Motherfucker

My mother has always been a little too easygoing for her own good. “Biddable” was how I’d heard her described by my grandmother, often enough while growing up. It did make her rather likeable, as a person, but it also got her into plenty of trouble. The prime example was what happened when she was fifteen.

She had a new boyfriend—my father—who was a year older than she was, and a dashing young hero of the junior varsity football team. Thanks to my mother’s “biddable” nature, when my father wanted to get into the pants of his pretty new girlfriend on their second date, after the homecoming dance in her sophomore year of high school, my mother didn’t really put up much resistance. That was the night I was conceived.

My father initially wanted her to have an abortion—a fact I only learned because my grandfather on my father’s side accidentally let it slip once when I was twelve, without even realizing what he’d revealed to me. However, my other grandfather—my mom’s father—was strictly religious and wouldn’t have it. Once again, thanks to my mother’s biddable personality, she went along with her father’s wishes.

The next most logical plan—to put me up for adoption—was nixed by my mother’s own mom, who hated the idea of having her grandchild raised by strangers. Again, my mother’s biddable nature meant that she respected her mother’s feelings.

Since she was keeping the baby—me—my father decided out of a sense of youthful, teenage chivalry that the only respectable thing to do was to marry her. Of course, none of their parents would have heard of it, but he convinced my biddable mother to keep it a secret (not to mention convincing her to marry him in the first place), and so they found an agreeable pastor and eloped on my mother’s sixteenth birthday, as soon as she was of legal age in their state (my infant self was at home with my maternal grandparents at the time).

Technically, it wasn’t really legal for my parents to marry without parental consent under eighteen, but they’d convinced the pastor to marry them anyway. My grandparents could have had the marriage license declared legally null and void after the fact, if they’d wanted to. However, once the marriage was a fait accompli, they decided that if they had tried, the teens would only have become all the more determined to remarry after my mother turned eighteen, and their parents no longer had any legal say in the matter.

It was a small victory for my parents, however. Since the teens were still high school students, with no jobs or money, they were completely dependent on their parents for support—especially with a new baby to care for. My mother’s parents insisted that my mother and father both remain living in their own parents’ homes: no cohabitation arrangement until they were self-sufficient and could afford to move into their own place. And once more, thanks to my mother’s biddable nature, she went along with the ultimatum rather than trying to assert her marriage rights, which undercut any attempt my father might have wanted to make to assert his own.

Eventually, of course, my parents did grow up, and my mother’s father got my dad a decent job at the insurance sales firm where he worked. We all moved into a place of our own when I was three years old—the year after my mother graduated high school.

Fast forward fifteen years. The summer after I turned eighteen was the most memorable time of my life.

Up until that summer, I’d also been having one of the most frustrating years of my life. I was generally considered a pretty good-looking guy by the girls in my high school—which I’d learned from my best friend Tim, who was well-known for having his ear to the ground when it came to school gossip. Despite that, owing to a somewhat retiring, quiet nature, I’d never had a steady girlfriend. I’d never had trouble finding dates to school dances and the like, and I’d kissed a few girls at parties and when hanging out with groups of friends, but I’d never had a real girlfriend. The farthest I’d ever gone with a girl had been touching Melissa Grant’s boobs once—through her bra.

In fact, my only real sexual experience to that point—although I wouldn’t have called it that at the time—was when Tim and I jerked off while watching his parents’ collection of porno videos when they weren’t home. This was before the age of high-speed Internet porn, so that hidden stash of porn movies was a real goldmine for a couple of teenagers like us. Tim and I never touched each other or anything—which is why I wouldn’t have ever imagined calling it a sexual experience at the time—but looking back, as a more enlightened adult, I’m more aware that two horny boys openly jerking off and cumming in front of each other is a type of sexual experience, too.

In any case, that summer I was feeling extremely sexually frustrated. I masturbated more at that time than ever before or after in my life—maybe three or four times a day: once in the morning in the shower, usually once in the afternoon when I got home from school, and then once or twice in bed at night.

Most of the time, when I was stroking one out, I was thinking about my mom. I would later come to understand how rare and even deviant that was, and even at the time I was cognizant enough that it was weird that I didn’t ever let on even to Tim that I thought about her that way, but I didn’t really appreciate back then just how unusual it was to think of one’s own mom as a hottie, or want to see her naked, or even fantasize about fucking her.

You see, if you’ve done the math you’ve realized that when I was eighteen, my mom was only thirty-three. She didn’t even look that old, to be honest: my mother had always been very pretty, and even in her early thirties she looked more like a cute girl of twenty-five. She’s always been on the short side—five-foot-two—and is very slim everywhere but her hips and bust, both of which are wide and full. She has auburn hair, and green eyes, and smiles a lot, which lights up her face.

My mother also has a rather lazy habit of not really getting dressed most of the time, if she isn’t expecting company. Although she and my father both held down jobs when I was young, my father got promoted to regional sales when I was ten. He started spending a lot of time away—ten-hour workdays, and monthly three- or four-day weekend business trips. But it also meant a lot more money, so mom quit her job as a waitress and started staying home.

And while she’s at home, my mother likes to stay in her pajamas pretty much all day, unless she’s expecting company. Most were old, comfortably tattered sweatpants, and tops with small rips and holes in the seams. There were two tops in particular that I loved: both had rather large holes in the seams under the arms, and when my mother faced away from me at the right angle, and lifted her arm in just the right way, I could see her entire breast (mom rarely wore a bra—or panties, I believed, though I had never seen that for myself—in her p.j.’s).

Those occasional views of my mom’s big, full, soft boobs were the only ones I’d ever seen outside of Tim’s television screen, and I visualized the remembered sight of them almost every time I jerked off.

Now it so happened that every summer my dad got two weeks’ vacation time, and we always spent it in a rented condo on a beach, in a somewhat overcrowded resort town. My mom didn’t like it so much, but her biddable nature meant that dad’s love of sand and surf overrode her more homebody ways. That particular summer, as we made the trip, I resolved that no matter what, I was going to lose my virginity.

There were always plenty of sexy teenage girls on the crowded beaches. The only trick would be finding one who was both single, and easily separated from whatever family or friends she was accompanying, so that I could try my luck with her. I was sure that if only I could overcome my basic shyness, I would be able to find at least one girl in those two weeks who would be willing to have a summer fling with me.

The first day of our beach vacation went much the same as all the others: Dad and I went down to the beach early, while Mom stayed behind at the condo to clean up, unpack, relax a little, and eventually joined us later in the day.

Although I did plenty of girl-watching that first day, I hardly got away from my own family for very long at a stretch, much less found a solitary teenage girl to chat up.

On the second day, I realized that I had to change up the routine if I wanted to be able to roam the sands as a ‘free agent.’ Rather than accompanying Dad down to the beach right away, I begged off, telling him I wanted to hang back at the condo for a while, like Mom.

“Suit yourself,” he accepted agreeably, shrugging, and headed off without me.

In truth, I wanted to be down on the sands as much as he did, but I wanted to go down alone, rather than in the company of my parents. Pretending to want to spend time in the condo gave me an excuse to go down separately, where I planned to avoid joining my parents at all. What happened next threw a monkey wrench into my plans, and made me rethink my entire morning, however.

Just as I was gathering my things to head down to the beach myself, my mother called to me from across the room: “I’m going to run a shower, sweetie,” she told me. “Don’t wait up for me. I’ll probably still be in there when you go.”

As soon as she’d said the words, a sudden, inspired plan formed in my lusty, teenage mind. Not thirty seconds after I heard the water start running, I called out loudly, “Bye, Mom!” and then opened and closed the condo door with a thud.

I didn’t leave, however. Instead, I crept back to the bathroom, and carefully peeked inside.

I’d spied on my mother in the shower at home a few times. She liked to shower facing the nozzle the entire time, which in our bathroom at home—just like the one here—meant facing away from the door. That afforded relative safety in sneaking a peek from the door, provided I made no sound. The big difference between my previous effort at home and this new adventure, however, was that at home, our shower had thick, frosted glass doors that left visible only a vague, flesh-toned shape that merely hinted at my mother’s feminine proportions; whereas here at the condo, the shower doors were completely transparent glass panes.

Sure enough, when I carefully, quietly cracked open the bathroom door and peeked in, I beheld the ultimate reward: my naked mother in all her glory. Granted, she was facing away, which meant I only got to see her bare ass and the side of a boob—and a familiar side-boob for me, at that, thanks to her torn pajamas. Nevertheless, the overall effect of seeing my mother utterly nude for the first time was worth more than the specific body parts which may or may not have been visible.

I couldn’t help immediately grabbing my cock through my swim trunks and starting to massage and squeeze it as I watched my mother shower. What transpired next, before my very eyes, however, was more than I could have ever imagined, or hoped for.

After thoroughly soaping herself up, my mother reached over to one of the small shelves built into the shower wall and picked something up which I couldn’t make out from my angle at the door. She then took a bottle of something that I assumed was shampoo and poured some out, did something with her hands for a minute, then began to shift around in the shower awkwardly in a way I found hard to interpret until I heard her moan softly, and finally realized what I was seeing.

My mother was masturbating! Even more amazingly, she was shoving a plastic dildo up into her pussy over and over. The “shampoo” had, in fact, been some kind of oil or lube.

I lost all sense of discretion at that point: I immediately shed my swim trunks entirely, let go of the bathroom door so that it remained standing partially open, and began to stroke my now-rigid cock as I watched my mother fucking her own pussy with a dildo.

If she’d turned around, there would be no way for me to grab the door and close it before she’d notice me, nor any way to hide what I was doing. Hell, my father might’ve walked back into the condo unexpectedly, and there would be no way to cover up quickly enough to avoid being caught. I no longer cared. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I wasn’t thinking about consequences anymore.

As my mother’s moans grew louder and more urgent, and I realized she was close to making herself come, my own rising lust started to overwhelm my sense. Losing all perspective and self-control, I irrationally reasoned that since I was so hell-bent on losing my virginity this summer, and there was a hot, horny woman standing only a few feet away, there was nothing stopping me from fucking her right now, if I would just go for it.