2017 incest stories: Best friend mom by tonysex23. I moved closer to her, just as the first rope of cum shot from my swollen cock.I met Brian Carmichael in early July. I remember this because it was almost a week after my fifth birthday.
2017 incest stories: Best friend mom – Chapter 1
by tonysex23
Fantasy, Incest, Mature
I was in the driveway of our yard, playing with a Tonka dump truck and bulldozer that my Uncle Jake had bought me for my birthday. I looked up and saw a small black dog (a Labrador retriever, I later found out) run across our lawn. The dog wandered over to me, his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging. A minute or so later I noticed a boy of about my age walking towards me. He was holding onto the hand of a slender young woman with shoulder length black hair, wearing jeans and a beige t-shirt.
“Oh, there he is!” the woman exclaimed. “Come here, Bandit!”
The dog turned and scampered over towards the woman and child.
“Sorry about that; he got out of the yard again,” she said.
“That’s okay,” I replied.
“We just moved in next door a few days ago. I’m Andrea. This is my son, Brian,” she explained.
“I’m Nick,” I said.
I said ‘Hi’ to Brian, but he seemed more interested in the dump truck and bulldozer beside me. He sat down on the ground and began ploughing a small pile of dirt with the yellow bulldozer.
“Brian, it’s not polite to use other peoples’ things without asking first,” his mother said. “Ask Nick if it’s okay if you play with his toys.”
Brian and I became immediate friends and as close as brothers over that summer. I also liked his mom a lot. Andrea was a lot younger than my mom. She reminded me of my Aunt Pamela, who was Dad’s youngest sister and almost like a big sister to me.
When I told my parents about having made friends with the new boy next door my excitement was tempered somewhat by my mother’s reaction to Brian’s mom.
“She’s just a child herself. She’s too young and irresponsible to be a parent,” Mom said, sounding angry. “Mrs. Anderson said she saw her buying beer at the grocery store a few days ago. And look at the way she dresses…”
I listened to my mother’s criticism of Brian’s mom, although I did not understand why she objected to her so. I didn’t like any of my mother’s friends and concluded that if they disliked Andrea then she must be a nice person. Besides, I liked her very much. She was always nice to me whenever I visited Brian. She often had freshly baked chocolate chip cookies for us to eat and never complained that we were being too loud, or shouldn’t eat or drink pop in the living room like my mom did. I saw nothing wrong with the way Andrea dressed either. It was only when I grew older that I even noticed the clothes she wore, and then my reaction was far from disapproval.
One day when I was over at Brian’s I spied fresh chocolate chip cookies cooling in a rack on the kitchen counter. My eyes grew wide and my mouth began to water as I stared at them from across the kitchen.
“Could I please have a cookie, Mrs. Carmichael?” I asked.
“Yes, you can, Nick. But I’m not Mrs. Carmichael,” she said with a smile.
I tilted my head to one side and gave her a puzzled look. All of my friends’ mothers were known by that epithet. At that tender age I assumed it was something that women added to their surnames once they became mothers. She understood the confused look on my face.
“You can just call me Andrea,” she said.
I had been taught by my parents to never refer to an adult by their first name. Being given permission to refer to Brian’s mom as Andrea made me feel special. I think it was at that moment that I began to develop a crush on her which lasts to this day.
Around the time Brian and I were eleven Andrea got married to a man named Richard. People started calling her Mrs. Amirault, but she told me to continue calling her Andrea. I was somewhat perplexed as to why Brian’s last name did not change too, but never bothered to ask. I never liked Brian’s new dad much. He drank a lot and sometimes I heard him shouting at Brian and his mom when I was in my yard. One Saturday morning when I went over to visit Brian Andrea was sitting at the kitchen table. I was fifteen then. She was crying. When she looked up at me I noticed she had a black eye. After that, I never saw Richard again the times I went over to their house.
By the time Brian and I were eighteen our paths diverged. He had been accepted at a university in Michigan and I had begun attending Lawson College in town. Brian wanted to be an architect and I wanted to become a school teacher. I was still living at home with my parents and planned to for as long as I could. Things had changed — not for the worse, but I lamented the passing of time. Bandit was gone now too and I missed him as much as I missed hanging out with Brian.
Brian and I kept in touch regularly through emails. He always wanted to know how his mother was keeping. Now that she was living alone he worried about her. I was busy with school and other things and Andrea was working at a daycare facility. With Brian away there was hardly any reason for her and I to see one another, although I would occasionally see her bringing in groceries or working in her garden. Andrea would always smile and wave whenever she saw me in the yard and we would talk briefly, mostly about the weather or what we had heard from Brian in his emails.
The truth of the matter was that I wished I had some excuse to pay Andrea a visit. The years had been kind to her. As she approached forty she seemed even prettier to me than she had nearly a decade earlier. Over the years she had let her thick, black hair grow down past her shoulders. She had also begun wearing skirts and blouses more often, rather than the jeans and t-shirts I had grown accustomed to seeing her in. Regardless of her attire, Andrea always looked as lovely as ever. Her slender frame had filled out somewhat over the years. Her hips seemed a little more curvy and her backside was slightly plump — just enough to set my mind reeling with nasty thoughts whenever I saw her walking to or from her car wearing a tight skirt or slacks. The ten or fifteen pounds that Andrea seemed to have accumulated over the years all seemed to have gone to the right places. Her hips and ass were rounder and I guessed that she had probably gone up a full cup size in her bust. I wanted her more than ever, but felt guilty about lusting over my best friend’s mother.
Winter came early that year. I had grown used to either having a green Christmas or there being just a thin dusting of snow by mid December. But already less than a week before Christmas we got dumped on by a big storm. Schools and businesses shut down that Wednesday while everyone dug themselves out. I got up early that morning and began shoveling the driveway. Thankfully it was the light and fluffy kind of snow, not wet and heavy. I began at the foot of our driveway and started working my way up to the house. I noticed that Andrea had hired someone with a half-ton truck with a plough attached to clear her driveway. Unfortunately he had pushed a large pile of snow towards the walk leading to her door.
I had finished the driveway and had started clearing the walk when I noticed Andrea emerge from her house. She was wearing jeans and a navy blue nylon jacket. In her hand was a red aluminum shovel with a wooden handle. She stopped half-way down her snow-covered steps when she saw me and waved.
“How do you like this weather?” she called out. “At least Santa will have snow for his sleigh next week,” she joked.
I nodded, watching Andrea push the snow from her steps. I walked across to her yard and stood in the knee-deep snow at the end of her walkway.
“You go back inside, Andrea. I’ll shovel this for you,” I said.
Andrea looked up from the snow-covered steps and smiled. The morning sun reflecting off of the ivory snow lit up her pretty face. Her hazel eyes sparkled and her hair shimmered as the sunlight hit her. She looked lovely. When she squinted from the glare from the snow and smiled I noticed faint lines at the corners of her brown eyes and at the edges of her full lips. Instead of making her look older I found that they highlighted her smooth cheekbones and the delicate structure of her jawline.
“Thanks, but you don’t have to do that, Nick. I need the exercise anyway,” she said.
“No, you don’t,” I said with a smile. “Besides, if Brian found out that I let you shovel he’d be mad at me. I’m almost done over at my place. It won’t take me long to do this.”
Andrea relented and leaned her shovel against the railing of her porch. “Okay. Thank-you. But come inside after you’re done,” she said.
I watched Andrea turn and go back inside, running my eyes over her firm, round ass and feeling my cock begin to stiffen.
It had been a long time since I had spent any time with Andrea and I was eager to finish shoveling so I could join her inside. The snow was packed hard where the plough had pushed it into a pile and it took me longer than I had anticipated. I was glad that I had offered to do it for Andrea. I knew she could have, but helping her appealed to what I considered to be my chivalrous nature. Besides, I did it out of friendship with Brian too.
As soon as I entered the back porch of Andrea’s house I could smell the aroma of chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven. I smiled, feeling like a kid again. Andrea’s cookies were one of my most pleasant childhood memories. I kicked my wet boots off and hung my jacket up.
“I’m baking cookies. It’s been ages since you’ve had cookies over here.” Andrea was at the sink, washing a large white mixing bowl and utensils.
I nodded, unable to hold back my smile. “Yeah… your cookies were always the best. I miss them,” I said.
“Well, they’ll be ready in a while. Have a seat, Nick. You must be tired from all that work. Thank-you so much,” Andrea said, beaming me a wide smile.
“You’re welcome. I would have been over here sooner if I had have known you were going to make chocolate chip cookies.”
I listened to Andrea’s cheerful laugh and ran my eyes over her as she stood with her back to me at the sink. Her jeans hugged her hips and cushiony ass. She was wearing a burgundy fleece pullover that seemed a little small for her. As she scrubbed cookie dough that was caked on the bowl I noticed her heavy breasts shake a little. They pushed out at the soft material of her pullover. My eyes moved along their rounded contours to the outline of her left nipple. I could tell she was not wearing a bra and wondered if she enjoyed the feeling of the soft fleece teasing her stiff nipples.
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