"We'll Do Your Mom First," I Said

This is my second Summer Lovin' Contest Entry. It is you, the readers, who'll decide the eventual winners with your votes. And please note: voting on erotic stories has been clinically proven to improve your sex life.

It is an INCEST category story that involves mother/son, consensual sex. All sexual activity described only includes people eighteen years of age and older. If this is not what you were looking for please click away.

This story is significantly longer than a usual scouries tale -- it simply refused to end until it was good and ready. If you can't finish it in one sitting you can temporarily save it as a FAVORITE story so that you can find it again easily. ENJOY!

Late May 2010

"I've decided, we'll do your mom first, then we'll do mine," I told Kevin as I leaned over and clicked a key on his computer. A millisecond later the movie we'd been watching, a movie featuring an impossibly well endowed blond being fucked both anally and vaginally by two uniformed policemen, disappeared from the screen and was replaced by a picture of Kevin's mother.

Both of us had been sitting against the headboard of his bed, with the computer between us, as we stroked our cocks.

"Put the movie back on," my best friend ordered.

"I want to fuck your mom, not some porn star," I answered as I sat up and brought my engorged cock towards the screen and the picture of his mom that filled it.

"You're fucking sick," he said but his hand hadn't stopped moving over his virgin, eighteen year old cock. I hit another key and a second picture of his mom appeared. This one was an 'up her skirt' shot that I'd managed to surreptitiously snap a couple of weeks earlier.

"Where'd you get that?" he demanded as his eyes slid up his mom's legs to the triangle of white panty showing at their juncture. I laughed, then blocked his view as I touched the spot he was staring at with the tip of my cock. The drop of precum that had already formed slid onto the screen.

"You asshole, you'll ruin my computer," he complained as he watched the cum ooze slowly down the screen.

"Maybe I'll impregnate it and father a little notebook," I said, then laughed and shook my cock at him.

"You're a fucking idiot." Kevin was still stroking himself. We both froze when a second later we heard a knock on his bedroom door. It had to be his mom.

"Boys... boys?" The call, muffled by the door, came seconds later. Kevin, already out of the bed, was struggling to pull on the pair boxer shorts he'd dropped on the floor just minutes earlier.

"Kevin? William?"

I walked towards the door, my cock in hand. Kevin, shaking his head wildly, was looking at me in horror. "Don't!" he cried.

"Mrs. White?" I asked through the door.

"I didn't want to disturb you boys Will, I know you're studying," my friend's mother apologized. "But I was just wondering if you'd like another piece of apple pie and a glass of milk."

"Yes, please, I'd love a piece of your pie ... so would Kev," I answered. My hand was now flying over my cock.

Kevin, across the room, was still shaking his head in despair. His penis, fully erect, shorter perhaps than mine, but still well above average, was sticking out of the slit in his shorts.

"Okay, I'll be right back," Kev's thirty-four year old mom promised. My cock started to spurt as I listened to her words. Thick strands of sperm arched upwards and out before finally landing on the back of the bedroom door.

"You're fucking crazy. Christ, she'll see it, smell it," he croaked as he pulled his jeans up his legs.

"I'd like to put some of this in her hot and hairy little momma's pie," I answered as I trailed a finger through my cum and then held it up in the air.

"Get dressed ... clean it up," he begged as he threw me my boxers.

"She's going to be our first," I insisted as we waited for his mom to return with the goodies.

"You're a fucking pervert," Kevin answered.

"Somebody has to be our first."

"Retard. Have you by any chance ever heard the word incest?"

"It won't be incest when my cock's inside her," I said with a leer as I ran my hand suggestively over the front of my pants.

"She's my mother!"

"That's why I'm going to let you go first."

"What!"

"But when we get to my mom I'll go first."

"Your mom! You are so fucking sick."

"Well who do you want to fuck then?" And of course Kevin had no answer to that one. I pressed on. "C'mon Kev, you read the study ... you know the first two or three weeks we're up there are going to make or break us."

"We have all summer to get ready, to find someone to teach us," he protested.

"So where do we start then? Who on your list do you think you'll be able to get to help us?" I challenged.

"Yeah, but what about my dad? And yours?"

We'd both pulled on t-shirts and shorts and were sitting at the long table that sat under his bedroom window, and which we used as a work desk, when his mother, toting a fully laden tray, finally reappeared. I knew we'd be continuing the conversation later.

Mrs. White was hot! A true MILF! Really she was far too young to be the mother of an eighteen year old. As fifteen year old Michelle Thomas, a neighbor of the Whites, she had ended up the prime baby sitter of Kevin's older half sisters when Mr. White's first wife had died some twenty years ago.

The eight and nine year old girls, bereft after the loss of their mother, had latched onto Michelle immediately and would cling to her desperately at the first sign that she was about to leave. Apparently the then forty-five year old Mr. White had too because just weeks after her sixteenth birthday young Michelle was walking down the aisle to be married. Kevin, "in uterus" at the time, was present at the ceremony.

He was their only child but against all odds the marriage had gone along famously. My parents had moved in two houses down from the Whites when I was three. And so we had become best friends.

Kev and I grew up nerds. Boys who'd been oblivious to the charms of the other sex as we'd studied our way through high school. Until, that is, our cocks started to grow. And spurt.

The two best students in our school, already pre-accepted into Princeton before our senior year had even started, socially incompetent but relatively happy, had suddenly been thrust unprepared into the world of cocks and cum and cunts.

Our senior year had been disastrous -- week after week and month after month of uncertainties, rejections and self doubt. If we hadn't had each other I don't know what would have happened.

Hey look, I'm not stupid. It's impossible for a teenager to be ignorant of sex these days. Just turn on your computer! So, on a theoretical basis, we should have been prepared. And we were. We knew all the moving parts of women. We knew exactly what was happening to our bodies. We knew about sperm count. About shaven pussies. We'd studied tables and graphs published on the internet that showed the range of sizes of the human penis. We'd compared the slow but steady progress of our respective penile growth to those tables. We'd seen a hundred movies that demonstrated just about every sexual coupling imaginable. We knew it all.

But until the testosterone starts to flow that's all it is. Theoretical. But then it's not! It's all encompassing as soon as that sexual chemical tap is turned on. An emotional whirlwind that you find you have no way to control. Your thinking brain suddenly becomes trumped by the small reptilian brain that lies deep in the heart of it. A brain that sends blood rushing into your cock at the first sniff of a woman.

But of course neither of us had any ability to communicate with members of the opposite sex. None at all! Our supposed brilliant minds, minds that had easily delivered SAT scores in the top percentile, turned to mush the second an attractive female came within twenty feet of us. Womanless, we became serial masturbators and wet dreamers. Big cocked horny nerds who used their hands as sorry imitations of the real thing.

And so, in desperation, one rainy Friday night in late April, as we had sat commiserating with each other over another dateless weekend, we'd decided that we had to make an action plan. That if we didn't want to be losers the rest of our lives we'd better do something about it.

The first thing we'd done was simply write off the rest of our senior high school year. We knew there was no way to undo the previous four years. Instead we decided to use the four months we had left preparing for the fall and our new lives in faraway Princeton. Where nobody would know us or our high school reputations and where we could start over.

But start over as what? And how does one go about changing? We spent the first few weeks doing research and almost immediately found our first nugget of hope. Our problem turned out to be not that unusual. It turned out to be not only a common affliction but also one that a hell of a lot of men had written about later in their lives.

Again and again we found bios of successful men that reported that they'd suffered through their high school years only to be saved by somehow transforming themselves before they'd arrived at college. But that was the key that they all reported - the first few weeks of your university years offered a door of opportunity that might never reappear. Fuck those weeks up and you were probably fucked for the next four years. Initial impressions were damn hard to change.

So we read what other men had done. And how they'd done it. We found a hundred different suggestions that over the ensuing weeks we tried to distill into a coherent action plan. We finally boiled it down to three jobs:

1) Make an "Honest Assessment" of yourself.

2) Set "Attainable Goals".

3) Write an "Action Plan".

And so we'd both tried. I can tell you that it's not that easy. You're one of maybe two million male high school seniors in the country. Where do you stand in the group? What are the strengths of William Harold Sommers, an eighteen year old high school senior? I knew what I looked like but to tell you the truth had no real idea of how other people saw me.

I was six foot, one inch tall that spring and at just under one hundred and seventy pounds I felt myself too thin. Neither Kevin nor I had played organized sports much growing up but I'd swum a lot in the summers. I wasn't in terrible shape.

My hair was a mess -- even I recognized that the long, matted, usually uncombed nest of hair that lived on my head and tumbled down onto my shoulders wasn't anywhere close to being in style.

Kevin and I weren't great dressers! To say the least. No shots of us were going to appear in GQ. Hoodies and jeans were our norm.

My cock was largish -- I'd measured it enough over the previous couple of years and then compared it 'cock size' numbers I'd found on the internet to know that. In fact it could more fairly be described as very big. So that was an asset but how do you translate that into sexual success if no one will talk to you?

And after you've finished with outward appearance you get to the hard stuff. Why can't you talk to girls? Why do you get so nervous? How do you improve? Where do you learn about kissing?

In the end we finally boiled it down to the following three categories (and subcategories) we'd have to concentrate on. Later we'd penciled in various suggestions on how to do it.

A) Improve our appearance.

1 Body -- weightlift? muscles? posture

2 Clothes -- Ashley knows about clothes. will she help? cost?

3 Hair -

B) Communication skills -- Learn to talk to girls. how?

C) Sexual Techniques

1 Learn to dance -- hire a professional? from where? Natalie from strip club?

2 Kissing -- who could teach us?

3 Touching, arousing - study sex manuals? practical experience?

4 Lose our virginity -- professional call girl?

So we sorta knew what areas we had to attack. We had a starting point. Mind you we weren't that confident of success. But it was better than nothing.

We bought a set of weights and set them up in Kev's basement the day after we'd finalized our plan. Every afternoon thereafter we'd gone down and lifted.

Our second step was to convince my sister to help. Fixing our appearance seemed vital.

Early June 2010 Ashley

"You asked them what?" my sister asked. I could hear that she was pissed off that I hadn't asked her first. I'd hoped she would be.

"You're my sister. Besides I know you're way, way too busy for something like this."

"And they're not?"

I'd caught my sister's two best friends, Caitlyn and Brianna, like her, high school sophomores, alone earlier that afternoon and had asked them to help me. It was an important step in the detailed plan we'd worked out for the transformation of Kevin and I from nerdish, high school social misfits into suave, desirable, sexy college freshmen. Don't they say that clothes make the man?

"Do you think they know more about clothes than I do?" Sis was reacting exactly as I'd surmised. She was vital to the plan and not only because she had a better sense of style than any other girl in the school. It was also vital because we needed her salesmanship to convince our parents to finance the transformation.

I'd known we needed her one hundred percent onside and I'd finally decided that the oblique approach just might work best. Which was why I'd started by approaching her friends first.

Ashley Sommers, sixteen and only a sophomore, my sister, was the most popular girl in the school. And even though she was smart and beautiful, it was her personality that was her greatest selling point. A cheerleader and A student, there had been serious rumblings that spring that she, only going into her junior year, should run for student council president. She's eventually politely demurred but almost everyone thought she would have won if she'd tried.

I'd heard it opined more than once over the years that it was incredible that a girl like her was related to someone as socially incompetent as I. Someone had even asked me once if I'd been adopted.

"It wouldn't be fair to you ... you're too busy Ash. Besides you don't want to spend your time dressing me."

"Gawd, I wish you'd asked me a year ago. You ... you and Kevin look like--" She didn't finish her sentence. But I knew what she was thinking. Having an older brother around who dressed like a bum couldn't have been pleasant for any teenage high school girl.

"I know I'm not the best dresser—"

"You're the about the wor--" she started to say but then stopped before finishing, her inherent niceness not allowing her to finish.

"I just thought I should try to start on a better footing at College. I was looking at the Princeton site the other day and there weren't many students who dressed like--"

"Thank god for that," my sister interrupted as she raised her eyes to the sky. "Now let's go look at your clothes." My sister, when properly motivated, was a take charge kind of person.

"You'll help me?"

"Of course I'll help you, I'm your sister aren't I?" she answered, an answer that was voiced in a teenage girls exasperated tone. "Now c'mon," she ordered as she pulled me down the hall towards my room.

"Shouldn't we wait for Brianna and Caitlyn?"

"No! I'll do the preliminary scouting today and then tomorrow after school the five of us will have a council of war." Ashley was definitely going to be in charge!

"We will?"

"Yes, and tell Kevin he better be there too. No, I'll tell him myself," she said ominously as she marched past me into my bedroom. Which was pretty messy. It always was but that day I'd made it especially so. Ashley's head had already started shaking back and forth in dismay before she was half way across the room. I simply waited silently in the doorway as she started her inspection.

She opened my cupboard door first. She moved a few hangers back and forth before she slowly backed away. She was still shaking her head. Then she started in on my chest of drawers. Rifled through my t-shirts and sweaters and socks and hoodies before she finally got to my underwear.

"Well," I finally asked, "do you think that at least we have a good base to start from? That you'll be able to come up with something?"

"Yes Will, it's going to be sooooo easy."

I was smiling inside but successfully hid it when I asked back in my most dubious tone, "It will be?"

"Yes my dear Will," and now I heard the sarcasm, something my sweet sister wasn't known for, "once the bonfire has died down we will then proceed to--"

"Bonfire?" I was laughing inside now!

"Do you think that there's one piece of cloth in this sad excuse for a room that should be transported over five hundred miles to one of America's finest institutions of higher learning?"Ashley was firing on all cylinders now!

"What about my sweatshirts?"

"Hoodies," she started, and before continuing she kicked the one I'd purposely left in the middle of my bedroom floor, "are not a fashion statement."

"At least my underwear's okay isn't it?"

"Well it might Will, it might be if said undergarments weren't full of holes and of a sickly gray color." Again I'd cleverly left my worst two pairs of underpants on top of the pile in the drawer. Ones that I'd been planning to throw out.

"Now let's go over to Kevin's," she ordered as she swept back by me and out into the hall. I scurried after.

"Kevin's? Today? We're already finished here? Don't you have to make a list or something?"

Ashley simply continued on her way without answering. I pumped my fist in the air as I rushed after her.

As we walked out the door I asked to her back, "How much do you think I'm going to have to spend anyway? As much as five hundred bucks?" It was another question I'd prepared for my sister. It brought her to a sudden halt.

"Are you on drugs?"

"Less than that then?" I said hopefully.

"I'll never understand how you got accepted into a university of that caliber." Ashley's sarcasm was gone, replaced now by the sad acceptance that her brother was hopeless.

"More?"

"Will, to even get you to the minimum, the very minimum required," and here Ashley's voice emphasized the word minimum, "will cost at least ten thousand dollars and probably cost closer to twenty."

I put my most shocked look on my face. "Twentyyyyyyy thousand?" I screeched. "You're nuts."

For seconds my sister stared at me, her disbelief of her brother's ignorance unhidden. I said nothing. Finally, slowly, her expression turned from hopelessness to determination.

"What do you think I spend on clothes every year," she finally asked.

I pretended to think it over before answering. "A thousand?" I finally offered tentatively. Ashley shook her head. "Higher?" She nodded yes. "Two?" Ash pointed here finger upwards. "Not as much as three?" the finger stayed pointed up. I jumped to five thousand with my next guess. Her finger stayed pointing up.

"That's impossible, no one spends that much."

Exasperation bloomed back into sis's face. "How much do you think these shoes cost?"

I pretended to examine them. "Forty bucks."

"Over two hundred," sis answered. "And my skirt?"

I pretended I knew something about skirts and quickly answered, "I know they're about twenty-five," I said confidently, "I saw one just like that in Target last week."

"You did not see one like this in Target!" Sis's gnashing of her teeth made her hard to understand. "And what about my underwear?" she finally spat out.

"Like your bra and panties?" She nodded yes. "Well I got a six pack of Fruit of the Loom for seven dollars last month. So maybe double that if you include the bra ... so what, fourteen bucks divided by six, probably two, two dollars fifty for both."

From the look on her face I knew the plan was working. Slowly, her frustration clear, she spoke, "THE... BRA... AND ... PANTIES...I'M...WEARING... COST... OVER ... SEVENTY ... DOLLARS." If anyone had been within fifty yards of us they would have heard her.