Built for One Thing Chapters 1 and 2

Built for One Thing by GH Lawrence

CHAPTER ONE

I had wanted to fuck my gorgeous mother since the moment I learned what fucking was all about.

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."

"Okay."

"And remind me not to wear this top anymore."

CHAPTER TWO

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.

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.