Love, Lust & Family Affairs

I'm going to get right into it because this is still blowing my mind. It was summertime, and I had just turned eighteen with one more year of high school to go. So, now I'm an adult. I can do everything an adult can do but drink, so I get most of the benefits, but I also get all the blame. There are some serious consequences to my actions I had never thought about before, not really, and to tell you readers the truth, I don't give a s**t about the unfair consequences that could befall me now. A jury would understand, right? I would. But just because I don't care, it doesn't mean that my mother doesn't. My mother cares. She cares a whole motherfucking lot. As I've said, I'm eighteen years old, and so is my girlfriend, older than me by a month. I've known her for my entire life. She's my neighbor. You see, we've been together for a long time. A long time and we've had opportunities to really be together, but we've held off, and why? Because we're good people who do what our parents say--and that's a problem--but we promised to take things slow, and so we did. And now, we're both eighteen, and guess what? We can do whatever we want now, or so we had hoped. You see, no one had had a problem with my relationship with Chloe--I'm Thomas, by the way--not my mother, not my father, not Mr. and Mrs. Greyson, not anyone, until Mr. Greyson walked in on me with a mouth full of his daughter's hairless p***y right after I turned eighteen. That was her first birthday present to me. Could you blame me... or her? Chloe was f*****g hot, and I--we--were both in need of some loving. How could we not be? We're both teens, and porn was everywhere. s*x sells, and teens are supposed to resist their urges while under the onslaught of 13 Reasons Why, Euphoria, and Taylor Swift writing songs about every guy she's taken between her legs (Does she still do that? I don't know.) Then there's Miley Cyrus being a w***e (or she was a w***e at one time), and Ariana Grande once talked about d**k size and how being big was good, and then there's social media oozing s*x all the f*****g time. You can't watch a teen drama without someone getting f****d. If people were f*****g at my age before the invention of TV, then why the f**k wouldn't modern teens want to blow a load or two as often as possible? s*x is everywhere, and we like it. Hell, at eighteen, we need it. Where was I? Oh, yeah, Chloe was f*****g hot. There's more to her than hotness, but she was f*****g hot.  Earlier today, we were on her sofa, and she was wearing a black shirt with white trim, and printed across the front was the word EASY. She was also wearing a pink schoolgirl skirt that was way too short for school, and if a girl was going to wear that, she had better expect to be flashing her panties to the world. Lucky for me, Chloe doesn't mind one bit. She was wearing the skirt for me. We were on her couch, and her panties were lying on her coffee table, and that's when the lock on the front door rattled. We parted in a hurry and went back to watching TV as her dad walked into the house. He greeted us--I could tell he was still pissed at me for eating his daughter's p***y at midnight--then he went to the kitchen, and then he came back, and that's when he grew silent. It was kind of freaky. We both looked at him, and we both noticed that his eyes were staring at the ultra-small, transparent panties his daughter had been wearing. This was right after he had caught me going down on his daughter and had told us both to knock it off until the real adults could discuss their children's new superpowers--the powers to f**k, I guess. So... ah s**t. "Chloe," he said in a calm voice that was more unsettling than if he had yelled. "Put your panties back on right now." Chloe stood, grabbed them, and facing sideways to her father and me; she straightened her panties in her hands, then she lifted her right foot and put them through the strings of her leg hole, and then her left foot, and then she pulled them up her legs, fitting them into place. Her hips shuffled, and her skirt came up over her thighs, baring the sides of her hips to her father and me, along with a flash of her muff as her skirt flared when she adjusted the crotch against her softness. Her dad left the room after that. I left the house shortly after, walking to my house next door. That night, my parents talked with Chloe's dad, and Chloe's dad told them that if this continues, he will end our relationship himself. He said the entire "I'm her father, she'll do as I say while she lives under my roof," spiel--what the f**k, right? Did he think his daughter didn't have an appetite for c**k? Fuck him. Fuck him! That's what Chloe and I said, but my parents agreed with his parents, especially my mother. "Do you want to be like those teen parents on TV?" Mom asked. "They're the lucky ones. Do you know how many teen parents have to put their lives on hold because they got pregnant too early." She shook her head at me. "You know what? It stops now. Get through college, and then you have all the s*x you want. If you don't stop your behavior with Chloe"--Mom lifted her right hand and spun her forefinger around--"is gone. You'll have to get a job. You'll have to pay your fair share. No more free rides. Do you understand me?" Fuck my parents, too--not in a bad way--just their idea of going along with Mr. Greyson. So, Chloe and I decided that late on my eighteenth birthday, we were going to f**k just to f**k our parents over. In hindsight, it was stupid to think that way, but when you're young, you do stupid s**t without thinking. Lucky for me, during the party, my mother had watched Chloe and me all night long. We had the party at my house, nothing special, just a bunch of eighteen-year-olds running around in boardshorts and bikinis, grilling food, and drinking sugary liquids that we poured alcohol into on the sly. Mom watched us. First, from the outside, when the party had just started, then she went inside, and I could feel her green eyes on me from her upstairs bedroom. Chloe sat on my lap, and we kissed once, and Mom appeared outside less than a minute later to ask us if we needed anything. We didn't. Several of my friends had told me to tell my mother to put on her bikini and join us, which led to me throwing them in the pool against their will, but that's life for you when your mother was a MILF, and she was a MILF. When I was younger, before I became aware of my mother as a woman, I always used to tell her how beautiful she was, which she loved to hear. She thought it was cute, and I'd never fail to remind her how beautiful she was compared to everyone else. Then I discovered masturbation... and flirting with my mother, as my father called it--without telling me what flirting meant--came to an end. My mother was tall and willowy, with smooth, light golden skin and long, layered, sun-blonde hair--flaxen hair descended from her Norwegian blood--that almost glints white in the sunlight. She has elegant features and high cheekbones, the kind that any fantasy fanboy may have imagined a regal elven queen to bear. She's slender and tight, with a flowing body unobstructed by the cut of leanness that some CrossFit moms have going for them. Her breasts were just over a handful, while her butt was small, widening sideways from her hips like a pear. Her cheeks were round and as golden as the rest of her skin thanks to the sunbathing she did in her whale-tale, micro G-strings that I'm sure I'm not supposed to know about, but I did. I haven't seen her in them, but what kind of boy hasn't rummaged through his mother's panty drawer at least once in their lifetime? (A normal f*****g boy, I'd guess.) So, Mom left us once Chloe slid off my lap. The party continued until sundown, when people started heading home. Chloe and I changed into shorts and shirts, then we watched a movie with my parents, cut some cake in a quiet ceremony around my dinner table with my loved ones, and then Chloe and I went up to my bedroom. Mom's eyes followed us, but mostly they followed me, and Dad called us over to tell the both of us what Chloe's father and my mother expected from us--A soldier-like dedication to their orders. "You've waited eighteen years," Dad said, "so what're another four?" He lowered his voice to a whisper then. "Do well in college, and I bet you'll only have to wait two more years." We nodded our heads, and we went to my room to say, "f**k our parents," in the most physical way possible. I should have known that my mother wasn't about to let that happen.