oh, Honey," I said, punctuating each word with a little kiss, "you did nothing wrong. You just got me to the poing where, if I were pregnant, I would HAVE to push, to send that baby out of me."

He looked confused.

I kissed him a dozen times, quick kisses, covering his face, and finished the terribly embarrassing explanation.

I took a deep breath and tried to put a serious look on my face.

I'm not sure if I succeeded, but I went ahead anyway.

"Honey, when a woman pushes like that," and I giggled, "you push with the same muscles you use if you're constipated. That's why they give you an enema before you go into the delivery room."

I felt myself blushing, although I'm not sure why.

He smiled, that knowing smile far beyond his years.

"Well," he said, matching what I had done earlier and punctuating his words with kisses, "then I guess we'll just need to give you an enema before practice."

"DAVID!" I said. It turned out I was NOT beyond being shocked by something my son might say to me.

He laughed.

"Mom," he said, chuckling, "I know you do Number Two."

I giggled.

"Annddd," he went on, "I know DAMN well you were liking what I was doing."

"David," I started. I suppose I was going to say something like "That's something that's just too private," or maybe, "There are some things you don't need to see." But it didn't matter because he went on, talking over me.

"I can't wait to do it," he said, "To give you the freedom to let yourself go."

And I knew that here was another sensation I would share with my son.