How I Met Your MILF
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2013 by Lubrican

Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Your best friend will always stand by you, and take your side. He will support you even if it embarrasses him. You might disagree on things occasionally, but in the end, all discord falls away. You are best friends. And best friends never get really mad and hold a grudge. Well, not unless you fuck his mother.

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   First   Oral Sex   Pregnancy  

While I was growing up, my best friend was Scott Carson. Our parents lived on the same street, and we knew each other our whole lives. I suppose, to be completely honest, I should say that Scott and I became best friends in third grade, when we both fell madly in love with Rebecca Nielson, and got in a fight about her. We were rolling around on the floor just outside the coat room in school, right in front of Rebecca, when Miss Tuttle came and stopped us. Of course she wanted to know what it was all about, and when we told her it was about which one of us was Rebecca's boyfriend, Rebecca said we were both stupid, and turned around and walked away.

We were instantly best friends. It started with our cooperative plan to get revenge on Rebecca for spurning us, but then flowered into an actual, real friendship. We did get revenge on Rebecca, by the way. Scott caught a Garter snake and I put it in her book bag. She screamed like a girl.

Anyway, after that, we were practically inseparable and did everything together. We didn't get caught for the snake, which made us feel that we were both clever and invulnerable. I could tell you lots of other stories about the clever things we did, but that's not the point. The point is that the bond that formed between us was unbreakable. We were like Marines, who would die for each other in battle. You know, like jumping on a hand grenade to save the other one and stuff like that.

We were absolutely sure that nothing could break us apart. As sure as the sun would come up tomorrow, Scott Carson would be my best friend. We knew we could survive any conflict, and vanquish any danger.

One of those conflicts turned out to be the time when Scott's mother caught his dad screwing the babysitter they'd hired to watch Scott one night while they went to his dad's company Christmas party. I wasn't there, of course, but Scott told me all about it. There had been a blizzard that night. I knew that part, of course. The next day school was cancelled and Scott and I played in the deep snow until we couldn't feel our fingers or toes.

Anyway, his folks had barely made it home because of the snow. His babysitter was Susan Phillips. She'd been their babysitter for a couple of years. She was also one of the cheerleaders at Shady Vale High School. She lived clear on the other side of town, and when she called her parents to come get her, they called back and said they couldn't get out of their driveway. It was decided that Susan would stay the night at the Carson's house, and that when the streets got cleared, somebody would come get her.

That was all fine and dandy, because Mrs. Carson liked Susan. Mrs. Carson had been a cheerleader when she was in high school too, so I suppose that gave them all sorts of things to talk about or something.

I sort of doubt that they talked about the fact that Mr. Carson got Mrs. Carson all knocked up while she was a cheerleader in high school, but I'm sure they had other things in common to discuss.

But the fact that he did knock her up while she was a cheerleader in high school might be why when, in the middle of the night, Mrs. Carson woke up and her husband wasn't in bed with her, she went looking for him in the guest bedroom where Susan was sleeping. Or supposed to be sleeping. Instead she was throwing her teenaged hips up against Mr. Carson, who was powering his adult prick deep in her belly. Scott said that when he heard all the screaming and shouting and went to see what was going on, all three of them were naked. I wasn't jealous of him then, except that he got to see Susan naked. If you don't think eight-year-old boys are interested in girls, then you need to get a reality check. As time went on, and he described Susan's naked body to me over and over, I started to get jealous. But after maybe the hundredth time, I felt like I had been there myself, so it was all good.

Fast forward eight years. We were sixteen, and we'd been through a lot together.

We'd both gotten used to the fact that after Mrs. Carson kicked him out, Scott's dad sort of fell off the map. We knew he'd gotten married again, to a girl right out of high school (not Susan, by the way). But he hardly ever came to see Scott, or took him anywhere. Mrs. Carson didn't get married again. In fact, she never hired a babysitter again. Even when the Scott was old enough to stay home alone, she never went out on dates or anything. She used all her spare time to attend college classes at the junior college in town. Any free moments she had at home she used to paint. She turned the spare bedroom where her marriage ended into a studio and she painted beautiful pictures of all sorts of things. She had majored in art in college, but I never knew that until she started painting. She also used her degree to get a job after the divorce. She was a graphic artist and she worked for a sign company.

Another big thing that happened was that she remodeled the house. I guess that with her salary and the child support payments Mr. Carson had to send her, they were pretty well off. When you're a kid you don't pay much attention to things like that. Well, not unless you want an Xbox or something, and your parents tell you they can't afford it.

She didn't want to sell the house and move, but she also didn't want it to look just like it had when her husband had cheated on her, so she changed it all around. It was an old house, with two stories. It was surrounded by houses just like it, probably built in the nineteen thirties, but most people had kept them fixed up, so it was a nice neighborhood. So she took out the flowered wallpaper and ripped up the thin carpet off the stairs and the upstairs hallway. It was held down by hundreds of little round-headed nails that turned out to be brass. Scott and I helped with this re-do project, and we thought of all those little brass nails as gold. We saved them in a can and imagined getting big bucks for them at the local recycling place. Turned out the guy gave us a dollar and fifty cents. Talk about being crushed.

Anyway, Scott and I helped with the renovation. We were only ten at the time, so there wasn't a lot we could do, like electrical or plumbing or cool stuff like that. But we hung around the contractors she hired to do things, and helped them if they let us. Like picking up the scraps of wood or screws that the guys who build their new deck dropped on the ground. Stuff like that.

So life went on, and it was a good life.

Okay. I probably should have waited to say, "Fast forward eight years" until now. What can I say? I'm not an author. I'm just telling you how things happened.

Scott and I stayed over at each other's house all the time. At sixteen we were heavily into girls, of course. Neither one of us had a girlfriend, but we talked about dozens of girls as candidates to fill that position. We treated them like baseball cards, being ridiculously careful not to claim the same girl. If that happened, one of us would give her away. In cases like that, it usually went something like this.

"Did you see that new girl in school?"

"You mean Jennifer Thompson?"

"You know her?"

"She's in my biology class. She's pretty hot."

"You can say that again. I'd do her in a New York minute."

"Okay, then, she's yours."

"But she's in your class. I don't have any classes with her. You can actually talk to her."

"Okay. How about if I give you Theresa Goodwin?"

"Deal!"

Yes, I know it was ridiculous, but we were just boys. And boys have big dreams.

Such as the photography I got into. I will always believe I got interested into photography because of Mrs. Carson's hobby of painting. I got to see her paintings in all stages of completion. They were hanging all over the house, and she didn't ban us from her studio, as long as we didn't touch anything. She did good work. I told her she should sell her paintings. She said I was her favorite little man, but still didn't try to sell any of them.

She did give me tips about composition and lighting and stuff like that, when she found out I was getting interested in photography. But it wasn't lessons or anything like that. It's not all that hard to tell if a picture you took is interesting or not. I showed some of my pictures to my grandfather and that's when I found out what it used to take to get a picture on a piece of paper. Digital photography hasn't just made printing pictures easier. It's also helped budding photographers get better faster, because they can see instantly whether or not a shot is worth keeping. They can also try again with the same subject, assuming it isn't an action shot or something like that.

That camera became one of the most powerful things in my life. And it affected my life in ways that would turn my world upside down. It almost lost me my best friend in the world.

What happened was that I was staying over at Scott's house one night and I got up early the next morning to see if the sunrise was worth taking some shots of. It was June, and we'd been out of school for a couple of weeks. It was that perfect weather, where the mornings are cool, but not chilly, and the flowers are blooming. The grass is at that place where it's being cut for the first time that season, and that smell is kind of in the air.

Mrs. Carson had also decided it might be a good morning to paint, and had moved her easel out on the deck. She was sitting there in that kind of odd position she got into when she painted. She sat up rigidly straight, which made her look tense, but her ankles were crossed where her bare feet lay on the deck wood, which made her look relaxed. Her right arm moved constantly, making the brush touch here, and stroke there and tap over there, while her left hand held the palette, but let it lay on her left knee limply.

She was still wearing her nightgown, which was white and so long that if she were standing, it might almost touch the floor. But while she was seated, it came up above her ankles. I had seen her in this nightgown dozens of times, usually when she came into Scott's room and said we sounded like a Bon Jovi live concert, and that it was time to settle down and go to bed.

I walked up behind her to look at the painting she was working on. It was barely begun, with a few pencil marks to delineate this from that. I couldn't even tell what it was going to be.

"Morning, Bobby," she said. I shivered.

I should mention, since I said I shivered, that Mrs. Carson has a deep voice. It's really mellow, but it's the opposite of most girls voices, which are high pitched and can even kind of grate on the ears. I think she could almost sing first tenor if she wanted to. I mean I've never heard her sing, but I sang first tenor in choir, and her voice sounded like she could get that low without trying too hard.

I loved that voice. I loved listening to her talk. And sometimes, when she said something, I just shivered. I didn't worry about it. I didn't even think about it really. I was a kid. I didn't know diddly.

Anyway, She said, "Morning, Bobby," in that beautiful voice, and I shivered and said, "Hi, Mrs. Carson."

She turned her head toward me and took in the camera in my hands. It was a good one, with interchangeable lenses. My folks got it for me as a combination birthday and Christmas present.

"What are we killing this morning?" she asked.

"Killing?"

She smiled. "Shooting," she corrected.

I didn't get it for a second, until she looked at the camera.

"Oh!" I said, feeling stupid. "Sunrise." I lifted the camera., "If it's worth it," I amended.

"Ah," she said. "May I ask you a favor, Bobby?"

"Of course," I said.

"Call me Janet."

I blinked a couple of times as I thought about that. I even tried to imagine it in my mind.

"I can't," I said.

"Why not?"

"Well, first of all, my parents would ground me for a month if I did, because it's not polite. You're my elder."

I will never forget the look that flashed over her face.

Shit. You don't know what she looks like.

I'm sorry. Like I said, I'm not an author, so I'm not too good at this stuff. I should have told you what her face was like so you'd understand how important this moment was.

Mrs. Carson was one of those women who don't have to wear makeup to look good. Without a single speck of any of that stuff women slather on, she looked like a princess who grew up. And if she did wear makeup, she was just fricking gorgeous. I saw her one time get all dolled up to go to an award dinner where she got some kind of award for something she did at work, and I about croaked.

That was also the first time I got a boner for Mrs. Carson.

So you have to understand that, when I tell you that the look that flitted over her face when I called her my elder was one that marred something beautiful. I knew right away I had hurt her feelings, and I knew right away what I had said to do it.

"I mean you're older than me, and even if that was only a couple of years, my folks would demand that I be polite and call you Mrs. Carson," I blurted. "It's a rule," I said, weakly.

She recovered instantly, meaning that terrible little frown that had made a wrinkle above and between her eyes went away.

"That's the whole point, Bobby. When you call me 'Mrs. Carson, ' it makes me feel ... elder. It seems to me that if I don't mind you calling me Janet, nobody else should either."

This was one of those points that happen all the time in a young person's life where they see adults spouting what sounds like a perfectly reasonable idea, but which the kid knows, deep down, is pure nonsense. I knew my parents would ground me for a week if they heard me call Mrs. Carson, "Janet."

"I'll try," I said. That usually worked with most adults.

"Good. Now, you better get ready, because if I'm not mistaken, that's the tip of the sun just breaking the horizon."

I looked, and she was right. I could tell right away there wasn't going to be any color to this sunrise. It was too clear. Still, it was a beautiful day, and I could get multiple shots of the sun getting bigger and bigger as it revealed itself, so I braced my elbows on the railing of the deck and took a dozen shots. It would have been better if I'd have put the camera on a tripod, but this would do.

I didn't think about the fact that I was dressed only in running shorts, and was sticking my butt out at Mrs. Carson, behind me. She would tell me about that later.

I stood up and walked back to the double French doors that were open so the fresh air could come into the house. I was fiddling with the camera, taking a quick look at the pictures I had just taken. I thought to get a shot of the full sun, just above the horizon, and turned around to take that just as she got up from her easel.

"I guess it's time to rustle up some breakfast," she said, turning toward me.

That's when I took the picture, with the sun directly behind her.

"Oh!" she said. "I didn't mean to ruin your picture."

"No problem," I said. "I can take another one. Besides, you couldn't possibly ruin a picture."

Don't ask me why I said that. I think it was my subconscious, trying to make up for the fact that I had called her an old lady.

"Why, thank you, Bobby!" she said, her voice suddenly an octave higher than usual.

She stepped aside and I took another picture of the big golden, very bright ball that was the sun.

Then we went inside like nothing had happened.


For those of you who haven't paid attention to this phenomenon, when the sun first comes up, it looks quite a bit larger than it will five or six hours later when it is high in the sky. This is an optical illusion, of course. The sun doesn't change size. But it looks like it does, and that can make for some pretty interesting pictures.

For example, at the right angle, it can look larger than the woman standing in front of it, creating a brilliant ball of light behind her, and making her form into a black silhouette.

And if she happens to be wearing something white and thin, which doesn't do much to inhibit the passage of light through it - particularly intense sunlight - then it might appear as if she was ... naked.

To be honest, you could see the nightgown, but it was kind of like the way flesh is displayed in an X-Ray. Her body was the bones, and the nightgown was the flesh.

She had been turned halfway to me, so her body was in profile. Her face was looking directly at me, however, so what was outlined was the shape of her hair, which was long and curled outwards a little bit at the bottom. Her breasts, on the other hand, were in perfect profile. Their shape was crisp and clear, while being entirely black. She was then thirty-two years old, though I didn't think about that. I also didn't think specifically about the fact that she was in great shape, despite having given birth to a kid. Her breasts didn't sag. They were round and heavy, but not floppy at all, holding a firm, round shape that belied her age.

Remember I said it was cool, without being chilly? It was cool enough that her nipples were erect. While I had been unable to see that through the cloth of her nightgown, the sun burned all that away and what was left was long, hard, pointed, stiff nipple.

But what completely made that photograph was the fact that her pubic hair was fluffed out, and wisps of that were clearly visible as little black lines that shot out from her loins.

It was beautiful. That's all I can say. It showed every iota of her femininity, and yet did so completely anonymously. I couldn't have dreamed up a better shot.

Of course it would have been a lot better had I discovered this work of art on my own, instead of at the breakfast table, when she said, "Hand me your camera. I'd like to see the sunrise shots."

I didn't think a thing about it. I hadn't reviewed the pictures yet, and in my mind, I had simply taken a quick snapshot of my best friend's mother. I'd spent enough time over there over the last few years that she kind of felt like my mother too. But only on certain levels, of course. What I'm saying is that the only formal thing about our relationship was that I was careful to address her as Mrs. Carson. Because that was polite. You know?

I looked at her face as she pressed buttons she was familiar with. She often looked at my pictures while they were still on the camera. She gave me advice about how to make them better. So I was looking at her face when it turned kind of pink and her eyes got so wide I could see the whites all the way around her pupils.

"Oh my," she said. Her voice sounded funny, and when she darted a glance at me, she looked ... I don't know ... nervous, maybe? "We might need to delete this one," she said.

I reached for the camera automatically. I think, if I hadn't, she would have deleted the picture right then and there, so I'm really glad I took it from fingers that weren't ready yet to deny me.

"Wait!" she yelped, as I turned the camera around.

It was a small screen, but both of us were pretty good at seeing the larger image in our minds. The first thing I felt, was amazement that I'd caught this shot without even knowing it. Honest. I didn't actually see the details I've described already until maybe fifteen or twenty seconds later. I was too busy looking at what proportion of the sun was on her left, and what part was on her right, and if they looked good, or if she should be moved this way or that. I was already thinking of trying to take more pictures like this one, because the silhouette was so striking with that huge golden sun behind it.

"Bobby!" she said.

"Look at this," I said, turning the camera around and pointing. "The proportions are almost perfect. I wasn't even trying to frame you against the sun, but this came out perfect!"

She looked startled for a second, like I had surprised her with my observation or something.

"Yes," she said, slowly, her voice back to the bottom of her range. "But it's a bit ... um ... revealing."

That's when I saw the rest of it, and saw the astonishing sexual component of the picture. It's a good thing I was sitting down, because I don't think my knees would have supported me if I had been standing. I also think my brain was a little frazzled by this startling look at my best friend's mom.

"It's beautiful," I sighed.

I hadn't meant to say anything. But that wasn't the worst of it. I kept going.

"You're beautiful," I added.

I know I sounded like some moon struck little boy or something, and I was immediately terrified that I'd made a huge mistake. I didn't want to look at her, but I forced myself to. I was trying to think up words to tell her I was sorry, but the look on that face stopped me cold. She wasn't mad. She wasn't laughing. In fact, I had never seen that look on her face before. I've seen it since, and I know what it means now, but I didn't then.

"Thank you," she said. Her voice wasn't soft or loud, but it filled the room. "I appreciate the compliment," she went on. "But that isn't justification for that photograph to exist. What if somebody else saw it?"

I couldn't help it. I looked down at the camera screen again. Man! That picture was hot.

I felt my penis start inflating. It did that sometimes, with even the slightest provocation. And that picture was major provocation.

You want to know what solved that little problem right then?

The thought of her demanding I delete that picture.

I looked back up, thinking furiously.

"You can't tell it's you," I said, carefully. "Your face isn't visible. Hundreds of women have that hairdo. Even if somebody saw it - which they won't! - but even if they did ... nobody would know it was you."

She just looked at me, with that look on her face. I saw her eyes drop to my chest. I wasn't wearing a shirt. I slept in shorts like I was wearing, and nothing else. But I'd been around her like this a thousand times over the years. Her eyes came back up to mine.

"That's a naughty picture of me, Bobby. A very naughty picture."

"No it isn't," I said, automatically. Then I had to think of something to back that up with. "It would have been naughty if I'd have asked you to take the nightgown off first."

Her eyes actually glittered. Have you ever read that in a book? I have, and I could never imagine how eyes could glitter, but suddenly I understood that idea perfectly.

"So you want to ... keep ... that picture? Is that what you're saying, Bobby?"

I swallowed. Then I nodded. I'm sure I looked like a puppy, hoping for its master to stoop down and pet it.

"And nobody else in the entire world will ever see it?" she asked.

This time I nodded frantically. I was thinking, though, that that picture could win awards. It was so perfect. I think she saw that in my eyes.

"Because if anybody ever saw that, and figured out who was in that picture, I would be extremely unhappy, Bobby. Do you understand that?"

"Yes Ma'am," I said instantly, tossing all those dreams of awards and accolades out the window. "Never happen," I said, trying to sound as firm and positive as possible.

She did the oddest thing. She reached up with both hands and grasped the material at the sides of her breasts. She tried to pull both sides to the front, like she was closing a robe. Then she realized what she was doing and dropped the cloth. My eyes were drawn irrevocably to the tips of her breasts. I saw the dents in the cloth that the nipples beneath it were making. I almost got dizzy as my eyes went back and forth between her breasts.

"You're a very naughty boy, Bobby," she said. "I'm going to have to keep an eye on you from now on."

I thought she was unhappy with me. If I would have thought things out, I would have realized that by letting me keep that picture, she was paying me an unbelievable compliment, and that she wasn't mad at all. She was actually flattered. But of course I didn't have the time to think all that out. So I thought she was mad at me.

"I didn't do it on purpose, Mrs. Carson," I blurted. "Honest, I thought I was just taking a quick snapshot of you on the deck."

"I know you didn't do it on purpose," she said. She opened her mouth to say more, but then didn't.

"Never mind," she finally said. "Just make sure nobody sees that until I'm dead and buried."

I know I looked shocked at the concept of her dead and buried, but she just smiled at me and went back to getting breakfast ready.

"Go get my lazy son out of bed," she said, over her shoulder. "No! Wait! Download that picture onto a flash drive first. I don't want Scott seeing it by accident if he reviews the pictures on your camera."

"Scott never looks at my pictures," I said. "He thinks most of them are dumb."

"He wouldn't think that one was dumb," she said. "I know what you boys think about when I'm not around."

"You do?" I was horrified. I wasn't horrified because of what I'd thought about before this. I'd noticed she was a babe. You couldn't look at her and not notice that. No man could look at her and not pause for a few seconds to take all that beauty in. I was more worried about what I was going to be thinking about in the future.

Especially when I looked at that picture blown up to full screen size.

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