Renovation again

I hardly remember my father—he left us before I was even seven. So, I spent my entire conscious life with my mom. She belonged to that type of single women who refused to give up on themselves and, apparently, secretly, somewhere deep in their souls, still hoped to meet some prince. Therefore, Mom was always on some diet, went to a fitness salon, and dressed with a certain degree of frivolity—tight, short, revealing a lot of skin—that was the basis of her wardrobe. Men liked her, and she loved being liked by them, often going overboard in her quest to be attractive.

So, some

time ago, she got silicone implants, becoming the owner of an excellent fourth-size bust, which, I must admit, looked magnificent. Despite her serious position—she was an investigator at the local police department—she often behaved frivolously, doing things more befitting a young girl than a woman in her early forties. I realized early on that my mother wasn't too bright, and by the time I finished school, I had also come to terms with the thought that she was, pardon me, a bit weak in the head. This quality, however, wasn't due to some innate depravity but rather her gullibility, loneliness, and that deeply buried dream of a prince I already mentioned. Men appeared in her life often but never stayed long. As a mother, though, she was excellent, and I wasn't particularly inclined to condemn her or meddle in her personal life.

Outside the city, my mother owned a dilapidated structure called a dacha, but in its condition, it more resembled a shed. Nevertheless, she was obsessed with the idea of turning this ruin into a place for proper relaxation. Funds for this project started accumulating right after the installation of her monumental tits, and in May, it was decided that the time had come. Through a newspaper ad, a crew of Azerbaijani day laborers was found, led by a white-toothed, muscular, perpetually stubbled guy named Asif. I was about 19 at the time...

Mom wasn't too fond of Caucasians, but Asif was the only one who, after sizing her up with an appraising glance—not missing her dark red hair, luxurious cleavage, or skirt so short that the elastic of her stockings was visible when she sat down—agreed to lower the price for the repair work a bit. From the very beginning, it was obvious to me that Asif, and his workers—four swarthy men of various ages—had very definite thoughts regarding my mother. I have no doubt that Mom understood this too, but she was used to male attention and confident in her ability to keep the situation under control. Or she simply didn't pay it any mind.

The repair work lasted a little over a month and a half. About every four or five days, Mom and I would come to inspect our dacha. Invariably, the workers greeted my mother with enthusiasm, expressed through broad smiles and oily looks. Often, they even exchanged some remarks in their own language, completely incomprehensible to us, of course, but by their intonations, I had no doubt they were talking about my mother in the most lewd sense. But outwardly, everything remained within the bounds of decency.

The work, however, was progressing well. By early July, our ruin began to resemble human habitation and even a rather comfortable one. The time for payment was approaching. During one of our inspections, Mom, seizing a moment, took the foreman aside. They talked in low voices about something for a long time. Asif smiled with his white teeth, while Mom fidgeted, looked away, and even seemed to blush slightly. You didn't need to be a genius to guess what it was about. The thing is, even with the discount bargained for thanks to Mom's charms, the repairs were going to cost us a pretty penny. In principle, Mom had the funds to pay. But withdrawing such a large sum from the family budget, even if planned in advance, would force us to tighten our belts quite a bit for a while. Mom inevitably must have thought it was worth trying to cut the price a little more. I pondered all this, feeling my ears turn crimson.

That day, we returned from the dacha as if nothing had happened. But the very next day, in the afternoon, Mom started getting ready to go somewhere, obviously not planning to take me with her. Dressed up like a tart and citing some important business, she pecked me on the nose and ran off, loudly clicking her heels, having first made me promise not to be bored. I certainly wasn't planning to be bored. I was absolutely sure that this was it and Mom had gone to negotiate with Asif. All that remained was to hope that the negotiations would take place where they had so far—at our dacha, and not somewhere unknown to me.

I was incredibly lucky. The action was not only in full swing but also taking place on the open veranda, separated from the garden only by wooden carved railings. Hiding in the dense blueberry bushes, I could see everything as if in the palm of my hand. My mother was lying on her stomach on the kitchen table, gripping its edge with her hands. Her short, tight dress was pulled up to her waist, and her thong, carelessly pushed aside, stretched as a dark line across her right buttock. Behind her stood the foreman of our repairmen, and with short, sharp thrusts that made the table shake, he was driving his cock into her. With each thrust, my mother let out a short, muffled moan. Even from a distance, it was clear that the Caucasian was equipped with a not-insignificant-sized tool.

He casually held Mom by the hips with his swarthy paws and worked steadily and powerfully, like a pile driver. Suddenly, the veranda door opened, and one of the crew's workers entered, Rustam, I think. He didn't seem at all surprised by what was happening. On the go, he unzipped his lime-stained pants and moved toward the table being used for a completely unintended purpose, positioning himself in front of my mother's mouth. A huge crimson cockhead touched her brightly painted lips, and Mom fearfully opened her eyes, which had been languidly closed until then. She jerked her whole body, turning to the foreman.

"No... We didn't agree on this," she babbled.

Instead of answering, the foreman, without breaking his fucking rhythm, slapped her a couple of times hard on her milky-white ass, leaving several distinct crimson marks. Apparently, it really hurt because Mom let out a loud squeal and started whimpering like a little girl. Rustam grabbed my mother by the hair and pulled her head toward his organ. If there was any resistance, it was purely symbolic. I saw the head of my mommy—a police investigator, by the way—slowly being impaled on the impressive-sized cock of an illegal migrant who could barely string a couple of words together in Russian. A fantastic sight, no discounts. Less than a second later, the worker's thick shaft was already moving back and forth between my mother's plump lips, covered in scarlet lipstick. The Caucasians energetically worked their hips, my mother moaned dully, sometimes making loud slurping and smacking sounds—Rustam didn't stand on ceremony and simply fucked Mom in the mouth, not allowing her any initiative.

The lipstick smeared, my mother's chin and even cheeks were smeared with saliva. A couple of times she choked—apparently, the Caucasian drove it too deep into her throat. The first time this happened, she jerked, trying to get rid of the piston in her mouth, but the fucker held her head firmly with both hands, and all Mom achieved was another round of slaps on the ass from the foreman. She learned this lesson quickly and henceforth meekly accepted the Azerbaijani cock into her mouth, and even when starting to choke and cough, she didn't try to spit it out, only changing the angle of her head and relaxing her throat more.

For the next couple of minutes, the intercourse continued, accompanied only by the loud panting and snorting of the Azeris and my mommy's moaning. From time to time, the foreman generously spanked her ass, not for bad behavior but simply for his own pleasure. Mom shuddered each time and started moving between the cocks more energetically, and the men grinned joyfully. I didn't know if my mother had ever been fucked in two holes before, but she looked as if she had been doing something like this all her life. Saliva dripped from her chin, and on her firm—the visits to the fitness salon weren't in vain—buttocks, droplets of sweat glistened. Her fuckers were also sweaty, apparently giving it their all.

Whether the process genuinely turned her on or, on the contrary, such extremes left her completely stunned, when the three other workers barged onto the veranda, she didn't react at all. Two immediately pulled out their circumcised tools and started jerking off, while the third—an older, life-worn man—pulled a phone from his breast pocket and, grinning broadly, began filming the entire scene. It was obvious that two men wouldn't limit my mother's pleasures today, and she would have to experience what a real gangbang was like. The Azeri with the phone came closer, filming my mother's face in close-up with the organ moving between her lips. Mom glanced at him miserably, then shook her head and sighed—as much as one could do with a monstrous-sized Muslim cock in one's mouth.

My heart was pounding like a rabbit in my chest, and my cock was straining to tear through my fly. I felt sorry for Mommy, of course, and the video recording, which our workers might do who knows what with, caused particular concern. But what could I oppose to five healthy men? And she had agreed to sex with the foreman completely voluntarily. Whether to consider the other four as punishment or a bonus wasn't clear yet, but Mom didn't look like a rape victim in my eyes. The optimal solution, it seemed to me, was simply to wait for the process to end and then act according to circumstances—file a police report or something else. After thinking a bit more, I turned on my own mobile phone in video recording mode. It was, of course, a bit too far for good filming, but in case of going to the police, Mom and I would have at least some proof of what happened.

Meanwhile, the Azerbaijani "cinema documentarian" moved to the veranda railing, taking the most advantageous position for filming, and his two friends with their jerked-off tools approached the fucking trio. A short dialogue in Azerbaijani followed, at the end of which everyone laughed, and the foreman slapped Mom on the ass—not as hard as before, but rather approvingly. Nevertheless, Mom, apparently, had already developed something like a conditioned reflex—she started moving her ass more actively for the foreman while trying to swallow Rustam's cock deeper. She even grabbed the gastarbeiter's scrotum with her right hand, gently massaging his balls. Such diligence from Mom caused another burst of general laughter.

"Whoa!" the foreman said cheerfully, grabbing Mom by the hips again and stopping her movements.

With a loud smacking sound, he pulled his shiny, secretion-covered circumcised cock from my mother's depths. At this, Mom, releasing the saliva-smeared tool from Rustam's mouth, let out a prolonged chesty moan.

"You like Caucasian cock," the foreman commented, patting Mom on the ass again. "You like it, huh, you Russian slut?"

I don't know what happened to my mother, but instead of being outraged by such improper treatment, she, still lying on the table, turned to the foreman and replied:

"Yes! I like it very much!"

These words, spoken in a low, husky voice, caused obvious excitement. The workers crowded around Mom, poking their cocks in her face, and the foreman grinned crookedly and spread my mother's buttocks with two fingers, spitting lustily between her buns. Grabbing the shaft of his penis with his other hand, he pressed the head against my mother's anus and pushed hard. Squealing, Mom straightened up, landing a couple of steps from the table in one jump and almost knocking over the "cameraman," who continued filming, slightly opening his mouth and occasionally licking his lips. Such agility, however, didn't help her. The foreman, proving more agile, intercepted my mother by the waist with one movement.

"Slut!" he said, smiling dazzlingly. "Where do you think you're going?"

Continuing to hold Mom by the torso, with his free hand he grabbed the edge of her neckline and yanked it down sharply. There was a tearing sound—Mommy's expensive dress ripped, a piece of fabric hanging, revealing her equally expensive silicone tits. These works of art had the shape of perfect rounded cones and ended with dark tips of large, erect nipples. The Caucasian's hand immediately grabbed one of them, squeezing and twisting hard. Mom groaned.

"Ooooh, my dress!" her grief was absolutely genuine.

"Today you'll save much more than it costs, right?" The foreman pushed my mother, and she fell on all fours, instinctively arching her back and sticking out her ass. Her exposed tits hung beautifully, even now not losing their shape—the surgeons really did a great job.

"Wait," Mom wailed from the floor, nevertheless not trying to get up or change her position. "I've changed my mind!"

"Look at that," the foreman marveled. "The Russian slut changed her mind. Should he change his mind too, huh?"

And he pointed with his splayed hand at his proudly protruding Azerbaijani cock. Apparently, this finally convinced Mommy of the groundlessness of her claims.

"Don't fuck me in the ass," she asked gloomily, but it wasn't so much the tone as the chosen "dirty" words, which Mom usually never used, that indicated she had resigned herself to her fate. "I'll do everything..."

The foreman didn't answer. Flashing his teeth dazzlingly once more, he bent down and with a sharp jerk that lifted Mommy's legs off the floor for a couple of seconds, pulled off Mom's thong. He was about to toss it aside with a careless, instinctive gesture, but after crumpling and sniffing it, he stuffed it into his pants pocket. From somewhere inside the house, the workers dragged a relatively clean rag and spread it in a rectangle on the floor. One of the workers—the youngest of them (Fariz?)—lay down on the fabric, casually jerking his already rock-hard cock. Mom sat on him, threw her head back, closed her eyes, quietly moaning, and began slowly impaling herself on this monster.

But the Caucasian guest wasn't inclined toward erotic performances. Grabbing Mom by the hips, he jerked her onto his cock. Mommy's eyes widened, and I expected her to start screaming again, but she only gasped quietly and started moving on her own, fucking that huge Azerbaijani cock. Two more workers approached her from the front, and slightly bending her forward and down, started offering their cocks to her mouth. Handling two cocks while bouncing on a third was obviously not easy, but Mom held up like a champ. She alternately licked and sucked the Caucasian tools, grabbing one in each hand like a seasoned porn star, even managing to pay attention to the balls of her dzhigits. The surroundings were again filled with moans and panting, interspersed with slurping, smacking, and squelching. And the last of these sounds was made by my mother's pussy with every movement of the Azerbaijani organ inside her.

While the happy lovers frolicked in this way, the foreman wasn't idle. He left the veranda for a while, returning with a large transparent bottle of lotion. Watching my mommy's amazing efforts with a condescending smirk, he squeezed a substantial amount of the oily mass onto his palm and thoroughly lubricated his huge cock. Then came the time for the climax.

Squatting down, the foreman positioned his forward-protruding organ, like an artillery barrel, against my mother's ass. Feeling the threat of invasion, Mom jerked, but the other Azeris also caught on and held her firmly—Fariz by the hips, and the other two by the arms and shoulders. There was nowhere to retreat, but with the heroism characteristic of Russian women, Mommy fought for her ass like a lioness, desperately twisting her pelvis on Fariz's cock, which obviously caused him to ejaculate prematurely. The poor guy threw back his black-stubbled chin, convulsively twitching his pelvis, gaped his mouth, and grabbed Mom tighter by the hips with his paws, pulling her onto his erupting organ all the way to his balls.

"Ah!.." Mommy said quietly but didn't have time to add anything. One of the Azeris standing in front of her face, proprietarily grabbed my mother by the back of the head, putting her mouth back on his cock. The second impatiently slapped his cockhead against Mommy's cheek and ear, also demanding attention. Fariz, recovering from his orgasm, started moving his pelvis again and encouragingly slapped Mommy's ass, showing that, despite ejaculating, he was ready to continue. However, he had to slow down a bit, apparently obeying the foreman, who briefly said something in Azerbaijani and pushed forward again, inexorably pushing the Azerbaijani cockhead into the Russian anus.

Mommy moaned through the Caucasian cock filling her mouth and arched her back, sticking her ass out. Whether consciously or not, this significantly facilitated the foreman's goal,