Fucking My Best Friend's Mom

Fucking Best Friend's Mom

Johnny was my best friend. We are finally talking.

I know why he was pissed at me, but it's really his mom's fault. It was the weekend after we both graduated high school. We were both eighteen; now we could go into the Mafia bar and buy beer without asking permission, or go into a drugstore and buy condoms.

Growing up in Manhattan's Little Italy, you had to know the rules. You didn't badmouth the guys in black suits. You asked the guy at the door for permission to enter a bodega. If you were a teenager and a guy in a black suit parked near you and threw a dust rag in your face, you knew it was best to dust off his caddy. When you passed a bleeding dead man sprawled out on the sidewalk, you didn't stop. You just stepped over him and kept on walking.

The police captain or the mayor of New York didn't make the rules in Little Italy. The consigliere, Don Vito di Genarro, did. He had the same last name as St. Genarro, whose Feast Mass Day we celebrated on September 19 at the Shrine Church of the Most Precious Blood. That was the night six or eight strong men carried the heavy statue of San Gennaro through the streets of Little Italy. The statue was always festooned with currency, at least a hundred thousand.

The celebration brought food sellers with vats of boiling oil to make zeppoles, fresh Italian donuts shaped like a zeppelin, and assorted specialties of the old country. In the restaurants, the diners drank Chianti, and in the bars, grappa and aperitifs with little cups of hot espresso. The air carried the music of the tarantella. Even fat men took a few steps when the loudspeakers blasted, and fat women lifted their skirts to show off their piano-stool-legs as they danced.

The people didn't speak Italian. Instead, it was the lingua franca of Naples and the Sicilian dialect. And yet, for all the confusion and merrymaking, the next morning everything was cleaned and back in order as we waited for next year to roll around.

With our graduation gifts of ten and twenty dollars, Johnny went to buy beer. I went into the pharmacy and asked for a box of condoms.

"You old enough for them?" the pharmacist asked, dropping a small box of Hatu rubbers on the counter.

"These are made in Italy. They are guaranteed to grip your dick so tightly you will be lucky you don't get ruptured if you try to cum."

I was planning ahead. I didn't want any little bugger forcing me into an arranged marriage. The neighborhood was Italian Mafia, and if you got one of the Don's grandchildren with a child, his henchmen would drag you to the altar or cut off your balls. On the other hand, if you kept your weenie in a latex jacket, you could fuck Roselie and return for second helpings. Fat girls were easy, so they say in Little Italy. If you could get their chubby legs separated, it might be the best five minutes of the day. I say day because at night the bimbo's were locked up like hidden treasure.

Johnny and I grew up together. His mom was one of the Don's extended family. Her husband, Sam, the butcher, flew over to Sicily, and with a dowry of five hundred dollars he bought a ripe sixteen-year-old virgin. A nun from the local church used her finger to guarantee the hymen was unperforated.

When a virgin was impure, the Sicilians would cut off the head of a chicken and stick its neck in the girl's vagina, filling her with blood in preparation for the night of the matrimony. Attention: Italians are tricksters.

That is to say, Sicilian girls still were willing to please their fidanzati and preserve their virginity. How? By offering up their butts. Their boyfriend's sexual needs were satisfied, and the act was sure to cure constipation.

In the case of Carmella, my buddy Johnnie's Mom, she was only a few days past the age of consent when Sammy handed her father a packet containing five hundred "Scudas" and became the owner of one certified virgin.

Sammy became a daddy just nine months later, just as the seasons changed. A passionate man, he demanded a nightly toss, and Carmella, like most of these imported wives, got used to doing as she was told. Failure to satisfy her husband's sexual needs would have earned her a sharp slap in the face and perhaps a black eye. During the later stage of Carmella's first pregnancy, she took her mom's parting advice, "always meet her husband's primal requests."

"If-a you not-a giving him your pussy, whenever he-a wants it, you can be sure some-a other woman will-a give it to him. So whatcha gotta do is suck him off."

Although Sammy's dick tasted like garlic, he was a butcher who specialized in handmade garlic sausages; Carmela would pop a peppermint in her mouth seconds before Sammy shoved his massive tool into her choir girl's mouth.

About that time the Iraqi war started up, Sammy, being a patriotic American and a member of the National Guard, was called down to White Hall Street, the first stop before being enlisted. Two months later, he was spitting sand out of his mouth. Sad to say, a roadside bomb caught the Humvee guys when they were driving back from a skirmish, and six soldiers were seriously wounded. Sammy was the only casualty.

The problem was, Carmella had married young and was used to having sex every night. A vibrator was no substitute. As the years passed, her sex life was totally absent. She daydreamed of when she was able to enjoy a nightly orgasm. By the time her son and his friends were eighteen, she began to look around for a replacement for her once passionate husband.

A widow was not attractive to the Mafia henchmen who could fly into Palermo and find a virgin as ripe as a juicy fig. Carmella came to the conclusion that perhaps one of Johnnie's friends might substitute for her missing cock although it wasn't missing. Sammy's cock was in a box of pieces of Sammy that the government had returned to her after Sammy's death. She'd soaked the big cock in formaldehyde and kept it in the back of her clothes closet in a large pickle jar. She frequently spent time talking in dialect to the floating penis.

In her heart of hearts, she imagined the penis talking back to her. When she asked what she should do, the penis responded,

"You must remain faithful to me, or you'll go straight to hell. That ain't a good place to end up."

"Okay. Sammy, I try, but it's hard."

"Not as hard as my cock when I was fucking you."

"Yes Sammy. I know. I try."

Being a true believer, she went to confession and asked the priest for advice. The priest was a new immigrant and did not quite understand her predicament. From what he could discern, he thought the woman was asking him to fill in for her dead husband. Unfortunately, Guisepi, who spoke Bolognese dialect, did not understand Sicilian. Also, Father Bennedetto was as gay as a sperm candle that the monasteries provide for the sacred candelabra used for prayers for the dead.

"No, no, Signora, I cannot give you what you want, but lookie out there, there's lots of other men."

As Carmella exited the confessional, she looked around. Yes, there were a few old men, some widows saying prayers, and her son's best friend, Luigi who was lighting a candle for the anniversary of his father's death..

"In case you didn't figure it out, that's-a me."

Of course Carmella knew who I was. As her son's best friend I had eaten dinner with her and Johnny, and the younger sister Susana, countless times. It was only natural that she pigeonholed the eighteen-year-old me!

"Oh my dearest Luigi, I'm-a so distraught, would you walk-a me home?"

"Of course, Signora."

I took her hand and guided her out of the church. Her hand was very warm. When we arrived at the apartment house that I knew so well, Carmella asked him to come upstairs with her, saying,

"I feel-a little faint. Come-a with me and we drink un poco di vino and I feel-a better."

"Sure thing, Signora." I walked her slowly up the stairs, one hand in her hand and one hand on her ass, just to hold on to her in case she fainted. I waited as she fumbled in her handbag to find the key. Once she found it, she opened the door.

As we walked up the stairs, I realized that Johnnie's mom was still a beautiful woman. She had large breasts and a fat ass but her waist was more like an hourglass.

"I wait-a here Luigi. Go get the vino."

"Ok, Mama."

"Oh no. Don't call me that. Call me Carmella.

"Yes, Carmella. Is that ok?"

"Sure, oh-a listen up, I'm feeling a little faint, go into the dining room, take-a the glasses and the bottle of vino, but first help me into my room."

"I feel strange being in the bedroom with you."

"Oh, don't be ri-dicolous."

She pulled on my arm with the strength of a mule.

"Help-a me get off-a my clothes, Luigi. I don't feel-a so good."

I helped her undress down to her panties and her big bra. I offered her a robe, but she refused, saying she felt very hot.

"Now Luigi, I gotta ask-a you a very personal favor."

"Sure, Signora."

Looking at her semi-naked charms, my dick began to pulsate.

She took off her bra, threw it on the chair, and said,

"It would-a be better, Luigi, if you take off-a your clothes. It's-a so hot in here. I give you an Italian massage to cool you off-a."

"If you insist."

I stripped off my garments, and my big dick popped up like a thick slice of Italian bread that was wedged in the toaster.

And she began to massage my back, then my buttocks, and then her fingers brushed my balls, and then she reached under me and grabbed my cock.

"Oh yes, Signora." Thats-a good. I rolled over. Instead of a continuing the massage she headed right for my cock with her mouth wide open.

"I not do this for a long time. If it not feel-a good, you tell-a me."

Not being one to complain, I let her suck for a while. The Signora seemed quite good at cock sucking.

Then she stopped.

"Now my boy, it's-a time you put your banana in the birdie's nest."

"Okay dokey. But let me put on a condom first."

She looked aghast, "Oh no-a. We don't use dat-a thing. It's against Papa's orders."

By that she meant the Pope in the Vatican.

"Okay, okay, it's-a gonna be alright. Signora, Don't-a cry."

But quick as a condor, she grabbed the condom out of my hand and began to chew up the damn thing. When she finally spit it out, it was useless.

I understood her grievances. Before she could call me a finocchio, I got on top of her.

"Your cazzo is as big as a salami, it's-a not all a-going to fit. But we try."

The Signora was kind enough to insert the head of my cock into her bird's nest, to make sure I knew the way.

I started fucking her, very slow at first. Her figa was very tight. As my cock warmed up, I picked up speed.

"Oh, Oh, Luigi," said Johnnie's Mom, " this is-a so much a-better dan dat Chinessey vibratori."

.

"I'm glad," I responded. Then I heard a voice outside the room.

"Hey Ma, where the hell are you hiding?"

And then the door burst open. It was Johnny,

Seeing his best friend and his mom in flagrante delito, he screamed,

"I'll kill you and ran out of the room.

His mom said, "Paya no attention," and added

"Do you think-a we could do it one more time-a?"

Being a young man, I was sure I could get it up. Of course the volume of sperm was reduced, but the Signora issued no complaints.

I left Signora's bedroom somewhat perplexed.

What had I done and why?

Being an Italian story, you gotta know it wasn't over.

The next morning, before I was awake, three mafia goons dragged me out of my bedroom despite my mother's wailing.

It seems that instead of killing me, Johnny went immediately to the consiglieri and told them his best friend was fucking his poor widowed mother.

The first thing the Don asked, when the goon dragged me into his sala, was,

"You got a girlfriend?"

"No Signori"

"Well, that's-a good, because today you getting married."

They dragged me into the salon where Carmella was weeping. A priest officiated, and just like that, I was Johnnie's stepfather.

I started working at Sammy's butcher shop that same week. The old guy, Piero, who had run the place alone since Sammy passed away, was ready to retire. He taught me the ropes.

So I guess everything came to a good Italian ending, and Carmella, who got married at sixteen, is still young enough to get pregnant. It's like being married to your big sister. The baby is due in August, nine months from the day we first had sex, we are expecting our first child. We are hoping it's a boy. Carmella is so big, people are saying it's gonna be twins. Johnny is excited to be the boy's uncle. If it's a girl, I've got a lot more fucking to do.

Everything has calmed down. One of the Don's goons came into the butcher shop the other day and said the Don wanted me to be one of the guys carrying the San Genaro float at the Italian festival. Oh yeah, the goon suggested we name the baby, if it was a maschio, after the Don, Don Vito San Genovese.

Location: Centered on Mulberry Street (between Canal and Houston Streets), along with portions of Grand Street and Hester Street in Little Italy