Built for One Thing

Part II

So men lusted after Mom. And one afternoon when I was nine, I began to lust after her, too. I was lying on my bed and noticed her out the window as she sunbathed on the sandstone patio by the pool. She got up to turn her lounge chair and I gaped at her tall, voluptuous hourglass: smooth, toned legs that seemed to rise forever until finally flaring into full hips, which in turn scooped dramatically into a slim waist and a flat stomach with a sexy inny navel. Above all this, her breasts cantilevered out like an enormous balcony, each of them larger than the six-inch desk globe she had given me on my birthday. Yet they were supple and perky, swelling like balloons out of a French bikini top and snuggled against each other with a half-foot line of cleavage between them. Her face was lovely, too, with sculpted cheekbones, a long, sleek nose, a strong chin and a high forehead, all of which gave her a distinct air of royalty. Her light-brown hair was down to her shoulders, straight and thick and shimmering like silk in the summer sun.

When she started for the house, I watched her hips swaying and her massive breasts jiggling and causing her bikini top to heave up and down, I felt something new and scary and looked down to see stuff dripping out of my cock. I had just had my first orgasm.

After that, jacking off and thinking about my mother became a daily event. She usually wore form-fitting clothes, like turtlenecks and bodysuits that stretched taut over her tits and faded jeans that hugged the curves of her full, shapely ass. Just watching her load the dishwasher or fold towels made me horny. She had a gentle, sensual way about her movements that made the back of my neck tingle.

I was even turned on by her hands, which were erotic in a sleek, agile, big-knuckled way. I'd sit at the kitchen table, pretending to do my homework, and when she wrapped one hand around an iced tea glass to wipe it dry, I imagined her wrapping it around my hard cock instead. Then I'd run upstairs, yank down my pants and frantically do the job myself. Sometimes I'd even risk leaving my door ajar, secretly daring her to stumble upon me. Childishly, I hoped she'd be flattered--or better yet, turned on--by my lust for her.

But she never caught me. Sometimes I'd ask her to help me with my homework even though I didn't need it. As she wrote math problems or spelling lists in my notebook, her huge bustline would shimmy faintly. My cock would harden as I stared at her. I was pretty sure she didn't notice me doing it.

Once, during an especially horny weekend while I was in junior high school, Mom was sunbathing with her younger sisters Linda and Chrissy, who are twins and gorgeous but not as curvaceous as Mom. I was in my bedroom watching them and eagerly jacking off. They were trading body compliments and admiring each others' tits when, suddenly, a longstanding prayer of mine was answered.

After glancing nervously toward the house, Mom reached up to the front clasp of her red bikini top and unhooked it. Her enormous breasts sprang out of the cups and bounced against each other, settling into perfect, jutting teardrops with just a natural touch of sag as she removed her top completely, her aureoles small and dark red and her nipples pointing upward like a teenage girl's.

Chrissy and Linda gaped at Mom's bare tits and cooed with envy. "Jesus, Jill!" Linda shouted. "Aren't you ever going to age?"

My reaction was even stronger. No sooner had I set eyes on them--utterly mammoth yet more perfectly shaped than I ever dreamed--than my balls contracted and my cock started spewing cum. Long, white ropes of it squirted and squirted, burning as it coursed up through my rigid dick and madly splattering all over the bed and the window. A little Papa Smurf figurine on my nightstand took a blast right on its cute little face.

So there was Mom, innocently gabbing with her sisters about butt exercises and the Pritkin diet while I mentally pounded my cock in and out of her pussy, moaning obscenely and pumping a six-pack of cum out of my balls. I flopped onto my back panting, my shorts around my ankles, and watched Mom struggle to fit her melons back into her bikini top. It took me ten minutes to clean up all the cum.

Other boys my age jacked off fantasizing about Samantha Fox or Heather Thomas (or Victoria Principal, if they didn't have cable). I jacked off thinking about my mother. I began to wonder if I was weird.

But I stopped worrying after the evening of the seventh-grade pageant, when Mom came backstage to do everyone's makeup, her hips swishing, her huge tits challenging the straps of a low-cut blue slipdress and her pheromones glowing like a vapor trail in her wake. The boys were so mesmerized by the San Andreas fault line of cleavage between her jostling, shifting tectonic masses that not even the toughest of them complained about the extremely faggy stuff she was putting on their faces. When she leaned over them with a mascara brush, her warm, perfumed air enveloping them and her knockers nearly bursting out of her dress, their trousers tented and their neck hair stood on end. They fought to conceal their boners as they bumbled onstage.

"Such nice boys," Mom said to Mrs. Danberry, the civics teacher. Waiting for my cue, I looked up at Mom. A sly grin had crept across her sexy lips.

"Um, yes, they are," Mrs. Danberry replied, eyeing Mom's statuesque figure with a mixture of awe and disapproval.

After that, I knew there wasn't a goddamned thing wrong with me for wanting to fuck my mother. Every other human male who had set eyes on her wanted to fuck her, too. Never in my life had I felt so much pride.

I first got laid during my freshman year in high school. The girl's name was Lisa and we did it in the back seat of her father's Mercury Marquis. She was a sophomore and had done it with another guy already. "Oh, Bobby, oh, Bobby," she yelled as I screwed her and the car lurched up and down. But I didn't call out her name. I was pretending she was Mom.