Otherwise, have fun and enjoy.
Today was a team-building day, and for some reason, my mother had decided that we were going to help Mrs. James set up whatever it was that she needed to set up. Maybe we’d rearrange her pool chairs and fill bowls with chips or dial for pizza; I didn’t know what we were going to do. I thought it was a waste of time–Mom hadn’t needed any help for the team’s pool party at our house.
Diana told me to have fun and that maybe she’d stop by later for a dip with me–it wouldn’t be the first time. The realization that what we were doing was taboo didn’t bother her in a public setting. I used to think that she wanted people to know that we were together, and I’d laugh it off, but now I told myself that was a crazy idea because I didn’t want to admit that she did want people to know that we were together. And if Diana wanted people to know, people would know whether I wanted them to or not.
I had to trust her judgment. I had no other choice if I wanted to be with her, and I did want to be with her, my sister.
Mrs. James has an American name, but that’s because she married a white guy of Angelo-Saxon descent, but she was an Indian from India, well, her parents were. Mrs. James was a West Coast girl through and through, born and raised, and now she was like all of the other tennis MILFs who practiced yoga as though every Downward Dog they performed was a mind-blowing spiritual experience.
She was tall and willowy, fighting off the natural curviness–the not overweight, but also, not thin image–that many Indian women who weren’t gym bunnies appeared to have. Mrs. James’ first name was Prisha, and that’s what she wanted me to call her.
There wasn’t much to set up in her large house. Everything was open, with arching entryways and wooden floorboards. The backyard was a wide-open square surrounded by trees that kept out the neighbors’ eyes, and they had a huge, lazy L-shaped pool, surrounded by expensive landscaping, a wooden deck, miniature palm trees, and it was just a nice house. Like my mother’s, but different.
Prisha’s son, my teammate, was a senior, eighteen, in good shape, and several weight classes below me and a bit shy. He had dark hair, brown eyes, and very light, honey-colored skin, a mixture of his father’s fairness and the caramel hue coating his mother’s sexy body.
We had everything set up within ten minutes of our arrival. Mr. James was out of the house, golfing, and Prisha had ordered sandwiches from some deli before we had come over. There wasn’t much to do except jump into the pool and swim around for a while as they sat in the sun.
“So, you and your sister are close,” Justin said to me as we sat along the edge of the pool, with our legs in the water up to our knees.
“Who says?” I asked.
“My mom.” He shrugged. “Other people. Other moms–my mom said.”
“It’s too bad that only our moms are here right now,” I said, changing the subject. “I wonder who’s going to wear the smallest bikini this week.”
Justin smiled, and a little color entered his cheeks. “I bet Mrs.–”
His mouth never opened to start the next word as his eyes stared toward the sliding glass door to his house. I turned my head, following his gaze, and I had to force my teeth together to keep from dropping my jaw into my lap. Our mothers had walked outside in their bikinis, and these were some small fucking bikinis… made of… string.
My mother wore a red bikini with strings that rode high on her hips, tied off by looping bows, the front and back fastened together at her sides. Her golden body had a slight jiggle when she walked, her meat outlining the muscle beneath her skin, her smooth lines and flat tummy making her large, round breasts seem even larger by how far they curved up and away from her chest.
The sight sent a rush of blood through my cock, and that big bastard raised its head a little.
Mom had pulled her hair up and back in a fancy knot that left her shoulders and back bare, the thin strings of her bikini curving around her neck and body. The cups of her bra formed triangles that swept downward from just above her nipples to just below her areoles–so much of her breasts lay exposed to my eyes. The fabric hid her eraser thick buds, but not the impressions they made against her top as they stood at attention atop her tits.
“Fuck me,” I whispered as goosebumps rose across my skin.
Prisha wore a near-identical bikini to my mother, save hers was black, and I wondered if they had gone shopping together for them. Maybe they exchanged pictures? Anyway, Prisha wore her black hair up as well, and the front triangle of her bikini panties made it clear that this MILF had no hair between her legs. Fuck, neither did my mother. Prisha’s breasts were as big as Mom’s, though heavier, with a curvier bulge around their bottoms, and her nipples looked thicker than my mother’s, but not by much.
“How much time until everyone else gets here?” I asked Justin. My balls had tightened as if they were expecting me to slam them against some pussy soon.
Justin couldn’t talk.
Our mothers had towels on their arms, and they covered their lounge chairs with them, my mom choosing the chair left of Prisha. We saw a profile view of them, and we saw their backsides, where two thin strings–the kind Diana liked to wear for me–ran between the crescent slopes of their yoga-toned asses.
I had to close my mouth again. My nipples had tightened, and now they ached. A chill crossed my shoulders, bringing with it a soft, quiet shiver.
Justin and I slid into the pool as though we were part of a synchronized swim team. We faced our mothers as they sat on a pair of lounge chairs across from our side of the pool. They put on mirrored sunglasses–I wished that I had had a pair at that moment–and Prisha grabbed a bottle of lotion that had been sitting on the poolside table between their chairs. They ignored us and went to work rubbing lotion onto the fronts of their bodies.
Our mothers weren’t shy with their motions. They rubbed their hands over their smooth skin, basting themselves until their flesh shined with a layer of slippery oil. They sat near the ends of their chairs, their fingers sliding over their thighs–thicker than a teen’s thighs–but yummy in that so-this-is-what-a-woman-looks-like kind of way. Matured beauty, their tits jiggled when they ran their fingers over them, cupping them without meaning to and pushing them to the sides as they smothered oil across their ripened flesh. Both of our moms stood, and they stroked their quads, then they moved their hands to their inner thighs, rubbing their lotions upwards, right up to their bikini-clad muffs. Their tiny panties dug right into the center of their meaty clefts, teasing us with two pouty cameltoes… maternal cameltoes, the kind every son has sneaked a peek at, jerked off to, then felt guilty about doing so later.