How I Met Your MILF

How I Met Your MILF

by Robert Lubrican

zbookstore Edition

Copyright 2025 Robert Lubrican

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Rights to use cover art purchased at freepic.com

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Table of Contents

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight

Foreword

The original text of the book was edited to comply with the publisher's standards. All characters in this book are at least 18 years of age or older.

Thanks for reading.

Bob

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter One

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 Junior College. 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, 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 married 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 ten years. We were eighteen, 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 in college (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 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 pretty young 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 built 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 ten 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 teenage boys. And teenage boys have big (ridiculous) 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.

When she found out I was getting interested in photography she did give me tips about composition and lighting and stuff like that. But it wasn't lessons or anything that structured. 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 the summer session Shady Vale Juco was going to start in a week. 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 tried 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 wasn't actually "mature" in the usual sense of things. I might have been eighteen buy 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 Heather."

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's 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 Heather, nobody else should either. You're old enough to vote and join the military so I think you're old enough to call me Heather if I want you to … and I want you to … so?"

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 young person knows, deep down, is pure nonsense. I knew my parents would ground me for a week if they heard me call Mrs. Carson, "Heather." I might be old enough to go die for my country but my parents were still my parents and they still claimed a whole bunch of parental rights.

"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. It would be an intense, bright gold, but that was all. 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-four years old, though I didn't think about that, or the math that would have told me how old she was when she got pregnant with Scott. 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.

"You would know it's me," she said. "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 young man, 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 monitor screen size.

Chapter Two

That picture caused a shift in the balance that had been there before I took it. Mrs. Carson was different after that. I couldn't put my finger on why, but I could just feel it. And I was different too. That was easy. As soon as I got home, I put the flash drive with her picture on it in my computer and blew it up full screen.

Man, oh, man was she sexy. I got hard, and without a thought, I stared at her picture as I jacked off.

Then I felt guilty.

And, after that, whenever I was over there, I looked at her differently. Before this she had been this good looking woman I liked and who was cool. Now, I felt guilty when I looked at her because I wanted to bang her like a drum. And she was so gorgeous, even when she wasn't trying to be that way, that I was always darting a look at her. I checked out her breasts, trying to figure out if she was wearing a bra or not. If I thought she wasn't, I tried to see her nipples, or the bumps they might cause. I looked at her ass, and I looked to see if she had a camel toe. When she laid out in the sun in her bikini I about lost it, and had a hard on constantly.

So that's why I was different.

Scott noticed. He even asked me what had happened.

"What do you mean?" I replied.

"You're acting ... I dunno ... squirrely or something."

"You? The king of squirreldom? Suggesting I'm the one who's squirrely?"

"Yeah," he said, unfazed. "You act like you're all hot for some girl. Who is she?"

My eyes darted to his mother, who was across the room doing something at the book case. I got them off of her right away, but he looked to where I had looked and then back at me.

"Ha, ha," he said. "Like it could be my mom. Come on. Who is she?"

"What do you mean, Ha, Ha?" I asked, upset for some reason. "There's nothing wrong with your mom."

"Except that she's my mom," he said, grinning. "Come on, Bobby. Give. Who is this chick who has you all ate up inside?"

I didn't know what to do. I didn't have a cover story. I hadn't thought I'd need one. I guess I sort of panicked. All I could think of was the picture I beat off to every single night, as I dreamed about crawling in bed with Heather Carson, mother of my best friend. I looked at her again. She was arranging fake flowers in a vase.

"Come outside," I whispered.

"She can't hear us," he said.

"Outside!" I said.

"Okay, okay," he said, and he followed me out.

I took him to my house, and booted up my computer.

"I found this picture online," I lied. "It's so hot it's all I can think of."

I showed him the picture.

Yes ... the one I had sworn never to show anyone - especially not Scott.

"Wow," he said. "I'd like to fuck that."

"Shit, man," I said, feeling a little light headed. "This is my dream woman. Don't be talking like that about her!"

"Okay, but when you fuck her, I want to be able to hide and watch," he said, still drooling over his own mother. He had no clue.

"Right," I said. "Like I'll ever see her, or talk to her or anything."

"You can dream," he said, grinning.

"Which is why I've been acting squirrely," I said.

"Gotcha," he said, crossing his heart. I hadn't asked him to keep any confidences, but the cross your heart thing has expanded applications.

"Thanks," I said, feeling much better.

"What website?" asked Scott.

"What?"

"What website did you get it at? Are there any more? Sometimes they have a whole series of the same chick. Maybe we can find more of this one and actually see her face. Maybe we can see her pussy!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Another thing that changed, was that I felt compelled, for some reason, to keep complimenting Mrs. Carson. I would say that I liked the pattern in the blouse she was wearing, or something like that. And I took more pictures of her. I didn't try to take anything that could even remotely be thought of as sexy or anything like that. For example, one night she was sitting curled up in an easy chair with her feet under her, reading a book. She had this floor lamp that had a bowl on the top that lit up the ceiling above it. It also had a moveable arm on it with a directional reading light, and that was on, above and behind her head. Her hair was down, and the light reflected off of her head causing her auburn hair to glow with golden highlights.

I stood in the middle of the room with my camera, which had the 28-80 mm lens on it, which could pan out for wide angle, or zoom in. I played with it, moving around, looking through the lens at her. She looked up at me and I said, "No, just read. Pay no attention to me." I finally found the angle I liked, and took the picture.

"What was that all about?" she asked, looking up at me again. She had a half smile on her face.

"Your hair," I said. "The reading light was acting like a hair light in a studio."

"Okay," she said. "So ... show me."

"Let me get the laptop," I said.

I got her laptop and took the card out of the camera and plugged it into the slot in her computer. I pulled it up full screen. It showed her in darkness, sitting in this pool of soft light, which made her hair look like it was shot through with gold. Her head was down and her face was in shadows, but the pages of the book, and her fingertip lightly resting on one page, were brightly lit. It was a study in light and shadow.

It was also a picture of a hot woman, sitting comfortably, reading a book.

"Hmmmm," she said. "Nice."

"It is!" I agreed.

"I must be gaining weight," she said.

"No you're not," I said instantly. I knew her body - at least her clothed body - as well now as I knew the palm of the hand I used to beat off with whenever I looked at her picture. I should say pictures, because I kept everything I had taken of her in one folder on my computer. This was one I'd use often. Her breasts cast her abdomen and lap into shadow, and the color of the blouse she was wearing that day complimented the fabric in the chair.

"I look fat in that picture," she said.

"You're insane," I said, quite honestly. "Anybody who calls you fat needs his head examined."

"Or her head examined," she said, looking up at me and lifting one eyebrow.

"You look fantastic," I said.

"Thank, you, Bobby," she said, her voice odd.

"And nobody else in the neighborhood jogs and stays in shape like you do," I said, realizing I had gotten a little personal in my comments.

"You're a sweet boy," she said.

That deflated me. Young men don't want to be thought of as, "sweet." We want to be thought of as, "hunks" or, "jocks" or maybe, "handsome," but, "sweet” doesn't do it. Next thing you knew she'd be saying, "You're great friendship material, Bobby."

"Anyway," I said, with some possible surliness in my voice, "I saw the color of the hair and it was too good to pass up. No big deal."

"You do have a good eye," she said, looking at the picture some more. "You should have cropped this wall here out," she said, pointing to one side of the photo where the green of the wall didn't do anything to enhance the rest of the picture.

"Sit still and I'll take another one," I said.

She looked at me quizzically. "Really?"

"Absolutely," I said.

"Okay," she said, smiling.

I took five or six more, moving all around, trying to get the best composition and lighting. I even moved the light a little. I also zoomed in and took a close-up of her breasts. Don't ask me why. Well ... I suppose you know why. But I knew she was going to look at that series of photographs. I got all tight inside, and thought about deleting it, but it looked so good I couldn't do it. I got the inspiration to take close-ups of her knees, and the top of her head and the book too. Those I could delete later on.

I should have known better. She saw through my ruse.

She commented on each of the actual portraits, stopping for only a second on the close-up of her breasts, and then went on to the other portraits, and then the other close-ups. Then she went back through them again.

"I think I like this one the best," she said, stopping at the one just before her breasts.

"Yeah," I said, vaguely. I liked them all.

"But I suppose you like this one the best." She clicked it to the one of her breasts, and looked up at me.

"Are we being naughty again tonight, Bobby?"

What the heck? I was caught. Why not fess up?

"Maybe a little," I said. "But you'll notice I took other close-ups."

"Yes, after you remembered I'd be reviewing these photographs."

I could feel the blush staining my cheeks.

"Uh ... yeah," I said. "I guess so."

She smiled, and it was a real smile ... you know, a genuine smile.

"You make an old lady feel pretty good, Bobby."

"You're not old," I argued.

"You make me feel pretty good, Bobby," she amended, without a blink.

"Good," I said.

It surprised me as much as it probably did her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I kept doing stuff like that, taking pictures of her, and complimenting her, and time passed. Even after classes started I spent a lot of time at his house studying and taking pictures of her. Scott couldn't help but notice that I took so many pictures of his mother. He kidded me about it, but he believed me when I said I was just trying to make her feel good.

"She never goes out with guys," I reminded him. In our world, that meant the opposite sex wasn't interested in you.

"My dad kind of soured her on men," he said. It was one of the few times I saw him really serious. "I've tried to get her to go out. I know guys ask her out. But she won't do it. She says men are pigs, you and me excepted, and that she's done fine without them all this time."

"What does that mean?" I asked. I hadn't meant to ask it out loud. I just thought that and it came out.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well ... you know ... adults get used to having ... sex."

"Hey! That's my mom you're talking about!" he said, punching me. But then he got serious again. "To be honest, I've wondered the same thing sometimes. I know I can't go two days without jerking off or my brain would explode. Maybe when you get as old as her your sex drive dies or something."

"I don't know," I said, thinking about all the people in the movies who loved having sex way past her age. Of course movies are fiction, but I also saw lots of people acting all lovey dovey in the park, or at the movies and stuff like that. My parents still went to the bedroom to, "have a discussion," They didn't think I knew what that meant, but they were wrong. I knew they were getting it on.

"Let's not talk about my mom's sex life. It makes me feel weird," he said. "You can get all ga ga over her. I mean I know she's beautiful and all that, and I don't mind you thinking stuff about her, but for pity's sake don't ever let her know you do. She'd have a cow!"

And, just like that, I had Scott's permission to perv on his mother.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The junior college had intramural sports teams that competed with other vocational/technical schools in our part of the state. Scott and I went out for football together. He made the cut and I didn't. He was a lineman. It was the first time we didn't do something together. Well, I suppose my photography was something we didn't do together, but that was just a hobby.

I think Mrs. Carson was proud of the fact that Scott made the team. On the other hand, there was no way that didn't bring back memories of her youth, and Mr. Carson being on the team while she was a cheerleader, and him getting her pregnant before they graduated and all that.

But she let him play. Of course that left me high and dry for the time in which he was at practice. She said I could keep her company and wait for him at the same time. She even suggested she could paint my portrait. I wasn't much interested in getting my portrait painted. I was too skinny, and my nose was too pointy, and there was this spot up high on the back of my head where the hair went the wrong way. Girls went for Scott, not me.

But I kept paying her compliments, because she just glowed when I did it. And I kept taking pictures of her.

One day I walked in and she was exercising with hand weights. She was wearing a T shirt and shorts and white tennis shoes. She was marching in place, high stepping, and moving her arms all around with the little blue weights in them. She had her hair up in a pony tail that sat high on her head. She was wearing a bra (dammit!) but she looked really good anyway.

"Well, don't you look fetching," I said, over the music she was marching to, just as that song came to an end.

She reached over and turned off the portable CD player she'd been using.

"Nobody talks like that these days," she said, still waving her arms around to cool off.

"Okay, then," I said, carelessly. "You look hot."

She stopped waving her arms and stared at me.

"Are we thinking naughty thoughts, Bobby?" She cocked her head and examined me.

You have to understand I'd paid this woman literally a thousand compliments by this time. It was just part of my speech patterns by now. And she'd never yelled at me, or told me it was inappropriate, or to stop or anything like that.

So when I said, "Maybe we are," it was just kind of a joke, you know?

She didn't laugh. "So ... are you going to take another picture of me now?"

I blinked. She sounded wrong. Not mad ... just wrong. Not like herself, I mean.

"Sure," I said, because I couldn't think of anything to say.

"You don't have your camera," she pointed out.

I realized she was right, and that I looked pretty stupid.

"I'll go get it!" I suggested.

Then she laughed, and sounded like herself.

"I'm all sweaty. You don't want a picture of me all sweaty. You can entertain yourself while I get cleaned up so I look presentable and worthy of having a picture taken."

Then she smiled that beautiful smile and went toward her room.

I was kind of off kilter, I think. It seemed like that whole conversation had been a little weird or something. But I went up to Scott's room, where my book bag was. I carried my camera everywhere and I got it out ... just in case.

I don't know what I was waiting for. I'm not sure, in fact, that I was actually waiting for anything to happen. Not between me and Mrs. Carson. But I fiddled with the camera, just for something to do. If she came back to the living room, where I was, then maybe we'd have a conversation. If she went into the kitchen to start supper, we probably wouldn't. I'd turn on the TV and wait for Scott. You see what I mean? I didn't have any kind of plan to do anything at all.

Then her voice came from upstairs, where her bedroom was.

"Bobby? Can you come up here please? I have a problem."

I admit it. Nasty things ran through my mind.

But that wasn't the deal at all. When I found her, she was standing in her bathroom and there was water all over the floor. She had one big towel wrapped around her dripping body, and another one wrapped around her hair, which was all up on top of her head.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I think the drain in the shower is stopped up," she said. "I didn't realize it was plugged up and running over until I stepped out. Can you do anything? If that goes through the floor it's going to ruin the ceiling underneath."

"You got a plumber's helper?" I asked.

She pointed to the corner, behind the stool.

I got it. It was one of the good ones, with the cone that fits into the throat of a toilet. But that wasn't what was needed for the shower drain, so I folded it inside (ick!) and then put the flat rim on top of the drain. It took me a couple of minutes to get a good seal, but finally I felt the water under it move down, instead of sideways. I pulled back up on it and got movement that way too, so I broke the seal. It started draining noisily. I turned back to her. She was still standing there, watching.

"More towels?" I asked.

She pointed at a cupboard door in the wall. It was full of fluffy towels, the nice kind.

"Can I use these?" I asked.

"Of course," she said. "Please hurry."

I tossed towels everywhere and they soaked up the water on the floor. I lifted them, and wrung them out in the shower stall. The floor was dry, but now I had a pile of damp towels.

"I'll put them in the dryer later," she said. "Thank you so much. You were a lifesaver."

I stood up faced her.

"It was my pleasure to come to thy rescue, Milady." I bowed. "Perchance now I might have a boon?"

What I was thinking of was asking her to bake some chocolate chip cookies.

She raised an eyebrow.

"I supposed you want to take a picture of me like this."

That plate of cookies disappeared in a puff of smoke. What was left, in my imagination, were two perfect breasts, staring back at me through the lens of my camera.

"Could I?" I asked.

She got that look on her face again.

"Same rules? Nobody else ever sees it?"

I nodded.

She stood there.

I ran and got my camera.

She was still standing there when I got back. She was smiling like somebody had told her a joke.

"You shall have your boon," she said.

Chapter Three

I tried to frame a picture of her right there in the bathroom, but everything I tried looked stupid.

"You can look all you want," she said, thinking I was trying to extend the time I could see her like this.

"That's not it," I said, understanding her perfectly. "It just looks common."

She pushed me out of the bathroom, into her bedroom.

"In here?"

I walked around. She had a west-facing window, and the sun was going down. I stood her by the window so the sun hit her body and told her to act like she was looking out the window, waiting for her lover to get home.

I said it exactly like that! Can you believe it? I actually said, "your lover."

She didn't bat an eye, and looked out the window.

I took the picture. Then I moved and took another one.

She hadn't freaked out on me yet, so I pushed the envelope.

"Can you lower the part where it fastens?" I asked, hopefully.

"You want cleavage?" she asked, arching that eyebrow again.

"Desperately," I admitted, just telling the truth.

She laughed. "At least you're honest.”

She tugged at the fold and for a second I thought the whole towel was going to drop.

"Ooops!"she squealed, catching it and ruining my day. "We wouldn't want that, now."

She knew exactly what I wanted, and I about crapped when she gave it to me.

I refocused. She'd moved the towel so low that I wondered if a hint of areola might show. I snapped like crazy. Somehow it looked like there was more of her legs too, so I took a lot of shots of her legs.

"You always make me feel so good," she said.

"I wish I could see all of them," I said back. I think something had broken in my brain, and was trying to get me killed, or at least kicked out.

"I'm an old woman," she said.

"I wish you'd stop saying that," I said, peering through the lens and moving to a different vantage point. "You're not old, you're not ugly. You're a babe and I think you know it. I don't understand why you don't go out with guys. You could have any one of them you wanted."

I snapped a picture, but even I knew I had taken every possible angle. I let the camera fall. She had one hand held flat against her stomach, and she was just looking at me.

"I am an older woman," she said.

A man might have heard her hinting that this puppy love thing had probably run its course. But I wasn't a man.

"You're a mature Playboy Bunny," I argued.

"You don't really want to see my saggy old breasts," she said.

"If I found a bottle on the seashore, and rubbed it, and a genie came out, my first wish would be, ‘I hope that towel falls off of Mrs. Carson, and she doesn't catch it this time.’"

She finally looked shocked.

"Don't you lie to me, Bobby Newman!" Her voice was much higher than usual.

"I'm not lying, Mrs. Carson," I said. I was in so deep, it just didn't matter if I told the truth.

"This is so wrong," she moaned.

"Why? You're a beautiful woman. I'm a guy. I can't help but want to see you."

"You're so young," she whispered.

"A hundred years ago I'd already be married," I pointed out. "We talked about that in school last week."

There was a long silence, as she simply stared at me.

"I can't. What if Scott walked in?"

I looked at my watch.

"He won't be here for another thirty minutes," I said.

She gave a half hysterical bark of laughter.

"Scott can never know," she whispered.

"Anything you want," I offered. "Just please let me see them. Just this once. Please?"

She gave a nervous little giggle.

"You're so pathetic. All men are pathetic."

"That's because there are women in the world like you," I said. "Women like you make us all pathetic."

A different look came over her face as one eyebrow rose. Suddenly I felt like I was being inspected again.

"You've done this before ... haven't you." It wasn't a question.

"Done what?"

"Seduced a woman."

I was shocked. No woman had ever said anything even remotely close to something like that to me. It must have shown on my face.

"No?" She took a step closer to me. "I've thought about this, Bobby. You're very smooth. I thought the innocent act was fake at first, but now I'm not so sure. I want to believe you're exactly who you act like, but ..."

Her eyes were suddenly steady on my face. "Are you a virgin, Bobby?"

I had never been asked that question by a woman either. I had to swallow twice before I could get my mouth to work.

"I guess so," I said. I could feel my face turning red. Now she was going to think of me as a little boy again.

"You guess so?" She smiled. "I'd think you'd remember losing your virginity, Bobby. I know I do, and that was a long time ago."

Believe it or not, all this time, while all this was going on, my penis had lain there as if dead. But when she said that, it stood up and took notice. I looked down. Don't ask me why. Maybe I thought it would show.

Turns out it did. I was wearing jeans, but they weren't up to the task of taming the lump growing in them.

She looked down too. Suddenly I had a pretty good feeling of how she felt when I looked at her. I'd never thought about it like that before. It was kind of uncomfortable, and, just like that, I felt guilty for probably making her feel self-conscious.

"My, my," she said. "Maybe you're not that sweet, innocent little boy any more, are you, Bobby." That wasn't a question either. There was something in her voice that made my prick give a little jerk. She saw that too.

"And I've been teasing you all these years," she said softly, "thinking you had an outlet."

"Me?" My mouth dropped open.

"I'm sorry, Bobby," she said.

I thought that meant that seeing her breasts was off the table.

"It's okay," I said. I know I sounded dejected. "I know you think of me as just a kid. But I had to try. I've wanted to see them for so long."

Her hands went to where the towel was tucked in.

"These?" she asked, and suddenly the towel came apart. I swear it was just like in those jokes where some guy in a raincoat flashes some woman. One instant everything was covered, and the next instant everything was right there, making my eyes feel like they might jump right out of my head. I couldn't even decide where to look.

"Take a picture," she laughed. "It will last longer."

"Oh man," I moaned. I think I swayed a bit, because she lurched toward me, dropping the towel as she reached for me with both hands.

"Careful, there, Tiger," she said, grasping my shoulders. "Let's not fall over and get hurt. We'd have to explain that to Scott. And we don't want to break your camera either."

"Oh man," I moaned again. She was right there!

The back door slammed. Leave it to Coach to let them go early on the only day it mattered to me that he keep them late.

Scott always slammed the back door, and his mother always yelled at him for it. Her eyes darted toward that part of the house.

"Thank you for fixing my drain," she whispered. Then she leaned forward and kissed me. It wasn't really a kiss, I suppose. It was more of a peck. But she pressed her warm lips firmly against mine, and it was a very drawn out peck. I felt something brush against the front of my jeans too, but it might have been my imagination. She turned me around and gave me a gentle push towards her bedroom door.