Sharing the Moment

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Back when I was in high school I had a friend that I'll call Kimmi. She and I had been 'best friends' since 5th grade despite the fact I harbored a major crush on her. She was well aware of this and while her teasing was never blatant, she had fun at my expense. I ate my heart out dozens of times as she'd hook up with some loser, leaving me to go home alone to touch myself with the image of her curvy, large breasted body fixed in my head. I'd lie in bed and stroke my circumcised cock with long, languid strokes, stretching out the experience for as long as possible until relief was no longer deniable and I'd explode, firing a steaming load on my stomach, or my chest, or my face . . .

But this story isn't about Kimmi. It's about her mother.

Kimmi and her mother couldn't have looked any more different from one another. Kimmi was all T and A, make up done in typical '80's style. Her mother was whipcord thin, her body toned from daily tennis playing. Her face wasn't as pretty as Kimmi's, but she carried a certain attractiveness that went beyond the tangible (think of Jamie Lee Curtis in Trading Places - she's not a beautiful woman, but she oozes sexuality). The family lived in a sprawling ranch on the rich side of town, and since Kimmi's parents went out almost every Friday and Saturday night, we usually ended up hanging out there, sneaking in beers and whatnot after they'd gone. Kimmi's mother (I'll call her Mrs. P) loved to hang out with us and shoot the shit, and I had a mild crush on her. I wouldn't have chosen her over Kimmi, if given my druthers, but I wouldn't have cried in anguish if she had crawled into bed with me.

The night it happened was a warm May evening. A bunch of us were hanging out in the kitchen, waiting for Kimmi's parents to go out so we could sneak in some booze and weed. Kimmi was talking to one of her interchangeable zero boyfriends, while one of her friends sat next to her, my erstwhile 'date' for the evening. I wasn't excited by the prospect. Her mustache was thicker than anything I could have grown at the time. The kitchen featured a center island. I was behind it, standing in front of the open fridge, when Mrs. P came in, looking very sexy in an expensive dress. She moved in my direction, looking to get by me. The corridor was narrow, so I took a half-step toward the fridge, my rear facing outward. She slipped behind me on her way past, the front of her body rubbing against my back. Her hand rested briefly on my shoulder as she slid by.

For me, the contact of her tight body was electric, and I was immediately rock hard. I dithered in the fridge for a few seconds, trying to figure out what to about the stiffness in my shorts. No solution presented itself, so I closed the door with a sigh and spun around - right as Mrs. P was preparing to pass me again. This time we were front to front, face to face, and the contact was even more explosive for me. I was sure I had to be dreaming when it felt as if she had thrust her crotch against me as she passed, but all doubt was erased as I dared to look at her as she slid free - and saw the knowing look on her face. My cock, impatient at best, began throbbing. Mrs. P left the kitchen as her husband walked in, heading toward her bedroom at the far end of the house.

I was in agony. I HAD to touch myself, RIGHT THEN, but I didn't trust myself to keep quiet in the bathroom right off the kitchen. Leaning against the island to try to hide my erection (and rub it at the same time), I saw salvation when Kimmi's friend excused herself to go to the bathroom. As soon as she went in I professed the need as well, and somehow managed not to run to the bathroom at the other end of the house.

I entered and locked the door, moving across the large room and sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. An open window was next to my head. Within seconds my shorts were completely off, as were my boxers. I grabbed my cock firmly, feeling it surge in my grip. With long, deep strokes, I started pleasing myself, feeling isolated enough to emit grunts and moans. I'd always been vocal, and even restraining myself I was still noisy. It wasn't going to take long for me to come, and I leaned back and fondled my balls with my free hand, watching a glistening drop of pre-come appear. Then it happened.

Between my own noises, I heard a faint but distinct moan. Slightly muffled, but no doubt a female moan. I stopped mid-stroke, looking at the window. I didn't see anyone outside, but I heard another moan behind me. My mind did some quick calculating. The wall behind the toilet I was on was shared by the back wall of Mrs. P's bathroom. It had to be her.

If possible, I got harder. I was unsure what to do when I heard her say in a strangled whisper: 'Don't stop.'

I need no more encouragement. I started pounding away, not trying to be quiet at all. If Kimmi came down to get something from her room it was going to be very obvious what I was doing. Within a minute I felt the delicious pressure start to built, and my moans became a little more frantic, echoed by hers. I barely bit back a yell as I came ferociously, shooting a thick load into the center of the bathroom floor. I couldn't be sure if she had come as well, although I could barely make our labored breathing as I gasped for my own breath. A few seconds later I heard her throaty chuckle. After a minute of recovering, I cleaned up the mess and splashed some water on my face. I returned to the kitchen and rejoined the group, waving goodbye to the parents as they left. Mrs. P's face revealed nothing. By the end of the night I had one seriously unhappy pseudo-date since all I wanted to do was leave, to get home and relive the experience in my bed.

I saw Mrs. P dozens of times after that, but it wasn't until years later, at Kimmi's wedding to a loser (surprise, surprise), that we shared a dance and she whispered three words in my ear: 'I still remember.' After the dance I went to the men's room and came in under thirty seconds. Even now the thought has me like steel, and I'll be stroking myself momentarily. And I'm going to be loud.



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