Chapitre 3874: SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS
Jacob, my son, a junior in high school, was wrestling for the state championship. He and his opponent, Alex Jones, a senior, had met in the finals the year before; my son had lost. Since then both boys had moved up a weight class and were now wrestling at 188 pounds. Jacob was comfortably ahead on points. Aware that time was running out, Alex was on the attack, but Jacob executed a textbook double-leg take down, then rolled Alex onto his back. The clock ran out; Jacob had won.
Jacob and Alex sprang to their feet and shook hands. Jacob's teammates, who had been kneeling at the edge of the mat, sprang to their feet to congratulate my son; his win all but guaranteed the team its second straight state championship. The crowd, however, did not spring. Most of it, out of condition and overweight, staggered to its feet, applauding. Even I, who did pilates or yoga five days a week, was stiff. Bruce, my husband, who had been checking sports scores for his fantasy league, was among the last to stand. He'd put on a lot of weight.
And that's when my life pivoted. I compared the boys to the crowd. It was time to get back into shape.
The next day, over breakfast, I asked my son about CrossFit Memorial Hill, where he worked out. He seemed mildly amused, told me it was not the part-gym/part-country club I was used to, but when I persisted he said sure, he'd introduce me to his trainer.
And so I started busting my butt, changing my diet, sleeping eight hours a day, adopting new habits.
* * * *
My husband was supportive in an I-was-free-to-do-anything-I-wanted-as-long-as-it-didn't-interfere-with-his-life-kind-of-way. He and I had been together since high school; he'd been on the football team, a solid player, not a star; I'd been the editor of the school paper and yearbook. He had been, still was, gregarious and well-liked, which had attracted me; I was studious, private.
Our marriage was generally a happy stable one, although like most people we knew the passion had long ago drained away. Bruce and I now related more through our child than anything else, our shared activities usually involved Jacob: attending his wrestling matches, re-arranging our schedules to his. Otherwise, sometimes for days on end, our interactions were limited to my fixing meals, washing his clothes, answering questions about what he should wear, and reminding him where'd he'd left his keys; at times I felt like his mother. The truth was Bruce preferred hanging with his high school buddies. They were all good guys, fixtures in our community, members of every civic organization they could find: Kiwanis, Rotary, Exchange Club. They were a happy close knit group, getting together to watch sports, go fishing, drink beer, cook out, and, while it should have been clear from their ever expanding waist lines that actual sports were advised, managed to play more fantasy sports that I would have thought existed. They also helped him make a nice living; he sold cars at the town's biggest dealership and although never the top salesmen, he did well.
Unlike most of the wives, I was never really part of the group. While everyone was pleasant and polite, to them I remained Bruce's wife. I hadn't hung with them in high school, preferring my yearbook and newspaper buddies, most of whom had left town. I also had a full time job, working in the public relations office of the Missouri Department of Transportation. Some years into the marriage I'd complained to my therapist about Bruce's focus on his friends and my feeling like a third wheel, but she pointed out that I'd started dating him exactly because he was so popular and social. Now I was complaining about it? She also helped me realize that while I resented feeling like an outsider, in fact I didn't really want to be an insider, an integral part of the group, which would have consumed all my time. I came to accept what I had; Bruce was not perfect, but he was a good man.
Like many of our friends, our sex life had gotten pretty sketchy. Over the last few years he'd approach me, always at night, and using at little boy voice reserved for this situation, ask whether I was in the mood. I'd say yes, even if I wasn't, and take him in my mouth or with my hand. He'd come quickly and usually fall asleep, apologizing the next morning. Sometimes he'd stay awake, use his fingers or mouth on me, sometimes I would come, mostly I wouldn't, but I'd pretend; it made him happy. Intercourse had pretty much stopped. I think it embarrassed him. Clearly unhappy with his pudgy body, he took great pains never to be naked before me. When, on occasion, he did enter me, he'd come almost instantly, before I could even make a pretense of doing so.
I, on the other hand, rarely wanted sex. I am pained to admit that I was no longer attracted to him.
* * * *
To my son's chagrin, I became a regular at the gym. I liked it, I liked the way my body felt, and made a new group of friends, a dozen women about my own age, most much farther along the fitness path than I, but all friendly and encouraging. They were a diverse lot, some single, some married, some well off, some struggling, but when lifting weights in spandex, de rigeur with this crowd, we were all essentially equal.
And so my life changed. Hanging out with my husband and his friends was supplemented by me and the girls; most weekends there was a race or fitness expo to attend. With them I dressed to show off, let my brown hair grow out, wore it a little wilder, and favored jewelry and earrings that drew attention to myself. When I hung out with my husband and his friends, there was also a change in the dynamic. Jacob had encouraged me to dress to show off the new body and Bruce's male friends didn't seem to mind the emerging trim, hard-bodied version of Bruce's wife. I could feel their eyes on me and there was always a comment or two or three about how nice I looked, but there were also catty comments from the women about a skirt that was too short, a top that was too tight, or how picky my taste in food had become. Word filtered back about a few screaming fights that began with a wife complaining about her husband staring at me at a party. Initially my attitude was screw them all, but Bruce asked me to tone it down - "Just to keep the peace" - and after a talk with Jacob, I decided to frump it up. And so with my husband and his friends I dressed conservatively, disguising the goods.
And while it took me awhile to notice - it was already irregular - Bruce stopped approaching me in that little boy voice about sex. At night, sometimes, I'd take the initiative, reach for his manhood, but he'd say he was tired, not in the mood. I stopped trying.
* * * *
After expressing initial doubts about my commitment, Jacob became my biggest supporter. With him I restructured my diet and learned how to exercise. Reclaiming my body became the focal point of my life and as Jacob and I spent time together at the gym, working out at home, preparing meals, taking the time to massage a sore shoulder or leg, we grew closer, more intimate. He became my mentor, showing me what do, leading me.
My evenings, which had been ending with me on the couch doodling on my computer or reading a book while my husband watched sports on television, were now spent with Jacob in the basement, working with weights, or doing interval training, him pushing me through each step. I felt a level of energy I hadn't known in years and would grow antsy hanging around the house. Jacob and I might go for a run, see a movie, or stroll to the local coffee shop, sit and chat, listen to a local kid strum his guitar and sing.
Now the girls in my gym group were not above ogling (or, I learned, sleeping with) the hot young guys who worked out there. At first I shushed them, pointed out that they were young enough to be our children, that one of them was my child. But I have to admit those kids looked mighty good and the truth was I'd ogle them myself. Then one day we were at a triathlon and guys were emerging from the surf and I was admiring them and then one in particular and then I realized it was my son.
Yep, my son was a hunk.
* * * *
Jacob turned eighteen in January of his senior year. When Bruce and I asked him what he wanted; he surprised us. He'd be headed to college soon and wanted to spend some time with each of us. He proposed that he and his Dad go fishing at a friend's camp near Branson. For me, he said he'd always wanted to go to Mardi Gras.
The night he got back from the camp, I asked Jacob how'd it gone. It turns out his father had invited his buddies to join them. Instead of time alone with his Dad, it was like any of the cook-outs the gang threw during the summer.
"I'm sorry son, I knew you were looking forward to some alone time with your Dad."
More amused than anything else, he said, "Yeah, but it was okay. Are we really surprised? The most important thing for Dad is his friends. And they're good guys, there's nothing wrong with any of them."
* * * *
One night, the week before we were to leave for New Orleans, my son knocked on my bedroom door. I asked him to come in. I was wearing only a night shirt but, as I've said, I'd gotten used to being barely dressed around him.
He had a cat that ate the canary grin on his face.
"Well," I said.
"I asked the hotel to contact me if they had a possible upgrade on the room. Well, somebody cancelled. I was able to move us to a third floor room on Bourbon Street, with a balcony."
I imagined what that would cost, but heck, it would be fun and after the disappointing weekend with his father, he deserved it. "That's wonderful son."
"What are you planning to wear in New Orleans?"
"Tee-shirts, shorts."
"I was thinking, I'm going to the world's biggest, most-risque, wildest outdoor party with a total fox. Why don't we go shopping, buy a few things a little more daring. With all the work you've done, wouldn't it be fun to show the world."
"With your Mom?"
"With my total fox of a Mom."
Smiling, I said, "And what if I don't want to?"
"It's my birthday, you gotta do what I say."
I didn't, but opportunities to celebrate the new me at home were limited. Why the hell not?
* * * *
My son was serious about me displaying the goods. He'd scoped out a number of out-there shops. I'd dress up for him, he'd push me towards something a little tighter, a little shorter. I pretended not to, but I enjoyed myself as much as he did. I'd worked hard for this body; showing it off to an appreciative audience: my son, the sales clerks, and several other shoppers who gathered around, was fun. Spending a few days in New Orleans advertising my physique was going to be a blast. Still, what if...
I sidled up to my son. "What if we run into someone we know."
Jacob smiled, a slightly patronizing smile, and said, "It's Mardi Gras in the French Quarter, we will not run into anyone from Dad's circle of friends. If we do they'll be too busy checking out your bod to see anything else. But even if they do, it's Mardi Gras, you can wear a mask or big sunglasses to hide your identity."
He was right. It would be fun to be anonymous for a few days, to show off, and with my championship wrestler of a son with me, I'd be well protected.
"Okay, but I'm counting on you to keep me safe."
"Yes ma'am, that's what we boy-toys are for."
I bought a skin tight red dress that barely covered my ass, a Saint's tee-shirt that exposed my midriff and matching short denim skirt, a skin tight green dress that left one shoulder exposed and barely covered my ass, and a gold halter-top dress that barely held my breasts in place and barely covered my ass. Then the shoes. I'd looked at several pair. Fabulous, way too high, impractical for a day on my feet walking around a city, but man would they make my ass and legs look good. I hesitated; Jacob promised me daily foot rubs; I bought the shoes.
* * * *
We got to New Orleans on Saturday, checked in. The room had only one bed. I looked at me son.
"I didn't tell you?"
"No."
"Sorry. In all the excitement I guess I forget. I figured I had to grab the room when it came open. You can have whichever side you prefer."
It was a big bed. We'd be fine.
* * * *
We'd arrived too late in the day to find a decent spot for Endymion, so decided to skip it. The hotel got us reservations at Mister's B's and I put on the green dress and, studying myself in the mirror, tried on several sets of shoes before deciding on blue pumps with four inch heels. When done my son, who'd been watching me, came up from behind, placed his open palm on the back of my neck, squeezed - I could feel the strength of his hand - and said what I was, immodestly, thinking, "I love the shoes; you look wicked hot."
Fishing for another compliment, I said, "You don't think its too much?"
"Oh yeah, way too much. You should have to pay to see something that looks this good, but its Mardi Gras, its time to show off. There are no rules."
* * * *
The restaurant was only a few blocks away. We walked. No one was subtle about looking at me; there were scattered wolf-whistles. Digging the attention, I curled my arm in my son's. Jacob enjoyed playing my escort and told me how good I looked. At the restaurant eyes followed us to the table. After a couple glasses of wine I grew increasingly sanguine with the attention and when I went to the bathroom, put an extra-wiggle in my walk; I sensed the heads turning. After dinner we headed for the House of Blues, Galatic was playing; we danced, laughed, got back to the room in the early morning, my hand in his.
We both showered. I wore a gown, Jacob boxers. I looked at him, his body, his chest; god he was beautiful. He sat on the bed next to me, laid my feet on his lap, gave me my promised foot rub. His hands were strong and masterful; it felt wonderful.
I woke up in the middle of the night. Jacob had rolled over, his body was against mine, his arm draped across my chest. My husband rarely touched me in bed. Instead he'd put his pyjamas on in the bathroom, turn off the lights, get in bed, pull a heavy blanket over himself, roll over, start snoring. It felt good to be held my a man, even if it was my son. I intertwined my fingers in his and went back to sleep.
* * * *
When I woke the next morning Jacob was gone; there was a note on the coffee maker: "On a run."
I was sitting on our balcony, about to make a second cup of coffee, when the door opened and Jacob, wearing a tee-shirt and running shorts, held up a small bag and said, "Coffee au lait?"
For the uninitiated, coffee au lait is a New Orleans treat: a blend of dark roast and chicory, brewed strong, half-scalded (not steamed) milk. Good, real good.
We drank the coffee and I, in an act of supreme will-power and with my son as inspiration - he'd vowed to stay in training despite Mardi Gras - headed for the New Orleans Athletic Club. I wore some very hot very tight work out pants and a tank top. After ninety minutes with the weights we walked back to the hotel, more than our share of eyes following our progress.
* * * *
We decided to spend the day wandering the French Quarter, downtown, the warehouse district, the Bywater. While my son showered I donned the Saint's tee-shirt, denim skirt, and moderately sensible shoes, then studied myself in the mirror. I thought about the last twenty-four hours, all the men watching me, not hiding their admiration. I did look good. My body was strong and tight; my shoulders wide, my waist slim, my hips narrow, my belly flat and toned; maybe not a six pack, but pretty damn close. My arms and legs were sculpted, lean and muscular. I flexed, following the smooth lines of muscles. I turned around, looked at my ass. I don't believe it had ever ridden so high and tight on my body. I turned back around and brought my hands to my breasts. Big "C's," small "D's," they had not reclaimed the firmness of my twenties, but the work in the gym had it's effect. They were firm and, even if helped by my bra, stood high on my chest.
I looked myself over again. Some might say it was almost a masculine build, but I liked it; it showed off the reclaimed power of my body.
I turned my focus to my outfit: it emphasized, hell it advertised, all this. I was presenting myself as a sexual being, proud of my body, ready to celebrate all the things it could do for me. I was not a demure girl waiting for the right boy to notice her at the soda fountain, but a sexual predator who'd hunt down the kind of companion who could satisfy her. I thought of some of my gym pals, explicit that among the reasons they worked so hard was so they could bed the kind of hard-bodied young men who could satisfy them, tired of slovenly men their own age.
The thoughts thrilled me, but also troubled me. I was aroused: I had to dial it back. I was not out hunting for sex, I was spending time with my son, a few days of alone-time before he headed for college. On the other hand, more than anyone besides myself, who had overseen this rebirth, the one who encouraged my new look, and who, in the course of my transformation, had become as much companion and friend as son.
We were in New Orleans, at Mardi Gras; it was a world where judgment was suspended. I took off the sensible shoes, put on heels and some big sunglasses, checked the mirror. These wide frames would maintain my anonymity; I could be whomever I wanted to be.
* * * *
Jacob and I roamed. We sat by the river, ate crawfish and beignets (strictly off my diet), listened to street bands, danced, watched jugglers and tumblers, wandered in and out of markets. When the crowd got too dense I'd nestle my body to his and move with him through the mob. We ended the day on Canal Street, watching Bacchus, my son standing behind me, his arms wrapped around me, protecting me as rider after rider pelted me with beads, toys, and trinkets, far too many to catch or carry. When the parade passed the crowd streamed into the French Quarter. At the moment I had no desire to bull through that sea of people and Jacob, sensing my reluctance, suggested we head for Woldenberg Park along the river.
We sat on a bench overlooking the Mississippi. The wind blew off the water at a steady pace; I snuggled up to my son, he draped his arm over my shoulder. I was grateful for the warmth of his body.
"Mom, I've been so proud of you these last months, you've worked so hard to get back in shape and you've most definitely succeeded; you're a total fox, guys can't take their eyes off you."
I was a bit embarrassed, but mostly pleased. "Thank you, and thank you for working with me." I made a muscle, gestured to my body. "I couldn't have done it without you." I started a new sentence, "If only your...," thought better of it, stopped.
Jacob understood. "Yeah, Dad should be more interested. I mean, he's great, but it's his friends, his business, sports, that matter to him. But still, you gotta wonder, I mean a piece of ass like you in his bed?" He pulled me closer. "Of course, that means I get you all to myself."
"So that's what I am? A piece of ass?"
"Well, I mean you're a lot more than that, but..." He stopped, then, with a mischievous look on his face, added, "I think I'll quit there."
I laughed and kissed his cheek.
"Ready to fight the crowd?"
"As your knight errant, mi'lady," he answered.
We plunged back into the French Quarter. I held tight to my son as we worked our way though the mob, strangers' bodies pushing against mine. When we hit an open spot on Royal Street I became the immediate focus of a group of drunk young men, who pointed at my chest and shouted, "SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS."
I looked to Jacob, who, with a good-natured smile on his face put his arm around my shoulders. "Sorry guys, but those tits belong to me.""Hey man, its Mardi Gras, time to share."
"Maybe later guys, maybe later."
In the few remaining blocks on the way to the hotel I was, on several more occasions, the subject of the same attention and same chant. My son would hold me, claim possession, give the happily drunk chanters the same response. I felt safe.
* * * *
Back in the room I slumped onto a chair, pulled my heels from my very sore feet.
Jacob sat on the bed. "Time for your foot rub?"
"That would be great. Do you think I should switch to more practical shoes?"
"Your call Mom, but you look great in those things and we'll do less walking tomorrow. There are a bunch of bands playing on the levee. We'll hang there most of the day."
Jacob motioned me over. I thought about changing out of my micro-dress, but the lure of the foot rub was to powerful to ignore. I lay on my stomach; my dress crept up my butt, I reached down and with limited success tried pulling it back over my rump.
He started on my feet.
"Thanks for protecting me from those boys."
"You're welcome, but they were harmless. Flashing your breasts at Mardi Gras is a local custom and heck, I can understand why they wanted to see yours, they're magnificent."
His hands felt good on my feet.
"Thank you, I think." Then added, half in jest, "By dressing like this do you think I'm inviting people to notice, to chant?"
"Well, that's too profound a question for me, but I do know if I was in their position I'd be checking you out, envying the man you're with."
"Really son, jealous of a young guy like you hanging out with an old lady like me."
Jacob laughed, a short laugh, then said no more.
I bit. "What's so funny?"
"You don't know, do you?"
His hands felt good on my feet.
"No. Why don't you tell me."
Jacob took a second, organizing his thoughts, wondering how far he should go.
"Well, Mom, guys my age are looking for someone exactly like you, a sexy older woman. Think about it, a girl my age may be pretty, but you're frickin' gorgeous, steaming hot, and girls our age well, they're amateurs in bed, a woman like you, to put it bluntly, well guys think you know the secrets of seduction, know what you want, know what we want, know how to make sure we both get it. We figure you're experienced, experimental, unembarrassed. You're not using sex to get something else, you just like sex. The dating scene at high school, its pretty shallow and manipulative. An older woman is going to be confident, genuine, have depth and maturity, have lots to say, have experiences we don't, will be more interesting, are emotionally stable. We figure you know what you want, what you don't; we're not getting a girl who had a breakdown when Kristin Stewart cheated on Rob."
I rolled onto my shoulder, looked at my son.
"Should I be worried that you've given this so much thought? Who have you been sleeping with?"
"A gentlemen never tells."
I rolled back on my stomach. "Well, I'm not some cougar, I'm your mother."
He went back to working my feet.
"That's the great thing about being here, though. We can pretend, be uninhibited, be whatever we want to be. What they don't know won't hurt them."
* * * *
I took a shower, considered masturbating, but I my son was in the next room, too close. While he took his shower I picked out a gown. While not risque, it was lighter and smaller than what I wore last night. He came out the bathroom wearing gym shorts and I watched him put on a tank top, his tight clothes emphasizing the perfection of his body.
We got into bed, goofed on our computers for a bit, I turned off my light. He did the same.
"Jacob, last night I woke up in the middle of the night; you'd rolled over and were holding me in your arms."
"Sorry, I didn't mean to ..."
"No, no, you didn't wake me. It felt nice."
I got on my side, facing away from him. He moved over, lay an arm across my chest.
"You going to the gym in the morning?"
"Yeah, thought I'd swim, then work on the weights."
"Good, no sneaking out this time. Wake me when you get up, we'll go together."
I covered his hand with mine and nestled my back on his chest. It had been a long day; we were soon asleep.
* * * *
My work-out the following morning was tough, Jacob's near brutal. People didn't come to Mardi Gras to push themselves this hard, but Jacob wanted the state wrestling championship and the tournament was only a month away.
Back at the hotel I decided to wear the short electric-blue off-the-shoulder dress, clinched with a chunky white belt. I tried on a bra, decided it didn't work, laid it aside. Based on Jacob's assurance that walking would be minimal, I wore some killer white heels. I swept my brunette hair up into a quiff and put on some gaudy costume jewelry, including hoop earrings, finishing with large sunglasses that worked as well as a mask. It was a look designed to draw attention; if the world was going to see me as an oversexed cougar, who was I to disappoint? When my son saw the results I got an appreciative whistle. And although we were not going to run into anyone we knew I made sure Jacob wore sunglasses and covered his magnificent body with some loose fitting clothes. Just in case, best to play it safe.
With two chairs and a blanket, we staked out a place on the river. Bands played all day long: Rockin' Dopsie Jr. & the Zydeco Twisters, Amanda Shaw & The Cute Guys, the Rebirth Brass Band, Dwayne Dopsie & the Zydeco Hellraisers, the Ed Perkins Band. We danced, ate (not as healthy as we should), basked in the sun (we brought sun block), and I slipped into the role Jacob had outlined for me the night before: hard-bodied cougar hanging with her young stud at Mardi Gras. I cuddled up to my boy; kissed him on the cheek, lay on the ground with my head on his leg. He undid my quiff and ran his hand through my hair. Occasionally, I'd take a walk, strut my stuff, feel the eyes on me: the lustful stares of men, the catty glances of women. I was turned-on and when I saw two college-aged boys staring at my chest my braless nipples hardened until clearly outlined in my dress.
After dark we wandered up Canal Street to watch Orpheus. One of the floats stopped in front of us and the riders started chanting, "SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS." The crowd joined in. I looked at my son, smiled, my eyes asking permission. He looked around, made sure he could keep me safe, nodded yes. I pulled down my top, exposed my breasts, felt an unexpected and powerful shot of adrenaline. My breasts flushed red, undetectable in the dark; my nipples swelled and hardened.
The crowd went crazy. A guy on the float tossed me a teddy bear.
After the parade passed I locked my arm in my son's and we worked our way through the crowd, so thick that at times I had trouble breathing. Whenever we hit an open spot some guys would start with, "SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS." Then, a block from the hotel, a college fraternity lined both sides of the street, creating a gauntlet between them. They pointed and soon their, "SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS," was picked up by the entire crowd. I looked to my son, he nodded yes. Feeling the same rush of arousal I had earlier, I pulled the top of my dress down to unanimous cheers, beads landing at my feet. I smiled, curtsied, covered up, locked my arm in Jacob's, and we plowed ahead, stumbling into the hotel lobby with, amazingly, the teddy bear in one piece. Winded and tired, I turned to my son, threw my arms around him, said, "My hero," and gave him a giant kiss on the lips.
We rode the elevator to our room; we could hear the crowd roaring outside. We stepped out on the balcony; the people on the street were looking to the left, where two balconies down a lovely young blonde woman, clearly drunk, was flashing her chest as her boyfriend corralled the beads hurled by the crowd.
The mob turned to me. "SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS." I nodded yes and my son stepped behind me, undid the straps holding my top in place, letting it fall away; we were blitzed with beads. Jacob shielded my breasts with his hands to a chorus of boos, then pulled his hands away to boisterous cheers. Laughing, we retreated into the room, Jacob closing the door with his foot.
I turned to face my son, my breasts exposed, kissed him, and went to fit the straps of my dress in place. Jacob said, "Don't, they're beautiful."
I stopped, suddenly a little shy.
"You think so? Not old lady boobs?"
"They're wonderful, you heard the frat boys cheer."
"They'd had a lot to drink."
He smiled, said, "I haven't," took a step towards me, held out his hand. "You've been showing them off all day. Do you mind?"
I looked down, didn't say yes, didn't say no, which was close enough to permission. He reached out, placed two fingers, just the fingertips, on the top curve of my breast. My eyes had followed Jacob's hand, now they returned to his face. I sucked my lower lip into my mouth; my breasts flushed, my nipples grew hard, my breathing deepened. He stepped closer.
I put my hand on his hip, let out a long breath.
He dragged his fingers over the swell of my breasts, stopping besides my nipple. My sharp exhalation of air left no question how it felt; it felt wonderful.
"Does that feel good?" he asked.
"Yes."
He cupped the breast, squeezed gently. Who would have thought my big burly son had such a sensitive sweet touch?
His hands left my breast.
"Time for your foot rub."
Somewhat disoriented, missing his hand on my chest, it took a long second for me to focus on my feet. They were not as sore as yesterday, but still, I'd been walking in heels.
"I'd like that."
He stepped aside, directing me to the bed. When I started to pull the straps of my dress back over my shoulders he said, "No, if you don't mind, I like seeing them."
I looked at him, at those sincere blue eyes. In a quiet voice I said, "Okay."
I lay on my back and with baby oil he retrieved from the bathroom he worked my feet, moved up my calves, returned to my feet. His hands were powerful and his touch firm and knowing; I could get used to this. When he finished he capped the baby oil, set it on the table by the bed, lay next to me; held himself up on his elbow. A single slippery finger traced a path across my breasts, avoided my areolas. His touch was light. My nipples jumped to life.
He said, "I know I'm not supposed to do this."
He took a breast in his hand, kneaded the flesh, moved to the other.
"On the other hand, its Mardi Gras, a time when you're supposed to do what you're not supposed to do."
Taking his time, openly relishing my body, his finger tips made trails across my breasts. Electricity flowed through my body.
"And you and I are the only ones who will ever know."
Up til now he'd avoided my nipples, but now he captured one between his fingers, rolled it back and forth.
"And we won't tell anyone, will we mother."
I looked at him, his eyes a perfect blue.
"No."
"So no one will know how naughty we were."
Now both his hands were on my breasts, expertly inflaming the firm flesh. I closed my eyes, immersed in erotic sensations. My legs drifted apart, further exposing myself, and in a motion slight but constant and unmistakably sexual, I rocked my hips. Keeping his hands on my chest, Jacob moved into the lotus position and said, "Undo your belt."
I reached for it, did so. It fell free, exposing my panties, the tiniest of triangles. They barely covered my sex.
"I like it that you shave."
I rolled my head towards him and, eyes half-open and dilated, looked at him. My tongue drifted across my lips.
"You're so beautiful," he said.
I reached for him, touched his knee. "Thank you."
His hand slid under my panties, a finger wormed its way inside my wet sex, then jiggled and jounced. I moaned and squirmed as he patiently, carefully, taking his time, worked my breasts and sex, exploring, cataloging every gasp, groan, and shudder. Two fingers were inside me, he worked my sex with the heel of his hand. The fingers found my g-spot; I bucked, grunting from my solar plexus.
He moved the heel of his hand to my clit, rolling it on my body. He continued playing with me; he was careful, deliberate, attentive, constantly adjusting the pressure and motion to my needs. With his other hand he captured a nipple, rolled it between his fingers, then kneaded my full warm breasts.
"You're an incredibly sexy women."
I lay a hand on his thigh; squeezed the hard muscular flesh.
"Everyman's fantasy."
The fire in my loins intensified; I grabbed the bed spread, twisted it in my hand.
He kept going; the pleasure kept building, lapping against the dam, my orgasm approaching with the certainty of a flood. Despite the extraordinary day, despite the crowd roaring outside, all I could think about was my son's hands, the joy filling my body. Jacob rolled my clit against my body; his fingers slid over my g-spot; I spasmed in delight. The flood was implacable, closing in; it spilled over the dam. A sheen of sweat covered my body. Breathing hard, sucking in air, I looked at my son through lidded eyes; he was so sexy, so beautiful; the pressure on my clit and cunt was constant, unremitting.
I started gasping, over and over, "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh."
He kept it up, incrementally increasing the pace, driving me forward, the pressure building in my groin, the dam cracking. I rolled my hips, moving in time with his hand.
Uunhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh."
My leg muscles tensed; I jerked my hips, but no matter which way I lunged his hand held me in place. His fingers were deep inside me, the pressure on my clit indefatigable firm unstoppable.
"Uuunhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh."
"You're hot and sexy."
"Uuuuunnhhhhhhhhhh."
"You're a walking wet dream."
"Uuuuuuunnnhhhhhhhhhhhhh."
"You're a goddess, a divine sexy piece of ass."
"Uuuuuuuuunnnhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."
"Right now, all over the city, men are fucking their wives and girl friends, wishing it was you."
My mind unhinged; I saw sheets of vibrant colors, reds and greens and rainbows. The dam's foundation collapsed and the orgasm, born between my legs, surged through me like a tsunami, bulldozed everything before it, then plowed back and laid waste to the rubble. I writhed, twisted, and turned, but Jacob held me in place, continued to work my sex, the orgasm echoed and rebounded through me, back and forth, until I lay there, inert, covered in sweat, panting, slowly drifting back to reality, the hotel room walls crawling back into focus, the crowd roaring outside seeping back into my consciousness.
Jacob took his hand from my sex. Weakly, I turned my head. "Ohmigod, that was fantastic."
He spun around, ending up between my legs, removed my panties, said, "We're just getting started," and licked the length of my pussy, starting at the bottom, ending at the top, slow and firm and hard; my god, even his tongue was strong.
I placed a hand atop his head. "Ohhhh yessss."
He ate me. His tongue and lips explored my pussy, every crevice, every fold, every corner, somehow re-igniting the fire in my sodden loins. His face pressed to me, he drank deeply, savored the smell; what started as a pilot light became a simmer, then a mild heat, a tight blue flame, a bonfire, a forest fire, a run away nuclear furnace. I held his head to me, squealed and jibbered, shivered and shook. He reached for my breasts, covered them with his hands, squeezed and kneaded, then tweaked, pulled, and twisted my nipples. I humped his face, rolling my hips, directing him to the next place I wanted him to go. It was wonderful; he was wonderful. Gasping and quivering, I was on the verge of another powerful orgasm when he stopped. I looked up. He was standing at the foot of the bed, his face covered with pussy juice. He dropped his shorts, his cock swayed in front of him.
It had been years since I'd seen it. My husband had a perfectly satisfactory penis; my son's was extraordinary, maybe seven inches of thick pulsating man-meat, erect, standing tall and hard against his flat muscular stomach. Bright blue veins ran up its side; the brown head was swollen and dripped pre-cum. I couldn't stop looking at it.
He sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand up my leg; his middle finger slipped between my pussy lips, toyed with my vulva, stroked my swollen clit. My mouth fell open in a silent breathless moan. He got on all fours, moved forward, teased my nipples with his cock, coated them with pre-cum, then slid his dick between my breasts and pressed them together so they encased his shaft. I covered his hands with my own and his beautiful muscles rippling, he fucked my tits in long slow strokes. When the tip of his cock approached my mouth I lifted my head and licked it. He tasted good. He moved down my body. I gazed at his cock with a dreamy stare, knowing, accepting, craving what was about to happen.
Jacob, his eyes on mine, gripped his shaft, pumped it slowly. Drops of juice leaked out. I ran my tongue along my lips and reached down to finger my horny clit. He smiled, rubbed the cock-head on my clit, then slid the crown down the length of my wet puffy vulva, moved it back up, drew circles around my clit. If his plan was to make me so hot I could deny him nothing: mission accomplished. Every part of me craved his sex.
"Fuck me."
Jacob pushed the swollen cock-head inside my pussy, then paused, teasing me with the promise of more. I looked into his eyes, arched my back, flashed my most inviting smile, spread my legs wider.
He eased a few inches in, paused, pulled back. The next stroke drove deeper, more of his cock pulsed inside me. I gasped in pleasure and then, with a final thrust, he was all the way inside me.
My husband and I hadn't had sex in, well, it'd been awhile, and Jacob's was the biggest thing I'd ever had inside me. His thick staff filled me completely. I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his neck, moaning in delight, relishing the forbidden sensation, asking him to go slow. For a few moments he was still, then in a gentle rocking motion he moved his cock inside me, rotating his hips in a corkscrew motion, an inch or so at a time, sliding around more than moving in and out. His cock grazed my g-spot, which crackled in delight. My clit was trapped between our pubic bones; he tolled over it each time he rocked back and forth.
His mouth on my cunt had left me wildly aroused and while that peak had flattened out as I'd contemplated, readied myself, to take him inside my body, Jacob's expert fucking was driving me back up that mountain top. He kept moving against me, patiently, carefully, carrying me forward. My loins heated up, but it was not a fiery furnace, more of a gentle warmth that infiltrated every part of my body and lay claim to my soul.
Both of us covered in a thin layer of sweat, I wrapped my arms around his back, my legs around his waist, held him tight to me, jammed my hips into him each time he rocked forward, doubling the impact on my clit. The pressure was building; I needed, coveted the release. I dug my fingers into his muscular back. He was so beautiful, his cock was inside me. He was fucking his mother, I was fucking my son.
I dragged my fingers down his back. The pressure in my belly grew and grew and then a wave crested, flowed though me; my muscles clenched, every joint stiffened; I was coming, but it was not an explosion; instead my body was suffused with a serene perfect joy. I whimpered and sighed; I had come, come for him, come for my son. Juice leaked from me, seeped between our conjoined bodies. His dick was coated with my hot sweet cream. I held him to me; I couldn't breathe, think, or speak. I couldn't see. I just existed, floating in a peaceful black abyss with my perfect lover-son.
Jacob was still, his balls resting against my ass. I held him, felt life seep back into my body, muttered "Ohh wow," reached down, squeezed his ass, thought about all the diapers I'd wrapped around that perfect tush.
I stroked his face, kissed him. "I can't believe we just did that. It was wonderful."
He kissed me back. We kissed some more, then some more.
Jacob, holding me to him, rolled onto his back. I sat atop him. He said, "I want to watch you."
I placed his cock-head to my vagina and slid down, slowly, until I was impaled on his oversized shaft. I folded my knees and legs under me, sat upright, groaned in delight; I was filled with my son's hard meat. I arched my back, cupped my breasts, moved up and down. Jacob pulled me forward and licked and suckled on the same nipples he fed from as a child. He reached behind me, stroked, squeezed my ass; I glided up and down his stiff prick, filling myself with his erection. Waves of intense erotic sensations rippled through me. My son's hands explored the hard body he'd helped create; it was the kind of body designed to absorb an intense fuck from a powerful gifted lover.
At the end of each stroke I ground my clit on his shaft, An orgasm, violent and strong, was building inside me. As my cunt adjusted to his massive prick we fucked harder and faster, primal groans mixed with gasps and whines. We were uninhibited, wild animals, celebrating the proscribed pleasure spilling from our melded bodies.
"God, your cunt is great, tight hot wet, better than I dreamed."
My ears directed the words straight to my cunt, which flared with each syllable. All my life I'd been a good girl, I'd never cheated on my husband. But now it was Mardi Gras and I had a bad girl bod and wore bad girl clothes and I loved it. I was the ultimate cougar, fucking a stud half my age; like Mardi Gras I was wicked and depraved; I was fucking my son!
"Do you like my big hard dick up your cougar cunt, cause I'm gonna pound your slick slut hole and make you come and come and come."
His words fed the fantasy I'd lived all day long; I was a beautiful hard-bodied cock-hungry older woman ready to be power-fucked by her young big-dicked stud of a lover. What would a good cougar say?
I dug my nails into my breasts and moaned, "Mmmmmm oh please yes baby, fuck me with your big fat cock. Ohhhhhhhh fuckkkkkkkk, soooooooooo fuckkkiiiinnnggggg goooooooodddddddd, I love your cock. I love your big cock stretching me; stuff every inch of your monster-dick into me. Oh yes baby, mmmmm, ooooooooohhhhhhhh yessssssss, spilt me open with your giant cock. Teach this cougar a lesson, fuck her til she can't stand, let's find out if I'm ready for your beautiful fucking cock."
"I'm gonna make you come until you can't walk you sweet sexy bitch."
"YES, I WANT IT! I want to come all over your fucking cock. Yeahhhhh, fuck me, fuck fuck fuck. I want your big cock in my tight cunt-hole."
"You tight-cunted cock-hungry fuck-machine. I love dicking you."
"Dick me, dick me, dick me, dick me."
I came first, groaning loudly, urging my son to fuck me harder. He did so, driving deep into me with powerful thrusts that lifted me from the bed; my breasts bounced before me. We fucked harder faster, each thrust shaking my body. I howled and Jacob's jaw locked down; he grunted from deep within his belly, a sound I felt as much as I heard, then erupted inside me, filling me with torrents of his sweet sweet cum. I ground my hips, rode his cock, fondled his testicles, felt another orgasm burrowing out from the depths of my soul. I let go of his balls, reached for my clit, diddled it against my body. My son took hold of my tits, rolled the nipples between his fingers; it bordered on painful, it was delightful.
I came, shouting, "OH FUCK," then came again, jerking hard on my son, shrieking in feral febrile heat. I rode out the waves of my climax as they catapulted through my body and then, suddenly, I was spent, exhausted; I felt battered. I'd scaled the mountain; I could go no higher. I fell forward, my body molded itself to his, then rolled off him. I tried reaching for his dick, but co-ordination had deserted me, my hand flopped helplessly on his thigh.
My son, nuzzled against me, took hold of my hand, placed it on his semi-hard, wet cock. I dragged my finger along its length, then cupped his balls. They were covered in girl-cum. I reached for my own sex; our intermingled juices, his cum, my cream, dripped from me.
Feeling boneless, all tension gone, I rested my head on his shoulder. My throat was dry, my fingers tingled. There were tears in my eyes. I placed a hand on my son's chest. His heart, like mine, was pounding. I kissed his neck and face, savoring the afterglow; we embraced, Jacob caressed my breasts.
"Wow Mom, that was better than I dreamed. You're sexy and wonderful and the most incredible lover, I came so hard."
"Oh son, it's never been that good."
* * * *
When I woke there was a note on his pillow: "Out for a run, be back soon. Love you. You're amazing."
I got in the shower. My pussy lips were sore. I hadn't been fucked like that in, well, ever. I was drying myself off, trying to make sense out of, what to say about last night, when the hotel room door opened and Jacob shouted, "I'm back." I could smell the coffee he'd picked up. I put on a robe and stepped out of the bathroom.
With a big happy grin on his face he leaned in, kissed me, said, "Good morning," and handed me a cup of coffee.
I sat down, pulled off the lid, took a deep whiff, brought it to my lips. I was still unsure of what to say. The consternation must have been evident on my face, for Jacob sat next to me, put his big hand on my shoulder. "Trying to make sense of last night?"
"Yeah."
He took my hand in his. "Me too."
He looked at me, waiting for me to say something. It had been forbidden, but it didn't feel wrong. It had felt wonderful; my body still felt good. I didn't know what to say.
He waited, just the right amount of time, then asked, "Mind if I go first?"
I nodded no.
"I guess you know this, but I love you. And over the last year, well, I've never felt closer to anyone. We've become friends, albeit one who I can't help but notice is a complete fricking fox. When I was out running I kept thinking about last night, trying to figure out what to do, what to say, what it meant, but I don't know. Finally, I figured this: we got one more day down here, why ruin it? Let's enjoy the day, we can thrash this all out when we get home."
I leaned against him, took his hand in mine, played with his fingers. The opportunity not to decide was too tempting to pass up. "Okay."
Jacob smiled, stood. "I'm going to take a shower, then we can go see Zulu. But," grabbing the blow dryer,"let's do your hair."
He did, then went into the bathroom. In the closet there was that tight halter-top gold dress; it would barely hold my breasts in place, barely cover my ass. Was it really the right thing after last night? I stared at it. Oh, whatthefuck, I'd look spectacular, had no plan B, and Jacob was right, we had one more day in the freedom in New Orleans, why ruin it. I had just squiggled into the dress when my freshly showered son shouted, "All clear," and stepped from the bathroom, a towel around his waist.
He stopped, studied me, said, "Man, do you look good," pulled a blue polo shirt and a pair of red shorts from his suitcase, said, "No peeking."
I turned my back to him, glancing in the mirror as he dressed. He was gorgeous. I returned to the bathroom and fixed my hair; Jacob stood behind me and combed his. When done we put on sunglasses, he took my hand in his, we headed out the door.
We caught Zulu and most of Rex on St. Charles Avenue, then spent the day in the French Quarter, experiencing the improbable: a mind-boggling array of outlandish costumes, drinking Hand Grenades with the Krewe of Elvis (yeah, everyone dresses like Elvis), listening to Pete Fountain, attending the Drag Queen Costume Contest. Through it all I clung tightly to my son; the crowd was dense. After last night I'd wondered whether Jacob and I would be comfortable with each other, but that was not a problem and I found myself drifting back into the role Jacob I'd played the day before: a cougar enjoying the anarchy of Mardi Gras with her hunky young man. I enjoyed the eyes on me, enjoyed advertising my physique. I pressed my body to Jacob; it felt comfortable and natural when his arm snaked around me.
I also came to another realization. I knew my near non-existent sex life with my husband was unsatisfactory, but had blurred the memory of how good sex could be. Last night had been a revelation. Sex was terrific. My new body was more responsive, enjoyed sex more than ever. I'd noticed all those young hunks at the gym looking at me; had deflected their flirting. Now I knew those boys could be tremendous lovers. I had never cheated on my husband, but was I willing to return to a sexless existence, a life devoted to a man who was a friend and roommate, but no longer a lover? I held Jacob's hand even tighter in mine.
I also was greeted with, "SHOW YOUR TITS," most everyplace we went, but kept the girls in place, waiting for the crowd's attention to be diverted by another lady willing to share the goods.
* * * *
It was after sundown when we headed back to the hotel, my son plowing through the crowd, I riding in his wake. I'd worn heels again - I looked so good in them - and my feet ached. Two blocks from the hotel a bunch of guys stepped aside, creating an open space around the two of us, and chanted, "SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS."
This might be my last chance to play the cougar for an audience. I looked at my son, smiled, asking permission with my eyes. He nodded and reached behind my neck, unfastened the halter. I lowered it, showed the girls; the crowd roared and I loved it; I was a hot older chick, uninhibited, celebrating her body, her looks, her sexuality. I'd been on slow burn much of the day and the heat between my legs grew brighter. I pulled the top back over my breasts and Jacob re-fastened the halter. Someone handed me a beer. I took a quick swig, turned to my son, hugged him. The crowd screamed its approval.
* * * *
In the hotel room I took off my shoes, laid down for my foot rub. The noise from the street was intense; the crowd sounded like it was were standing on our balcony. As Jacob worked my feet and calves I kept glancing outside. Jacob noticed.
"Wanna go out on the balcony? Last chance."
I did; I nodded my head yes
My shoes off we ventured outside. Jacob stood behind me, wrapping his arms around my body. We watched, anonymously, for several minutes before some people pointed at me and started shouting, "SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS." I leaned back into Jacob and he undid my halter. I took hold of the straps, lowered them, exposing my chest. The crowd cheered. My nipples hardened. I covered my breasts and turned my head towards my son. He kissed me, a peck on the lips.
The crowd continued, "SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS." I dropped my top again, basking in the attention, feeling it between my legs. I threw my arms in the air and leaned back, letting Jacob support my weight. Jacob shielded my breasts with his hands, the mob booed lustily.
"SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS."
My fingers intertwined with Jacob's and I drew both our hands to my breasts; Jacob, ever so slightly, squeezed them. It felt so good. I pulled my hands, and his, from my breasts; a roar of approval rose from the street.
"SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS."
I ran my hands down the sides of my son's body to his legs. He covered my breasts to loud jeers, then openly squeezed them; the crowd screamed. He showed them, once again covered them, this time dipping his index fingers behind his hands to stroke my erect nipples.
I was on-fire; I was carnality incarnate, on display, unconstrained by any rules, a sexual sacrifice for an entire city. Jacob took his hands from my breasts and, encouraged by the resulting screams of approval. I pressed my body against his; his cock was hard. My knees wobbling, gasping in delight, I shimmied my ass on his dick, turned my head, kissed him, worked my lips vigorously against his before thousands of wildly screaming witnesses.
We turned back to the crowd. People were hollering, pointing at us. I took Jacob's hands in mine, brought them to my breasts. He covered them, squeezed and kneaded them. I slid my hands down the sides of his body, reached between us, fondled his enormous erection.
The blonde we'd seen yesterday stepped out on her balcony, waved to us, waved to the crowd, raised her tee-shirt. The crowd cheered, then turned back to me.
"SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS."
Jacob took his hands away. I pushed my hand into his shorts, grabbed his dick; it was huge hard perfect. Jacob pointed to the other balcony. The blonde was watching. She gave the thumbs up, pivoted towards she street, flashed her breasts.
I turned around, melted into Jacob's arms, kissed him, our tongues wrestled each other. Jacob picked me up, I wrapped my legs around his waist. With the crowd's raucous approval he carried me into the room, kicking the door shut with his foot. The crowd kept cheering, imagining our naked bodies slamming into each other, him filling me with cum.
Jacob tossed me onto the bed, pounced on me, sucked my breast, lashed the nipple with his tongue; waves of delight washed over me; my cunt throbbed.
Moving to the side he cupped my sex, pushed two fingers into the wet sodden flesh, swirled them round inside. I pulled aside the waistband of his shorts and took hold of his thick hard cock.
He kissed me, I opened my lips, his tongue was inside my mouth. I licked and sucked on his tongue, then thrust my tongue into his mouth.
He squeezed my breasts, teased, pulled on my nipples; three fingers were inside my pussy.
"I love you Mom."
I kissed him, stroked his shaft, kissed him more passionately than I'd ever kissed anyone. Our tongues dueled and played. Jacob got off the bed, stood, yanked off his shorts, took off his shirt, flung it away. My eyes fixed on the perfection of his body, I shimmed out of my dress and panties. I was naked.
"You're so beautiful, Mom!"
I spread my legs and shuffled to the head of the bed.
"Please, honey. Fuck me. Fuck your mother."
Jacob got on the bed, walked forward on his knees. I sat up, took hold of his cock, pressed it's crown to my vagina; it throbbed on my pulsating flesh.
"I love you, son. Fuck me!"
My son pushed forward, drove several inches of hard thick dick into me.
I screamed, "OH GOD, HELL YESSSS!" and my son filled my incestuous cunt with cock-meat. There had never been anything that had, could, equal this, the sensation of having Jacob's fat penis in my belly. It was glorious, it was erotic, it was right.
Jacob placed his hands besides my head and moved forward until his pubic hairs brushed against my bare mound and the head of his cock nested at the entrance to my cervix. I pressed my knees to his side, dug my heels into his ass, opened my mouth, wanting to tell him how much I loved him and his wonderful cock. What came out was a wail of animal pleasure.
Jacob lowered his body, kissed me, his muscular chest pressed to my heavy breasts. I flung my arms around his neck, stared into his eyes, and, wanting him deeper inside me, shoved my pelvis upwards. My flesh was ultra-sensitive; his touch, both inside and out, made me quiver and shake with pleasure.
And then my son began to fuck me.
Yesterday, when he'd first entered me, he was careful and patient, taking his time, letting my body adjust, slowly drawing me to the edge, gently pushing me over. Today was different. Although my pussy was still sore from last night, he assaulted me, taking me like the hungry bitch in heat I was. Growling, "I love you, Mom! I love your tight, hot cunt," plunged in and out of me. I kissed his face and tightened my cunt muscles, trying to trap his cock-meat inside me, but he was a runaway unstoppable freight train; each of his thrusts took me a little closer to heaven. We were slick with sweat and we fucked and Jacob kissed me, then he ducked his head and nibbled on my breasts: I squirmed with delight.
We fucked and fucked; pussy cream trickled down to my asshole, a puddle of juice formed on the sheets. Jacob picked up power and speed with each thrust; with each delightful stroke of his thick cock I grunted, marveling at how something so long and thick could fit inside my hard tight body. But he was born of my flesh, he was only bringing home what had been within me before. His cock had been formed for my cunt, my cunt for his cock.
The bed creaked and shook as we rocked into each other in our rhythmic incestuous dance. The it was incest made it dirtier hotter sexier; I reveled in the raw carnality. Jacob had long been the center of my life and now he, my most wonderful son, was satisfying my most basic need, fucking me with a cock specially designed for my pussy.
Our movements became ever more urgent. I thrust my hips into him; Jacob fucked me as if this was the last fuck of his life. My cries of pleasure grew louder, more intense. I could feel it, an incipient orgasm, centered on my pussy, growing, threatening to overwhelm me. He shoved hard into me, rolled his pubic bone over my clit. Grabbing his ass I howled; my world exploded; ecstasy filled me, flooded every fiber of my being with depths of pleasure without bottom. I writhed, luxuriating in his relentless pounding, the kind of confident fuck I'd have thought no eighteen year old could deliver.
The Jacob groaned, moaned, "Mom, I love you. I'm going to come," and his cock swelled and flooded my pussy with hot sperm. My orgasm intensified, grew, expanded; I bucked violently against him, driving deeper into my womb. Our bodies slammed together, our orgasms became one. Then my son's hands were on my ass cheeks and he stood, effortlessly lifting me, holding me in his arms, thrusting upwards, driving deeper into me. Gravity served its purpose; I twisted down on his erection as he plunged ever deeper into my cunt. Another orgasm filled me; I wrapped my arms and legs around my boy, happily impaled on his throbbing member. My senses, one by one, shut down; I could not see, I could not hear the crowd. I was aware only of Jacob's skin on mine, his hairs scraping deliciously against my hard nipples, his throbbing cock feeding me his steaming hot cum, the overwhelming joy that occupied my body.
Eventually my vision cleared. I was in Jacob's arms, his cock in my pussy, my cunt muscles clasping him tightly, milking any remaining semen. I shivered and whimpered, "Oh honey, I love you so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you! You'll never know how much your mother needed this!" I kissed him.
I love you, Mom."
"You're an incredible lover," adding, with no thought to discretion, "Where did you learn to fuck like his? Who have you been with?"
He smiled, kissed me. "I'm glad you like, but a gentleman never tells."
It was early. I would find my son had amazing recuperative powers. Soon I had him in n my mouth, then he re-filled my pussy, firing blast after blast of cum into his cock-hungry mother.
* * * *
We slept late, had not packed, and hurriedly, barely, made our flight. My son had the window seat, I sat on the aisle. I pulled a blanket over the two of us and held his hand.
"Jacob, its been a wonderful few days, a fairy tale. I can't remember a better time. It's a shame we have to return to reality."
He squeezed my hand. "It seemed pretty real to me."
"You know what I mean, we can't go home and," instinctively I dropped my voice to a near whisper, "be lovers."
In a tone whose confidence surprised me he said, "Mom, I'm in love with you and I'm pretty sure you're in love with me. If you want to lay off the," and here, in imitation of me, he lowered his voice to a whisper, "S-E-X, I'll respect your wishes. But I don't think we can put this one back in the bottle."
the next few weeks he was true to his word. There were no attempts to seduce me, no caresses when there shouldn't have been, no secret kisses, no overt efforts to arouse me. We resumed our life, but it was the life we'd built during the past year. We'd go to the gym, cook and eat together, watch a movie, go listen to music. We were best friends. When I dressed I wore what I thought he'd like; I looked forward to his conversation; I wanted his approval.
As to my husband, I tried turning to him for sex. Usually he'd beg off: "too tired," "not in the mood," "too much to drink." A few times, with all the lights off, I used my hand on him, then, if he didn't fall asleep, he'd finger me, sometimes to a wholly unsatisfactory climax, usually to nothing at all. What Jacob had said in New Orleans was correct; Jacob was the core of my life, my husband was my roommate.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone