Built For One Thing Ch. 1

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– I –

I had wanted to fuck my gorgeous mother since the moment I learned what fucking was all about. Then, one summer night in high school, I finally got my wish.

At a very young age, I had become aware of Mom’s ravishing looks–aware, at least, that she didn’t resemble other women. She was taller, her hips were wider, her legs were longer and her breasts were much larger. Plus, her skin was smoother and softer and her arms didn’t have that flab that I saw on her friends’ arms. Her face was so much prettier, too. During my pre-school years, I loved to remind her of this last fact as I tagged along with her on errands. “Oh, thank you, sweetie-bear,” she’d say, grinning and giving me a kiss on the cheek.

Before long, I realized that other people–men, mainly–noticed Mom, too. Wherever she and I went without Dad, wolf whistles and shouts like “Hey, honey pie!” followed us like the baying of horny dogs. I became so accustomed to them, the way an urban dweller grows deaf to the sound of sirens, that they became a normal part of my environment. Even today I never notice when some jerk whistles at a woman who’s with me. On some unconscious level, I probably assume they’re whistling at Mom.

Back then, I naively thought all women provoked the same reactions from men until the day I mustered the nerve to ask Mom about it. She was walking me home from kindergarten through our neighborhood of big houses and lush, sloping lawns, and the route took us past a home being built two blocks down the street from ours. As we walked by, a guy with a thick moustache yelled from the roof, “Hey, baby, bring those things up here!” Mom didn’t seem to hear him.

As we crossed to the next block, I said, “Mom, what things was that man talking about?”

“I’m not sure,” she said casually. “Since he was too lazy to include an adjective, like ‘big’ or ‘long,’ he could have meant either my breasts or my legs.”

“Why do workmen always say stuff to you?”

“They do it for fun. And I guess they think I’m really hot.”

“Like a stove?”

“Well, not quite. You’ll find out later.”

“You’re pretty, Mom.”

“Thank you, sweetie-bear.”

“And those *are* really big,” I said.

She followed my gaze to her tits, which were bouncing around and stretching a green tank top out far in front of her body. They were easily the size of cantaloupes. Each looked as large as my head.

“Oh, not you, too, Bobby,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“No, I mean they’re big and pretty,” I said.

“Thank you, honey. Coming from you, I don’t mind at all. They are nice and big, aren’t they? This bra really lets them jiggle.” She cupped her hands under them, hoisted and made them boomerang up and down a few times as she grinned and wiggled her eyebrows at me. I giggled, but I was far too young to realize what a mind-boggling sight it was. The imbecile on the roof would have squirted his brain into his pants.

“Do you like them? I look a lot younger than I am, don’t I?”

“Probably. How old are you?”

“Never mind.”

“Does Dad like them?” I asked, pointing at her tits.

“He never pays much attention to them,” she said.

I wondered what was wrong with him. “I would if I was Dad.” Mom was quiet for a minute. My parents got along okay, but Dad traveled a lot for a his job. He was the vice-president of an oil company. And even when he was home, I didn’t see much of him except at breakfast and dinner.

But he a sense of humor. Before my bedtime, whenever Mom would read *The Little Engine That Could* to me, Dad would poke his head in the room and say, “Jill, that *is* an oil-burning locomotive, right?”

She would snicker and say, “Oh, Charles.”

On the sidewalk, Mom and I were nearing our house. “Bobby, starting tomorrow, let’s walk to school a different way.”


“And remind me not to wear this top anymore.”

– 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 a! nd thick and shimmering like silk in the summer sun.

When she started for the house, I watched casino siteleri 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 slot oyna she was Mom.

– III –

I was Mom’s only child and she doted on me incessantly. She was protective, panicking whenever I didn’t get home on time or forgot to call. She was suspicious of my buddies. “Are his parents okay?” she’d ask me, groping for reassurance about a friend throwing a party or having a sleepover. “Yeah, yeah, they’re fine,” I’d answer.

My active social life pleased her but she was jealous of my girlfriends, even the ones I just palled around with. “Is she cute?” she’d ask me in a tickling tone of voice whenever I mentioned a new name. Then came the staged pouting. “Cuter than me?” she’d whimper.

“No, Mom, she’s not as cute as you.” From my dutiful tone of voice, silly Mom thought I was just patronizing her. Hardly.

“Good!” she’d say, her brown eyes sparkling with triumph. “You’re not allowed to go out with anyone better looking than me.” She’d give me a peck on the cheek that nearly made my dick burst through my fly every time. Then she’d trot off to run errands or take a shower, her jugs swaying under a cotton button-down or an old college sweatshirt and her ass filling a pair of khaki shorts deliciously.

The truth is that the girls were jealous of Mom. No facetious pouting on their parts, only genuine, jaw-clenching, blood-greening envy. After meeting her, they never wanted to come to the house, and when they did, Mom’s incredible looks made them stamp their feet and grumble some escape plan like, “Let’s go to the mall. Right now.”

We lived in a small, close-knit suburb, and Mom’s face and body were probably a common subject of conversation. One evening, a girl I’d dated occasionally called me, but not to chat. “My mom wants to know where she can get boobs like your mom’s,” she said.

My one and only goal for my sophomore year was to play cornerback on the varsity football team, so I spent the summer working out twice a day and binging like Oprah Winfrey after a week of bad ratings. When I wasn’t at Smitty’s Gym doing squats, I was in the kitchen or the den with a plate of steak and rice.

Mom loved serving as my personal chef and studied a whole bookshelf of bodybuilding cookbooks. She’d come into my bedroom every morning at five with a protein shake and wake me with a feathery stroke on my arm. I’d drink the shake while she sat on the bed and yawned happily. Once when she took a long stretch, her arms overhead and her braless cantaloupes practically exploding out of her satin nightgown, I had to shift under the covers to hide the bulge of my throbbing cock.

The shakes and steaks, along with all the hours of weightlifting, paid off. By the end of the summer, my five-foot-ten-inch frame had filled out to a well-defined 165 pounds. I played second-string on the varsity team that year and continued my regimen. By the following summer, I was six feet flat and a husky, sinewy 180. And Mom was really taking notice.

She had been complimentary since the start of my training program, but as my shoulders broadened and she noticed she was looking up into my eyes for the first time (she’s five-ten), her affection took on new character, a longing that seemed faintly carnal. “Lookin’ good, very good, honey,” she’d say whenever she saw me sunbathing by the pool. After bringing me my shake one morning and kissing me on the cheek, her lips moved to my ear, lingered for a long second and whispered, “Wake up, you big tiger.”

It got more blatant. When I was helping her clean out a pantry one hot day in early July, I was carrying a heavy box and holding the door for her when she paused behind me and groped my straining biceps. “Mmm, nice,” she cooed, her breath on my neck, and wiggled her tits against my back. My knees almost curled. I was getting the distinct impression that my mother wanted me.

It was understandable. Dad hadn’t been a very strong presence in the family lately and had never showed much interest in her. I had no idea when they had last fucked, and I didn’t want to know. I wanted her all to myself. Dad was decent and smart but socially inept, and I refused to believe he could satisfy any woman–least of all, Mom. Plus, he was five-six with a bad combover and a gut full of Ding-Dongs. Mom wasn’t attracted to him. That made me smile.

Mom’s lusty comments kept coming, and I was pretty sure she had noticed that, along with my biceps, my cock was getting very, very big. I was pretty sure I had spotted her stealing a couple of glances at my crotch though my jeans, and one afternoon by the pool, I caught her gazing right at my bulge as I vaulted off the diving board.

No one would blame her. One day as I lay on my bed stroking my huge dick with both hands and fantasizing about fucking her doggy-style, her ass quivering and her tits swinging back and forth, I noticed a can of Lemon Pledge the housekeeper had left in my room. I held it against my cock. They were the exact same length and width. I folded my hands under my canlı casino siteleri head with pride and just looked at my dick, pointing straight up like a fleshy, engorged obelisk, the aerosol can of penises, its helmet dark and purple and as big as a racket ball. I had a ten-inch johnson with my mother’s name on it. It seemed she and I were both built for one thing.

– IV –

That one thing, the thing I’d been praying for since I was nine, happened later that very month. It began about an hour after dinner on a Thursday evening. Mom and I were home and Dad’s flight was due in late. I was in my bedroom, sitting on my bed and trying to get my mind off Mom, who had kept my cock at full mast all day with a form-fitting knit top and a pair of tight Levis. She’d been going to the gym with me a couple of times a week, and it was beginning to show: her triceps were nicely defined and her round ass was riding even higher than usual in her jeans. All I could think about was lifting that top and sucking her tits, then pulling down those jeans and sticking my big cock in her pussy. But such notions were beginning to depress me. It was madness. She was my mother and sex would simply never happen.

I was just about to call a buddy to go to the movies when Mom’s fingers rapped lightly on my open door. “Hey, honey, look at these,” she said, walking into the room. In her hands she held a black velvet demi-bra and a matching pair of panties. She dangled them from her pinched thumb and index finger, one item in each hand. The massive scale of the bra cups sent a shudder of lust down my legs. “Like them?” she asked.

“Wow,” I whispered.

“I got them today. They’re for your father.”

“I think they’d look better on you,” I said.

Mom tittered. “You silly.”

I had always been so filial with my compliments to Mom, even when the rawest things were on tip of my tongue. But this time I didn’t care. I decided to pretend she was a girlfriend and say what came naturally.

“God, you must look so hot in those,” I said.

Mom’s eyes widened at me and she seemed to draw a long, pensive breath. “Why, thank you, honey. Do you think he’ll like them?”

“Uh-huh. Just imagining you in them is turning me on. But you look so hot in anything, Mom.”

“Oh, Bobby,” she laughed, “stop before my head gets too big.”

“I’m not flattering you. Your body is beyond belief.”

“Wow. Oh, god. Thank you, sweetheart. You’re pretty gorgeous yourself.”

She was grinning in ecstasy and gazing off at nothing. She was used to the crass come-ons from men on the street and blithe indifference from her husband, with nothing between the two. My brash, earnest praise had sunk in deep. A warm silence fell.

“Well?” I said.


“You going to model those for me or what?”

She glanced at the lingerie in her hand. “Oh, I don’t know, Bobby, I’d feel kind of awkward.”

“Gimme a break. I’ve been sitting here swelling your head for nothing?”

“God, to think I could actually turn on an eighteen-year-old.” She truly didn’t realize what a goddess she was. Modest beauty is such a wondrous thing. “Okay,” she said gaily, “Just so you can give me the final yea or nay.” She went off to her bedroom and I lay back on my bed rubbing my stiffening cock through my jeans. She wasn’t even into the bra and panties yet, but in my mind she was already out of them.

A minute later, she called out from her room, “Okay, honey, come see.”

I got up and walked to her doorway licking my lips and activating the video camera in my brain. I was quite possibly going to see the hottest thing in underwear since Marilyn Monroe had posed with her skirt in the air over that subway grate.

Reaching Mom’s doorway, I nonchalantly looked inside. The room was moody and long-shadowed with the light from a single bedside lamp. And there, in the middle of the floor, stood Mom, giggling.

“See anything you like?” she said.

Oh, yes. Suddenly that bra no longer seemed so huge, stretched over the lower half of her massive chest like the Grand Coulee Dam desperately holding back a thousand acres of water. Mom’s big, firm tits swelled over it together like two bronzy water balloons, her smooth skin pushing out just a touch beyond the top edges of the velvet. When she straightened one bra strap, causing her left breast to lift and undulate teasingly, I could practically hear its contents sloshing like a milk jug.

My eyes wandered lower. Below her board-flat tummy, the panties hugged her round hips in narrow bands that dove to her crotch in a deep v-shape. The material lay perfectly over her tanned, supple curves, and I imagined how her light-brown beaver triangle–which I hadn’t seen since we stopped bathing together, years before–must have looked under the velvet.

“Well?” Mom asked, smiling and casting her arms out in graceful presentation. “I hope that dazed look on your face is a good sign.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said. Mom tittered again. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hey, that could mean you’ve never seen something so awful,” she whined.

“Okay, how about this? You’re the hottest fucking woman on the face of the Earth.”

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