Timmy #22: Getting It On

Getting It On

Prisha’s Son

Justin arrived home while I was in the kitchen with a shot of tequila in front of me. The wine from earlier had given me a light buzz since I wasn’t much of a drinker. I heard the key in the lock, followed by the turning of the knob, the opening and closing of the door, and then Justin whistling as he walked through his house.

“Who whistles?” I asked myself, staring down at the shot that was sure to push me that buzzed cliff and into real drunkenness. I gave a little whistle. I was going to need that shot.

“Hey, Mom—oh shit, fuck!” Justin said off to my left. “Jesus!”

I turned my head, looking in his direction. I smiled. He didn’t seem aware that I was wearing a pair of his father’s boardshorts.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Justin said, shaking his head. “What are you doing here?” He was wearing a pair of dark blue basketball shorts and a tight red T-shirt.

I shrugged and said, “I thought you needed help moving some furniture.”

“We moved everything last night,” Justin said, shaking his head. “My mom was supposed to text your mom or something.”

I shook my head, saying, “No one told me, so here I am.”

“Where’s my mom?”

I nodded toward the sliding glass door leading to the backyard. Prisha lay outside, face down on a lounge chair. Her caramel skin didn’t yet glisten with oil, but it still looked smooth and firm from where I stood.

“So, what are you still doing here?” Justin said. “You should have called me. I was playing pick-up games at the park.”

I took a deep breath. “Your mom asked me if I’d put some lotion on her,” I said, using a quiet but firm voice. “Like last time, remember?”

I looked at Justin.

He turned his head toward the backyard. We were the same age, but at that moment, he looked much younger than me ... innocent. He looked back at me, his eyes shifting downward. He nodded. “I remember. Is your mom here?”

“No.” I sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be home for a while. Your mom told me to make myself a drink and to bring her one too.”

“She did?” He looked up at me, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“She said I looked nervous.” I licked my lips. “She said my nervousness reminded her of you whenever she walked around in a bikini.” I looked back at my shot as my heartbeat rose. “Your mom—Prisha—said she didn’t want me to be nervous around her when we were alone.”

“Why’d she say that?”

I shrugged, then said, “Don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

Justin lowered his head to his left, brows narrowing, lips twisting.

“Do you notice something about our moms?” I asked, grabbing a second shot glass on the counter from behind the bottle of tequila. I filled it as I spoke. “Not just our moms, but all of the wrestling moms?”

Justin looked to the side and shrugged.

“Yeah, you do,” I said, sliding the shot of tequila over to him. “You notice something.” The liquor rippled, with some splashing over the rim as it came to a stop in front of him. “What do you notice about them?”

About a minute passed before Justin mumbled, “They’re friendly with us.”

“Not friendly,” I said, picking up my shot glass. “Our moms are flirty with us. All of us. Cheers with me—to flirty moms.”

Justin’s hand rose, dropped, then rose again. He uncurled his fingers, keeping them in a C shape as he reached for his glass. When his fingers were almost around the glass, I added, “And to their desires,” to my toast. Justin’s hand pulled back a couple of inches.

“Drink the shot,” I urged him in a whisper, leaning forward. “Your Mom’s wearing a micro bikini with a low-cut pair of panties. I can see some of her landing strip when she’s facing me.”

He shot a sharp look in my direction.

“I know you’ve seen your mother’s pubes when she wears a skirt around the house.” The heat beneath my skin turned my cheeks red. “No panties, right, when your dad is home?” Sweat began to push through the pores at the edge of my hairline. “You can’t tell me you don’t like looking at your mother’s meaty pussy.”

Justin’s face, beneath his very light caramel skin—a combination of his mother’s Indian heritage and his father’s German, I think—reddened.

“I,” I said, “love looking at my mother’s pussy whenever she’s willing to show it.” I took my shot, enjoying the burning sensation as the tequila rushed downward through my throat. “And my sister’s.”

Oh, fuck, I thought. If this doesn’t work, I’m going to have to kill Justin!

I poured another shot of tequila for myself. “If you don’t want to touch your mother, you can jerk off while I touch her for you.” I held out my shot glass. “Deal?”

Justin swallowed. His fingers curled around his glass as he looked up at me. His eyes seemed to tremble, and his hand shook. I eased my shot glass forward, moving as slowly as I could, moving closer to him, then closer, then closer ... Justin pushed his glass toward mine. The rims collided, spilling tequila, but we had more than enough to seal our fates to one another.

Poolside

I managed to get Justin to take one more shot. No one on the wrestling team was much of a drinker—Roy may have been—but the rest of us spent a lot of time managing our weight, even in the offseason. It’s easier to stay in shape than getting back into shape, our coaches loved to tell us.

We didn’t go outside for another ten minutes, but that’s because we had to figure out what kind of drink to make for Justin’s mom. After five minutes of reading through a bartender’s guide, Justin finally said, “I can make her a piña colada. That’s what”—he cleared his throat—”she taught me to make her when Dad’s not around the house.”

“Why didn’t you say so ten minutes ago?” I asked. “Here I am, getting a degree in mixology when you already know how your mother likes it.” I tossed the bartender’s guide we had found at the kitchen bar back onto the counter. “Mix away...”

At the patio door, Justin hesitated. I had to reach for the handle, but before I opened it, I said, “I know you know what your mother wants from you.”

Justin looked at me. His eyes held a slight tequila glaze.

We are lightweights, I thought, then said, “You don’t have to do anything, but all of the wrestling moms want something from us. All of them. If your mom can’t get it from you, then she’s going to get it from the team.” I tilted my head. “Who would you rather have give it to her, you, or us?”

“Open the door,” he said, his voice trembling and trailing off at the end.

I swear I could see his heart beating through his chest as I slid the door open.

“Boys,” Prisha said, turning and head. “Just in time. Take off your shirts and get some sun, and you can’t say no to Mommy.”

So much for acting surprised to see Justin with me, I thought as I took off my shirt. Justin followed my lead.

Prisha pushed herself up from her lounge chair, turning to sit before standing up. Today’s micro bikini was smaller than the black one she had worn when my mother and I had arrived early for the team-building party. It was nothing more than pink dental floss and narrow, rectangular patches of see-through cloth covering her thick nipples up top and only her caramel slit down below. When I say only her caramel slit, I meant only her slit. The meaty portions of her outer labia lay uncovered, as did most of her small, dark-haired landing strip. Back up top, the bikini only covered her nipples, leaving the outer edges of her dark areolas bare. God, her yoga-toned body looked sexier in that bikini than it had naked inside the house.

(Or maybe I just liked to see a partially dressed woman attempting to hide her sexy bits.)

“Here, boys,” Prisha said, turning to the side and revealing the profile of her thick ass to us. She grabbed the bottle of suntan oil sitting on the table next to her chair. “Put this on me so that I don’t burn.”

I wanted to laugh. The idea had been to seduce her son, not assume he was ready for her pussy. Justin had run away the last time. But, when I looked at Justin now, I saw the fascination in his brown eyes, some red in his light, honey-colored skin, and a growing lump in his shorts that he didn’t seem to be able to control.

Fucking tequila, I thought. We should pass it around at our next team party. But what did that say about me, the man who had needed no alcohol in his system to fall in love with his sister?

“Here, Mom,” Justin said, pushing the drink toward his mother.

“Oh, baby, thank you,” she said, stepping forward to hug her son. Their arms opened wide. Justin had a bit of stiffness to him, but that melted away as his mother pressed her big tits into his body. She took the drink, and he took the oil, then she lay down again as Justin moved to her left side.

I sat down on the right side of the lounge chair.

He looked at me, mouthing the question, “What now?”

What now? What the fuck did he mean “what now?”

I nodded at the bottle, then jerked my head toward his mother’s back. Justin tossed his head back in an oh, yeah, duh moment. He took his time uncapping the bottle with slow-moving fingers. Too slow. Each rotation lasted a lifetime. His eyes stayed locked on his mother’s back.

Hurry up, I thought, ready to reach across and snake the bottle from him, but, finally, after forever, he twisted the cape off. With a shaky hand, he held the bottle over his mom’s shoulders, tilted it sideways, and poured a stream of thick liquid onto her back.

That a boy, I thought as the oil brought a shine to Prisha’s skin.

As willing as Justin was, he still didn’t quite know what to do. I had to place my hand on his mother’s right shoulder and rub, rowing my thumbs across her skin as I curled my fingertips into her muscles. Justin followed suit, mimicking me the way a child would his father when learning how to shave. A part of me slipped away, moving upward and over us, watching us freely molest Justin’s mom in real-time.

You’re not here to join in, my out-of-body self told me. You’re here to open the door for your friends and their mothers, but you don’t have to follow them over the threshold.

“Oh, yeah,” Prisha moaned as Justin moved his hand down her back. “Right there, baby.”

Justin pushed harder into her skin, bringing out a long purr that had Prisha opening her legs. I eased up on the pressure I was touching her with, slowing down as Justin spread the oil over his mother’s back and sides. His fingers brushed the outer swells of her tits, shy at first, teasing the beginnings of their outward bulge, then venturing further as she uttered sensual moans that bordered on obscene.

Yet, despite Justin’s new enthusiasm, I still had to guide his hands down to her mother’s waist. I did so by moving lower, then up, then lower until he followed my lead. I ran my fingers over her floss-like waistband, then under, pulling it away from her skin, and he mirrored my movements with a lighter touch now that things were about to get serious.

I nodded at the oil. Justin picked it up, holding the nozzle over his mother’s ass. Her round cheeks curved upward, not outward, and the string riding her crack disappeared between those two hills at the start of her back only to reappear at her perineum, widening into a half-inch strip of cloth that held her pussy crease in its protective hands. Justin poured the oil. His mother moaned as her crack filled with the slippery, lubricating liquid.