I Banged My Friend’s Hot Mom To Rebound After A Breakup

Email this to a friend

Nice Move

94581a7dbd4d41cc91fae6a05928fcbd

I went to a small private school chock full of more white virgins than the Mayflower. It was my junior year, I had just turned 21 and reaffirmed my belief in God with 14 seconds of sinful thrusting that helped me understand “Oh, so THIS is why the world thinks we’re crazy.” This led me to meet my girlfriend, Cara. Cara was a sweet girl who had a side for experimenting sexually. Anything you could think of, she would want to do it.

Just as quickly as things went good, things fell apart with Cara. Aside from violating the “honor code,” she had basically stopped caring about our religion, listening to me, even sacrificing her academics. Oh, and she took down half the offensive line faster than an E. Coli outbreak at the Golden Corral.

Like a kidney stone, I knew it would hurt like hell, but I simply had to get out. We broke up and I spiraled into the sort of substance-based depression you non-Mormons would call “thirsty Thursday.”

But I was still so naive at this point; thinking since Cara and I had “given ourselves to each other,” we shared this indefinite bond, binding us to a campfire afterlife surrounded by fellow pre-marital fuckers and caffeine drinkers. Christ, I’m glad to be done with that shit.

So it had been almost a month and I was still in the midst of a Fear and Loathing-esque bender when my mongoloid roommate convinced me to go to a “party.” What he failed to mention, however, was the “party” wasn’t the Ramsey Bolden-style pillaging of public school girls, but instead the birthday party of his now 5-year-old accident of a sister.

The kindergarten class attendees provided nothing but annoyance. Then I saw Mrs. Cameron, wading knee-deep through the ball pit in a martini-ridden stupor. We could bond, I thought. Her wealthy husband had just run off with a cocktail waitress named “Chastity,” leaving her the waterfront cottage and enough money to comfortably support a life of unobtainable wealth until the corrosion of her liver completed.

Yeah, she was my roommate mongoloid Mark’s mother, but just as we all thought he was a fucking retard, she never seemed to like him much, either. I took my iced tea bottle full of bourbon towards the knock-off Chuck E Cheese display.

“Hi Mrs. Cameron.” She turned abruptly.

“Jake? Is that you?”

“It is.” I extended my hand, she declined to shake it.

“Honey I’m not a vacuum salesman, but you look great all things considered.”

“All things considered?”

“I heard what that little cunt did to you.”

“Oh, Mark must’ve told…”

“Her loss. What is this?” She motioned to my iced tea, and I handed it to her.

“Jesus Christ, don’t drink this.”

One of the other moms around the ball pit stood up.

“Mrs. Cameron PLEASE! The language around the children.”

Without skipping a beat, Mrs. Cameron chugged the rest of her drink and poured mine abruptly into the surrounding grass.

“Come with me, I’ll get you something worth sinning for.”

I followed Mrs. Cameron into the estate, half-chubbed at the thought of adult-sanctioned alcohol consumption; looking back, I’m shocked I resisted suicide through my four-year prison sentence commonly referred to as “college.”

We stopped in a giant library, bigger than anything I had seen on campus. She poured me a scotch, my first ever glass, and we sat across from each other. Mrs. Cameron pulled out a cigarette, the dirty Cruella Deville living up to her moniker.

“Want one?”

She puffed and motioned towards the full silver case.

“Sure, why not.”

I was now swallowing my urge to gag like a face-fucking “performer” as my first ever cigarette singed my virgin lungs.

“Love these, smoke them all the time.”

She laughed.

“I’m sure you do, Jake. So tell me, what happened with Ms. Whatever her name was?”

“Cara.”

“Right, Cara. Not the cutest girl. Sex must have been great to stay as long as you did.”

“Oh Mrs. Cameron, we wouldn’t do that outside of marriage, no sex for us.”

“Right, I remember the honor code. At least until I was 18 or so. Ass and mouth, though, fair game from what I can remember.”

I was a stiff wind from creaming my pants at this point as her enhanced tits and litany of suggestive facial expressions had her looking like an anal-loving Barbie with the early stages of psoriasis of the liver.

“We did some things.”

She smiled and poured us both another scotch.

“What sort of things?”

“No thank you, I’ve had enough to drink.”

Suddenly she took my class, set it on the table and swung her legs over me. She wasn’t wearing panties, and her reconstructed vagina was staring at me like an angry spider looking for a fly to catch. An apt comparison to my penis size.

“Mrs. Cameron…”

“Shut the fuck up, Jake.”

She straddled me, diving her tongue down my throat and somehow overlooking my horrid kissing technique.

“Have you ever bent over a real woman?”

She stood, cleared the table of our drinks and hiked her dress over her hips.

“Come here, I’ll help you.”

I threw my pants off, assuming what I thought was the proper position as she guided me in, one hand on the shaft the other my balls in some sort of Olympic-level balancing technique I thought only existed on Red Tube.

“Fuck me Jake.”

I didn’t know any better so I started jackhammering her snatch like it was downtrodden asphalt as she moaned. Books were falling from the shaking table making the entire thing look like a twisted Jumanji porn adaptation when suddenly, the sliding wood doors sprung open.

“Mom, are you ok?!”

I turned to see Mark ghost faced in the doorway.
“Yes honey, Jake is just helping me crack my back, I couldn’t see Dr. Michaels this week he’s on Holiday.”

“Oh ok, mom. Want me to do it, I remember how dad did it.”

“No no, go check on your sister honey and enjoy the party, I’m just in a lot of pain.”

“Yeah Mark, I really need to finish this.”

Mark slid the doors shut, Mrs. Cameron turned and looked at me with a smile.

“He was never quite right. Now fucking finish.”

If you would like your Total Frat sexual confession covered by a freelance writer, email me at siblingsofmarkwahlberg@gmail.com.

For the fastest way to keep up with TFM, download our free smartphone app.

Comments

You must be logged in to comment. Log in or create an account.

Click to Read Comments (33)