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.
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