In the summer of 1972, Alan Carson had begun dating Becky Amos and was enjoying a fairly good relationship. However, after he met Becky's family, he found himself drawn in a totally different direction.
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Chapter One: Something about Becky.
There was something about Becky that was different than any of the other girls that I had dated back in the early 70's. It's the reason why I remember her more than any of the other girls, I suppose.
It wasn't the great sex we had, because we never did IT. We did everything else that two 18 year old kids could do to each other, but she was adamant from the first date about not giving up what I really wanted, and her defenses remained strong right up to the end.
It wasn't her looks that set her apart from the rest, although she was certainly attractive enough. Becky was what I would call a suburban hippie; she wore bell bottoms, flashed the peace sign a lot, went bra-less a lot and didn't shave her armpits, but enjoyed life in a nice house in a nice middle-class neighborhood. That was all fine with me, because I was probably just as shallow in my own way.
Early on in our relationship, I met her family, which consisted of a younger brother, and her parents. The kid was a dork, and her father seemed alright, if a bit gruff. Maybe he didn't like the length of my hair, which was almost down to my shoulders.
He surely wasn't grouchy because of my relationship with Becky. Hell, one time I thought he caught me in the kitchen with my hand under Becky's blouse, giving her little titty some serious honking, but he didn't say a word and marched right past us to the fridge where he grabbed a beer.
His indifference was probably because Becky wasn't her real father. Becky's brother was his, so he was protective of him, but I guess because Becky was only his step-daughter, he didn't much care what I did with her, so long as I didn't get in the way of him getting a beer. He worked long hours, so I didn't see much of him anyway.
Which brings me to the other person in Becky's family. Her Mom. To put it mildly, Mrs. Evelyn Amos was a trip. She was loud, bold and brassy from the first moment I met her, and she didn't put on any false fronts for anyone, so far as I could see. If something crossed her mind, she just came right out and said it, and she had some of the craziest expressions I had ever heard.
"So, you have any luck trying to stick your stinger into Becky's honeypot yet?" she asked me early on in our relationship, while Becky was out of the kitchen for a minute.
The soda I had been drinking as Mrs. Amos spoke, burned my nostrils when it came shooting out when I heard that. Stinger? Honeypot? What kind of jargon was this, and even more wild was, how could her mother ask something like that?
That was just her way, though. Just blurt it out. That was why Becky rarely left me alone with her mother, or least that was what I thought at the time. I figured she was embarrassed by her mother's comments, but at that point in our lives, weren't we all humiliated by our folks?
That wasn't the main reason why I remember Becky's Mom, though. There was something else that captured my attention, and has kept her in my memory all these years. To say that she had something that effectively grabbed my prurient interests, would be a massive understatement.
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Chapter Two: What Mrs. Amos had.
Ava Gardner. That was who Mrs. Amos had mentioned one day to me as I waited for Becky to get ready for our date. She told me that I should have seen her a few years ago, when she looked like Ava Gardner.
Mrs. Amos was brushing her hair at the time, which was wavy and a deep dark brown, and I was trying like hell not to look. I didn't know who Ava Gardner was at the time, but I found a picture of her later and discovered that there was a similarity in her facial features, but to be frank, my eyes didn't spend all that much time looking above the neck of Mrs. Amos.
Mrs. Amos was probably somewhere the same age as my own Mom, which would have put her in her mid 40's. She had what would be fairly described as a very different body than most women her age, or of any age.
Her legs were pretty shapely as well, and she almost always wore these black pants that went down just below her knees. They weren't too tight, but were snug enough to reveal that she had a very small butt, especially compared to the rest of her.
The rest of her. Those were the parts that set her apart from the rest, in my mind. Her arms were solid, if at bit plump, and the waist was a bit thick too, but those parts I rarely spent much time looking at either. My eyes were locked in on one area, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't resist staring at her breasts.
Mrs. Amos had the biggest breasts I had ever laid eyes on, and I had memorized every Playboy magazine that I had gotten my hands on, as well as a lot of experience in rifling through my old man's porn collection that he thought was safely hidden away in the attic.
Mrs. Amos always wore these sleeveless V-neck cotton tops that seemed designed for only one reason, and that was to drive yours truly Alan Carson out of his mind. She had a black one, which was my least favorite, but she also had a bunch of these identical style blouses in other colors. Blue and red, which were okay, but paled in comparison to my favorites, the white one and the canary yellow one.
The white one especially drove me crazy, as it seemed to make her breasts seem even more massive than they were. You could clearly see the outline of her bra underneath the fabric, as well as some of the cavernous cleavage that was very visible at the neckline of her blouse.
I often wondered what those breasts of hers would look like outside of their harness? Footballs? No, bigger than that. Much bigger. Watermelons might be a bit of an exaggeration, I figured, but not by much.
In his modest porn collection, my old man had these topless photos of this woman from long ago, Virginia Bell, and it was her that I finally settled on to be what Mrs. Amos would look like naked. Virginia had incredibly full jugs that hung down to her waist, with fat nipples that I fantasized about sucking on while I would stand in my attic, the picture in one hand and my cock in the other.
I would be sweating like a pig in that stuffy attic many times after being with Becky and getting all worked up, my fist working feverishly as I looked at that picture of Virginia Bell. Mentally transposing Becky's Mom's face onto the photo, I would pop out a load that would leave my knees weak and a big mess in the sock I had slipped over the head of my dick in order to spare the floor.
Not easy being 18, with a girlfriend who wouldn't go all the way, and it wasn't an easier when her Mom looked the way she did either.
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Chapter Three: August 3, 1972, 1:15 p.m.
I don't remember what I had for dinner last night, but I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was a normal enough day for August, which meant it was hot and humid. I had a summer job, but on that day I got let out at 1, so I was left with an afternoon free.
Becky was working as well, but she was working all afternoon. I suppose I could have found one of my friends to kill the day with, but for some reason I drove to Becky's house.
There was no car in the driveway, which meant that either nobody was home, or Becky's mother was there all alone. After sitting outside in my car for a minute, I took a deep breath and went up the steps and knocked.
My plan, if I had a plan that is, was to pretend that I didn't know Becky was working and hang around with her Mom for a little bit. She would offer me a drink of this stuff she liked, and since I was too young to drink I would eagerly accept it. After staring at those jugs of hers for a while, I expected to be horny as hell and would go home and jerk off a couple of times and then hang out with my friends.
The door opened, and Mrs. Amos appeared wearing the yellow blouse, one of the better ones in my rating system, straining to contain those massive breasts. Trying to act natural, I said hello cheerfully and asked if Becky was there.
