Swimmerboy Pt. 01

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Part One – Mom’s Best Friend

I was born to swim. My high school coach joked I must have been a water birth to take to it so naturally, but mom assures me she gave birth very much in the modern way with her feet in stirrups and a full epidural. Somewhere between her long, slender body and dad’s massive offensive tackle’s body, I inherited broad shoulders and a barrel chest over narrow waist and hips with ridiculously long arms which seemed to hang to the knees of long, gangly legs. As ungainly as this child of Frankenstein appeared on land, once they threw me in the pool at age four I moved with grace, ease, agility and power.

By age sixteen my shelf was loaded with swim trophies, college scouts were looking me over and I began training for the junior olympics. The only other thing my misanthropic body could do well was play piano, which mom insisted I begin at age five. I took to it immediately and discovered that besides being a natural, I enjoyed it. Teased as an ugly child by other kids, music became my refuge. Mozart composed this first piano concerto at age ten. I mastered it at the same age and won as many piano awards as swim trophies. Not a genius and not a child prodigy, my grades suffered except for mathematics. They say that good musicians are good with numbers and it’s true for me- something about how our brains are wired. Were it not for the long string of A’s in math, I’d have been much worse than the C student I turned out to be.

There was me at age thirteen, growing up in swish suburban Phoenix, Arizona, having won nearly every swim meet I entered and capable of sitting at a piano and playing Einekleine Natchmusik with almost perfect intonation and what happens next? Puberty. My ungainly body had already reached six feet by then and the seventh grade basketball coach tried to interest me in playing center, but I politely declined because I couldn’t even dribble a ball. When he pressed the issue my swim coach told him to back off. The hoops coach resented this until he saw me swim one day at a meet we won, in part, because I won all my races, including every relay event in which I participated.

“I get you now,” he said, shaking my hand afterwords. “You’re an individual athlete, not a team athlete. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I said, then shrugged: “I’m still part of a team.”

“Yes, but your performance is individual, even in relay events.”

He was right. Even as we huddled and practiced and plotted strategy for relay events, each of us knew we were a collection of stronger and weaker links, meaning faster and slower swimmers, depending on event and distance.

Many boys go through puberty only to discover they’re not the child athletes they once were. It’s not their fault their bodies change into something else. Some bodies get better, some stay the same, and some get worse. I only seemed to get better as my body grew and filled. Muscles began appearing everywhere: calves, thighs, butt, shoulders, arms, neck, chest. And sizable muscle, too. Thick sheets of it on my back. I couldn’t believe it. With a minimum of weight training they grew even more, pulling me ever faster through the water. By fourteen I hit six-one and a six pack rippled across my abdomen. By sixteen the daily weight training had sculpted my body into a mean, lean swimming machine and I topped six foot four. They called me Torpedo, and not just because of my speed in the pool.

Most boys aren’t really aware of their equipment while growing up. I always assumed mine was normal, probably because dad was hung like a bull, but I learned quickly in a sport where everyone wears a Speedo that my bulge was bigger than everyone’s. It was partly due to having large kahunas, but one glance around the locker room told me my penis was big, too. Like I say, as a boy I never thought about it, but as a self-conscious teen, I knew my goods were on display every time I pulled on the Speedo. Girls noticed. Women noticed, too. Adult women. Moms of swim team members, for example. They tried to be discreet about it, but couldn’t help letting their eyes wander. At first it bothered me, but by eighteen it had happened so often I didn’t care anymore. Everyone checks everyone else out, right? Dogs sniff each other’s butts, and humans run eyes over each other. No big deal.

I had dated a few girls in high school but didn’t have a steady until senior year. They seemed so ridiculous these schoolgirls, so serious about going steady one day then dropping guys for someone else the next just so they could gossip about it with their friends. Being introverted, I had a reputation for being shy with the girls. I wasn’t shy, just quiet. Did they understand the difference? No. Watching my body change into a man’s, mom warned me about boy-crazy girls so I avoided the merry-go-round of high school romance. At the same time I enjoyed the eyes of older women wandering over me, especially my mother’s friends, and I enjoyed flirting with them, mostly because güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri I had known them all my life and trusted them. Not long after I turned eighteen the flirting became something more.

One Friday after supper my mother sent me over to her best friend’s house with a load of stuff for a party they were having the next day. I unloaded the minivan, mostly chairs and tables and stuff, and helped her set it up. We worked alone, her teen daughters out and not expected back before their 11 PM curfew. Her husband was away on business. He was always away on business. After we finished she sat on their piano bench and invited me to join her. I smiled, anticipating the fun. We had been playing duets together for as long as I could remember. She looked like Dorothy Hamill, the Olympic skater: she had the same huge blue eyes, same smile, same build, and even her haircut sometimes had that retro Hamill look.

“Teach me something new,” she said.

I showed her a simple melody/chord combo, she practiced it a few times and then I dove in playing a much more complicated jazz rhythm which required my arms to move over and interlace with hers. Great fun, we bashed it out laughing together, our bodies leaning into one another and our arms brushing as they crossed. We played for maybe a half an hour, each improvising and trying new things. Jamming. I don’t know if it was her perfume or our arms brushing, or sitting hip-to-hip pushing our torsos together, but at some point it became sexual for me. Erotic. There were stolen glances and smiles which suddenly meant much more than two people having fun.

At the next crossover I stood a little when I bumped into her. She stood and bumped back, holding her ground. The piano bench fell over backwards. We continued to play, arms crossing, bodies pushing against each other, pealing with laughter until she grabbed me and pulled me to the floor. We had done this before, too, when I was younger, but now I was a strong young man, much larger and stronger than she.

Giggling and wrestling turned into tickling and laughing and soon were were reduced to a jibbering, hypoxic mess. Her nipples stood out through her blouse. Our hands slowed, allowing us to get our breath, but we did not let go of each other. I rolled up and straddled her, wondering if she could feel my huge bone as I pressed it hard against her lower abdomen, glad it was hidden by my baggy shorts. She giggled and smiled, sliding her hands under my shirt and up the bare skin of my torso, her fingers spreading, feeling my eight pack and chest. Without hesitating, one of her hands slid out from under my shirt and felt the long lump in my shorts.

“My God,” she said.

With her hand squeezing my rod and tracing its length, I took the liberty of sliding my hands up the outside of her shirt and over her breasts, gently feeling their fullness in her brassiere, moving them in circles and brushing her nipples with my thumbs. Her chest swelled with breath as I did, her eyes meeting mine. I felt her move beneath me.

“Do you know where my room is?” she whispered.


“Go there and wait for me?”

“Okay,” I said, my fingertips still playing with her nipples as they tried to push through her bra.

I didn’t know what to do when I reached her room. Sit on the bed? The reading chair? To calm myself I decided to wait behind the door with my back to the wall, leaning on my hands. When she came in and looked for me I almost reached out and touched her, but waited and watched her for the few seconds it took her to turn around and find me. I’ll never forget the look on her face when she turned, the questioning look of wonder in her big beautiful eyes before her face melted in a smile. I pulled her to me and put my mouth in hers. She pushed me out of the kiss. Suddenly we were in a race to get each other out of clothes. She won, getting my shirt off and my shorts around my ankles in the time it took me to get her blouse unbuttoned. While she tugged at my boxers, I opened and unzipped her shorts.

A second later my boxers were around my ankles, too. I kicked them off and pulled her shorts and undies off, caressing her thighs and butt while she kicked them off her feet and unleashed her hair. My fingers found wet between her legs, which told me the duet had been sexual for her, too—but before I could explore further, she pulled me to the floor and sat on on top of me. She straddled me, grabbed my erection and guided it into her all in an instant, but took not half of me. She wasn’t ready, but that didn’t stop her.

I got busy sweeping open blouse off her shoulders and caressing her ample breasts when she stopped and unhooked her bra, tossing it aside. I caressed her thighs, belly, breasts and arms. She pressed down hard, then finally lifted and slid up and down on my shaft a few times, her eyes on my belly chest and arms, her hands soon following. Our eye contact was all smiles. güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri Finally I could not resist it anymore: I pulled her down into a kiss. She was tentative at first then relaxed and we kissed deeply, passionately. I loved the way her large, soft breasts flattened against my chest. I loved how smooth and wet she felt on my sex. No condoms, no safety discussion, just sex.

I let go of her and she sat upright again, taking all of me to the hilt. Her hips began moving slowly and were soon pumping like crazy, her uneven breathing broken by little gasps and sighs. It felt like she was going to snap me off. I knew she liked the pressure, her response told me so, but it was time to change her motion. I grabbed her hips and begin sliding her up and down on me. “Oh my God,” she gasped, pulling at my wrists, wanting to be free to move on her own, but I was much stronger and continued to move her up and down and round and round, swinging her hips wildly. “What are you doing to me? Mmmm! Oo! God!”

I let go of her hips but she kept swinging them wildly, screwing herself on my long shaft, her hands planted firmly on my chest, her back arched deeply. I caressed her belly, ribs, breasts and waist as she moved, which drew her eyes to mine and elicited playful smiles between gasps of ecstasy, her eyes closing, her head back, her mouth contorted in passion. I loved the way her breasts bounced wildly as she banged me, the sight alone about to make me lose it. I was so close to the edge I dared not move, wanting to wait and watch her climax. She cried out several times and stopped, her chest heaving, gasping for air. An uncontrollable shiver passed through her legs and body. She lowered herself to me, but the moment her breasts touched me I came, my hips thrusting wildly a few times, almost bucking her off me. She gasped at this, but soon we were kissing in post-climactic bliss, our bodies still joined. She squeezed me out of her and sat on my belly, letting me drain out of her, handing me a box of tissue to clean up. We relaxed, kissing and resting until my erection returned. Then she got up, turned back the covers and sprawled on her bed, spreading her legs, her arms open.

We said nothing. No lover’s talk. No flirting. No jokes. No comment. She didn’t say, “This is crazy: you’re eighteen and I’m forty!” or “I changed your diapers when you were a baby,” or “We have to be careful because the girls may come home early” or “We shouldn’t do this, I’m a married woman and your mother is my best friend.” Nor did we discuss reproductive health and safety, or birth control. None of it mattered. Not smart thinking, but then this wasn’t about thinking.

A few minutes later I was on top, driving into her. She lifted her legs and wrapped them around my waist and butt, pumping her hips into me as I pumped into her. I didn’t last long, even though it was my second. Without showing any disappointment, she kept me there and squeezed me between her legs for awhile before rolling me off to her side and snuggling up. She looked so innocent, so child-like and so young as I ran fingers through her hair and looked in her eyes. As soon as I got hard again she slid onto me again and rode me to three more climaxes, one after the other, before collapsing on the bed. We kissed passionately, then cuddled, resting, spooning. When she was ready she simply reached between her legs, grabbed me and guided me into her. A slow, delicious spoon fuck ensued where I kept one hand moving between her legs and the other caressing a breast while my lips swept and kissed her neck, shoulders, and ears, giving her tender love bites, which made her giggle. She kept trying to kiss me, turning her head and pulling at mine with a hand behind my neck. After a while she began arching her back and thrusting back at me like crazy till she came again.

I stayed inside her while she rested afterwords, but when she started moving again, I rolled her to her belly and did her from behind, my full weight on top of her. She buried her face in the sheets and moaned as I drove into her. I lasted a lot longer this time, my third, and she really enjoyed it. She didn’t want to be on top again, but came twice more while I bounced on her butt. Drove her crazy that it took me longer to climax each time. I kept pulling her butt up into the air so I could kneel and move her, but she kept collapsing flat on the bed, not moving while I plowed into her.

“You have to go,” she said as we cuddled after. “It’s late and your mother will be wondering where you are.”

“When can I see you again?”

“Tomorrow night after the party, I’ll ask your mother if you can help clean up.”

I crawled into her bed again a little after nine the next night. The party announcing a friend’s engagement had gone from two till eight. I provided the live musical entertainment at their piano, experimenting with the same new jazz riffs I had been learning, really letting myself güvenilir bahis şirketleri go and improvising freely. I played it partly because I loved it and partly to remind mom’s BF of what had happened the night before, and of what was going to happen when the party ended. Each look we shared was a knowing look.

Bride-and-groom asked if I’d play their wedding and I said I’d check my schedule. Each of mom’s BF’s two daughters sat with me at some point while I played. I think their mother was a little jealous, telling them not to bother me as she passed by. When she moved out of earshot I told them it was okay. They rolled their eyes about their mother, not knowing she had rolled me between her legs for two hours the night before. One daughter was my age, the other two years younger and both dated older boys, so there was no pressure. We had all known each other since childhood.

Mom, my mom, beamed at my playing and huddled with the ladies while dad gave me his “there’s a good fellah” pat on the back before escaping out to the patio for cigars and scotch with the men. I took a few requests. When you play jazz, someone in the crowd wants to hear Vince Guaraldi’s Linus & Lucy from Charlie Brown’s Christmas, so I played some of those tunes before letting my fingers run free again, not playing too long, not wanting to steal the show. I liked that things got very loud while I played, meaning people were laughing and talking and having fun while I was just background music. Takes the pressure off. All the kids ended up in the pool and someone asked me to get in, but I declined, having done and hour in the weight room and two in the pool that morning with the same expected of me early the next morning.

I congratulated the couple on their engagement and left by six to do homework even though it was Saturday night. Mom got home at eight and told me to go back over there and help tear down, bringing back the tables and chairs she had contributed. I drove over in the minivan and loaded up. Somehow it took two trips this time. When I returned the second time, everyone was gone, including Best Friend’s two daughters. After loading the last of the stuff, Best Friend met me in the kitchen and told me to go to her room. She arrived two minutes later, locked the door and slumped in her reading chair, relieved the event was over and the house clean.

“Get undressed,” she said, then watched me remove my clothes. Standing next to her I loved the smile on her face and the way she blushed like a shy girl before reaching out and running fingers over the ripples of muscle in my right quadriceps, her hand moving around back and sliding up and down my the back of my leg a few times before cupping and squeezing my butt. I knelt between her legs, pulled her to the edge of her reading chair and kissed her. She wouldn’t take her hands off my torso so it was left to me to remove her top and shorts, kissing and pulling at her all the while. She shed bra and panties. Her undies were no longer the full-sized ones she had worn when we undressed the day before. No. These were bikini undies worn especially for me. I told her how sexy they looked. She smiled, kissed me again, then said she needed a shower after the long, busy day.

We showered together in the master bath, kissing and feeling each other up, lathering and rinsing away the day. I went to my knees and pulled her sex to my mouth while the water poured over us. She leaned against the tiled wall running fingers through my hair and holding me to her sex while my tongue and lips moved and opened her, then stayed on her hard little clitoris until, writhing and gasping, she came. Clouds of steam hovered around us. I held and kissed her while she recovered, then we toweled off and got into bed. She immediately straddled and slid onto me, sliding up and down while holding onto the headboard, driving her hips on me. And there she kept me for three more climaxes, the third being big and wet, running down between my legs and soaking into the sheets. Collapsing next to me she rested in my arms, unwilling to move anymore, but didn’t object to me pumping two loads into her belly to belly, her legs around my torso, then my neck, her mouth open, moaning.

The next day was Sunday and I had homework to finish. A light workout/swim day, I spent only an hour relaxing on the piano before cracking schoolbooks for the rest of the afternoon. When mom and dad popped out for a matinee I called Mom’s Best Friend. Ten minutes later she unbuttoned the fly of my low-cut jeans, pulled out my cock and took it into her mouth as I lay back on my bed. I pulled her around and lifted her skirt. This time she wore a g-string. I moved it aside and put my mouth on her sex. She straddled my face and we did a classic sixty-nine until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She got up, straddled me and fucked me right there on my bed with all her clothes on except g-string and shoes. With jeans and boxers around my knees I moved her around my pole. After she came I bent her over the edge of my bed, lifted her skirt and put a load into her before she left the house. Our first quickie, it had taken less than ten minutes.

I called her cell that night and left a message.

“When can I see you again?”

My cell buzzed at midnight.

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