Incest/Taboo A Mom, Her Son, and His Lap

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The Naughty Nun​

Okay, Valeria Jones, I thought, it's time to get sexy.

I undid the tuck in the towel between my breasts and let it drop to the floor. I took one small foot and kicked the towel to the side, where one of the maids would pick it up later.

The young maids in their tiny French outfits, I thought. My husband loved those outfits so much. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips. We both loved them so much. Thankfully, my daughter had moved out of the house a year ago, and my son was finishing his senior year of high school; otherwise, those outfits would be going back into the closet until Colton went off to college.

I fluffed my hair, throwing my wavy, spun-gold locks behind my shoulders. I had to get ready for the long drive to my in-laws' house. I had to dry my hair, put on my makeup, and then my Halloween costume, where it sat atop the mannequin sculpted to my forty-year-young body. And it was a young, forty-year-old body. I had breasts that just passed for big, a narrow waist, a round butt, the tapered thighs of a woman who did squats, strong shoulders, and I had just a little bit of the meat on my bones that comes with age. My bikini model days were over, but I was still a sexy, bendy MILF who enjoyed her husband's cock nearly every day.

I pulled my eyes from my costume, thinking, I'm going to be a nun for Halloween, then I thought of my husband. We are some kinky fuckers, aren't we, Val?

I gave myself one last look in the mirror, checking the mascara darkening my eyes, the red brightening my lips, and the blush rosying up my cheeks. If I only had ten more minutes, I always wanted ten more minutes when I was putting on my makeup.

"If time had no meaning, you women would spend an eternity on your faces," Dex loved to say to me . . . and our daughter, but unlike our daughter, I didn't have a team of professionals working on me for hours at a time before a shoot.

Must be nice, I thought, thinking of my daughter's modeling career. I was only ever a bikini car show model, standing next to cars at car shows with my twin sister, waving at the men who were taking pictures of my G-string from all angles. I sighed, then looked up toward the vaulted ceiling of my coastal bedroom, and I rolled my eyes. Not too bad for a car show model.

The door to the bedroom opened, and my husband's deep voice boomed, "Hey, hey, hey, where is that sexy bitch who married me?"

I smiled and turned away from my vanity, looking at my husband as he closed the door behind him. Dex was tall, lean, blue-eyed, brown-haired, and handsome—a slightly smaller version of our son. Or, our son was a slightly larger version of him, either way . . . the man was sexy.

"If anyone else called me a bitch. . . ." I said, trailing off as my smile overcame my face.

"I know, you'd cut their sack off," Dex said, laughing. "Should I stop calling you that dirty word?"

"I like being your bitch," I said as my husband walked toward me. "But if I ever want you to stop, I'll let you know."

"Aw, che bella che sei oggi," Dex said, stopping to put his hands on my hips. "Maybe we should have dressed you in one of those sexy poodle-girl costumes."

"Too bad that's the only Italian phrase you know." A blush reddened my face as my insides warmed, and a tingle massaged me between my thighs. "And it always makes me so wet." I licked my lips. "You should learn Italian for me."

"Oh, my," Dex said. "You really are the naughty nun I hoped you'd be."

I laughed as my husband turned me around, making me face my vanity mirror. I was a naughty nun, and there was no mistaking it. My nun's gown hugged my breasts instead of dropping straight down, clinging to their underside, then riding my slender tummy down to my hips and round ass before dropping to the middle of my thighs. The hem barely hid the welts of my black, mid-thigh stockings, and I could see the outlines of my lacy garter belt and matching suspenders through the nude-sheer fabric of my gown. I had a thin rope belt around my waist, a white bib, a silver crucifix, a white habit with a long black veil, and white cuffs at the collar of my sleeves. At the moment, I was wearing plain white tennis shoes, but I had a pair of black, come-fuck-me heels in my weekend luggage for later.

"So fucking sexy," Dex said as he wrapped his arms around my waist.

I shuddered, feeling his size and strength envelope me. My nipples hardened, turning into tight, knotted buds that pushed against my top over the support of my slutty shelf bra.

"Are you wearing a bra?" Dex asked, raising his right hand and cupping the underside of my heavy breast.

"Yes and no," I said with a shaky breath. "Only a shelf bra." As my husband's groin pressed into me, I turned my ass in a sexy circle against the lump in his khakis. "And no panties."

"It's a good thing you're not." Dex pressed his cock against my ass. "Those panties would be wet right now, wouldn't they?"

"Do we have time for a quickie?" I asked, watching my breasts rise and fall in the mirror. "Bend me over right here, Father Jones"—I frowned—"where's your priest costume?"

My husband laughed as he said, "I can't wear that while I drive."

"I thought we were wearing our costumes to the party?"

"The party is not until late tonight," Dex said, laughing, then he looked to the side, a grin appearing on his face. "I wanted you to wear your costume because it's so fucking hot." He stepped back and patted my butt. "Is the see-through habit in your bag?"

"Yes," I said, sighing. "No time for a quickie?"

"The kids are waiting by the car."

I sighed again, turning around. "So?" God, there was a time he would have fucked me at just the thought of my muff without panties to protect it. "Look." I dropped my fingers to the hem of my gown, and I pulled the hem up my thighs, revealing my garter's suspenders, my smooth skin, the bottom softness of my hairless pussy lips, and upwards. . . . My clitty came into view, and then more, my mound, where I had shaved my blonde pubic hairs into the shape of a small cross. "Don't we have time, Father Jones?"

Dex growled, dropped to his knees, and wrapped his arms around my legs, taking my bare ass in his hands. His lips touched my fur, and his tongue traced the cross, then he stood and growled again.

"Aw," I sighed as the tingling in my pussy melted my insides, sending a slippery rush of wetness down my lips. "Are you serious, Dexter Allen Jones?"

"Only my mother calls me that," Dex said, laughing.

"Then maybe next year I'll go as your mother," I whispered, teasing him with a head shake as I dropped my skirt back into place. "You'd listen to me then, Mr. Dexter Allen Jones."

"Now we're talking."

"Nasty man," I said, walking past him to my panty drawer. I'd need a liner down there to keep me from soaking his Porsche's passenger seat.

Fuck, I need some cock, I thought.

No sooner did I have a lacy black thong in my hands than a thought hit me, and I said, "Remember when you first met me?"

"You and your twin," Dex said, standing near the bed where my weekend luggage lay. "Yeah?"

"Remember what you did with us?"

Dex moaned.

"Come on, you remember," I whispered in my poutiest voice. "Tell me what you did with us." I offered him a sexy, little kitten moan. "Tell me what you made me do with my twin sister. Remember the blow job, baby? Remember when we swapped your cum, tongue to tongue." I needed to give my sister a call, married or not; she had always been sluttier than me, and another sister-sister threesome would be a nice Christmas present for my husband. "Tell me, Dex, what did we do with that big, fat dick of yours."

"We. . . ." Dex said, then shook his head.

"C'mon, Daddy, tell me," I said, lifting the hem of my gown again. "So I can think about it while you fuck me really quick, and then I can think about how you fucked me in the car while sitting next to you as the engine's power roars through my twat."

Dex clenched his jaw shut.

"While I play with myself while our kids are in the backseat," I added, moaning again.

"I. . . ." Dex scrunched his face and growled, grabbed my luggage, and raced toward the door. "We have to leave before the Coast Road fills up with drivers, and it's supposed to rain later, don't forget."

Damn it!

There was only one thing that could pull my husband away from my pussy, and that was driving and driving fast.

Seating Arrangements

I took my towel to the laundry basket in my restroom—I couldn't help myself—before taking the elevator down from the third floor to the first. I walked through the open first floor toward the back of the house that faced the cliffside, Coastal Road, where my husband parked two of his four Porsches. For a man who was heir and co-owner of one of the biggest Engineering and Technology companies in the world, the man only drove Porches when he was at home. He kept his car collection somewhere else.

Outside, the sun showed gold in a mostly blue sky, but off the coast, near the horizon, billowed a storm of gray clouds. Great. Dex would use those clouds as an excuse to drive faster than he usually did on the way to his parents' home. I frowned, then my frown deepened when I looked at the car.

My daughter, Lana, stood next to the passenger-side door in her sweats with a little backpack in her right hand, looking nothing like the twenty-year-old cover girl she was. Would she be a cover girl if it wasn't for her father's family name? Probably, but I'm sure it would have taken longer. A woman could be an eleven, but in that world, elevens were everywhere. At least she didn't have to fuck her way to the top.

She looked like me; my daughter did, only she was a little taller and more willowy, with a sharper face, longer hair, and blue eyes instead of green. To be in her place . . . .

"Why aren't you in a costume?" I asked my daughter as I walked toward the car, and she walked toward me with a frown on her face.

Her brother and father were already in their seats, waiting on us.

"I don't feel well," Lana said in a low tone when we stood face to face. "And I can't wear my costume in the car."

"You okay?" I asked, then I added, "you're going to your grandparents' party this weekend. I don't care what other parties are going on in the city."

"Oh, I know," Lana said. "I flew in, didn't I? I'm not trying to get out of it. I'm not a teenager anymore."

I laughed as if being twenty had given her a world of experience and wisdom. Who knows, in her fast-paced life, maybe it had.

"But, you know, it's shark week," Lana said with her arms crossed across her stomach.

I raised an eyebrow.

"I got my period," she said, rolling her eyes. "I need to sit in front with daddy."

"Oh," I said, giving my daughter a sympathetic smile, but then. . . . "Oh, no. No-no-no-no-no." I looked at my husband's Porsche, the four-door Panamera Turbo S E-Hybrid Executive—that was his idea of a family car—and I shook my head. "We need to change cars."

"You look hot, Mom," Lana said. "Very sexy. Is Daddy making you wear that?"

I mumbled something to her. My daughter knew too much about my sex life, but that's what happens when your twin sister is your daughter's favorite aunt. Fuck, I couldn't sit in the back with my son, Colt. Our luggage would be in the trunk. Colt would sit behind his father, who liked to sit as close to the wheel as possible. Lana would sit in my seat, and in the seat behind hers would sit the biggest fucking pumpkin Dex could find. He wouldn't carve until he got to his parents' house so that he and his mother could carve creepy, life-like faces into its skin and pulp.

"I can't sit in Colt's lap," I said, trying to look through the tinted windows at my son, but I was too far away to see through them.

"Oh, when you have to sit in Colt's lap, then driving in that little car is suddenly a big deal," Lana said. "But when I have to sit in his lap, you and dad say, 'Oh, it's just your brother, he won't bite you.' Thanks, Mom."

A bitchy look crossed my face, and not even my nun's habit could soften that glare.

"Sorry," Lana said, looking to the side. "Colt's kind of comfortable, I guess, but I can't sit in his lap when I feel like this. You know, I've got cramps, and I feel—"

"I know what it feels like." I looked toward our home's roof, where sat the helicopter my daughter had flown in on.

"Dad wants to drive," Lana said, having followed my gaze. "That's his thing. He's not going to call a pilot—"

"Get your father for me," I said, sighing. "I need to talk to him."

I waited as my daughter walked back to the car, got into my seat, and spoke to her father. He honked the horn. I crossed my arms under my tits. He exited the car, smiled at me over the Porsche's roof, and said, "Just kidding, baby."

Away from the car, we stood face to face, where I said, "I can't sit on Colt's lap. Not in the costume."

"Why not?" Dex asked.

"Look at me?" I said, looking down. "A stripper would wear this, not a mother. " I lowered my voice. "I could dry fuck a man to death in this."

"It's not a big deal," Dex said after a quick laugh. "Make Lana sit in his lap. She'll get over it."

"I'm not going to make her do that with how she's feeling." I looked toward the helicopter. "Call the pilot."

"No," Dex said. "We have an agreement. When we go to my parents' home, I get to drive us there, no questions asked. It's the only time I get to drive fast."

"All so you can pretend that you're a racer again," I said. "When I said you had to buy a family car for drives to your parents' home, I meant a family car, not a Porsche."

"It has four seats."

"Only three of which we use," I said, thinking of all those holidays and how something always ended up behind my seat, whether it was my husband's stuff or my daughter's things or something of Colt's; something always took up that space. "Just this once, we'll take my car. It has room for that stupid pumpkin in the back."

"Val," Dex said, "Val, Val, Val. Come on. . . . Just, you know, come on. . . ."

I laughed at this big, boyish jackass.

"In my car, I turn an hour and a half ride into an hour," he said. "You won't even notice you're in Colt's lap. Besides, he's drunk."

"What?" I asked, looking at the car, trying to see through the passenger-side door and its tinted windows all over again. "Why is my eighteen-year-old son—who's still in high school—drunk."

Dex shrugged, but I knew what he was going to say before he said it, and he said what I thought he was going to say like I knew he would.

"He signed a letter of intent with my alma mater," Dex said, which is what I knew he would say. "He's red-shirting his freshman year; then it's four years as the starting QB if he doesn't go pro first."

"That's no excuse," I said.

"I always wanted to be a start—"

"You were on the team." I balled my hand into a fist and hit my husband in the chest. "You played."

"Like two downs in four years," Dex said. "It's the story of my life, the same with my father's NASCAR team. I was the fourth driver for two years; thank God I'm a better businessman than I was an athlete."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I asked. "You're a great athlete."

"Until I ran into better ones." Dex sighed. "It's every father's dream to live vicariously through his son. You see the way my father looks at you; don't I deserve to look at my son's wife like that one day?"

I punched my husband's chest again as I said, "What the fuck does that have to do with letting him get drunk on a Friday afternoon?"

"With that kind of résumé," Dex said, then he started singing, "he can have whatever he likes. . . ."

"You're supposed to sing that that song to me," I said, sighing once again.

"Look, the car is packed, your kids are in it, and it's getting late . . . in the afternoon." My husband offered me a cheerful smile. "Colt will probably sleep the entire trip. Let's go." Dex grabbed my hands. "Come on, let's go. Let's go, baby. Do this for Daddy."

I growled, but I let my husband pull me towards the car, mumbling, "You can't say things like that to me, Daddy, you know how it makes me feel."

A smile crept onto my lips. I had packed my leash, collar, cuffs, and paddle for Dex as a surprise. I mean, who didn't want to see a nun in bondage? And I'd get to call him Father tonight, instead of Daddy. I should have told him that before getting into the car. I should have told him I wouldn't let him use them on me if I had to sit on my son's lap.

Looking back, I should have stood my ground, but that's life.

The Long Road Ahead


I opened the passenger door as my husband jumped into the front seat. My son, lean and broad and built like an Olympic athlete, looked up at me with cherry-flavored eyes. Yeah, he sure was drunk. And he wasn't wearing a costume either. He had his thin, cotton workout shorts on and a matching shirt, the standard-issue to his school's athletes.

"Make room, Colt," I said. "Your sister is upfront today."

My son's eyes traveled over my body—thankfully, my nipples had softened, but they still made thick bumps against my silky gown. (I wasn't wearing your typical nun's outfit.)

"Oh," was all he said.

I rolled my eyes as he stretched his legs and shifted around in the backseat. What a fucking farce, I thought, then I glanced at my daughter, who sat in my seat, leaning into the car door. Maybe I should have had more sympathy for her when she first complained about having to sit in her brother's lap. Her complaints hadn't lasted long, but still. . . . I glanced at my husband, who had his driving gloves on and was in the middle of adjusting his 18k, solid gold Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses.

Who would ever pay three grand for a pair of glasses, I thought. Twenty years I had been married to my Dex, but I was still the girl who once lived in a one-bedroom apartment with my parents, and I was the same girl who thought moving into a two-bedroom, third-floor walkup was like moving into a penthouse. I was the same girl who could hear my father humping my mother into the wall night after night. And, I was the same girl who used to sneak my boyfriend into my room—and my twin sister Vanna would do the same—and we'd have sex in our small beds while our parents had sex in theirs, believing that their daughters were deep asleep and still innocent.

How many times had I seen my sister getting the D? How many times had she watched me come on some guy's cock? (This wasn't the time to be thinking about that.)

I looked at my son's lap as I bent over to enter the backseat. And I was still the same girl who used to have threesomes with her twin sister, where nothing was off-limits so long as we pleased the guy we were fucking.

That was a long time ago, I thought as I climbed into the car and sat down on my son's left thigh. I closed the door, having to move more to my right.

"Close your legs," I said as I tried to find a place to sit that wasn't directly on my son's lap.

"Get that seatbelt on," Dex said.

"How?" I asked.

"Stretch it," Lana said.

I glared at the amusement in her tone.

God, my son had hard thighs. Muscular. He had very nice thighs, harder than his father's when his father was young, and Dex had been one hell of an athlete back then.

"Mom," Colt said in a voice almost as deep as his father's, but his tone always had more of a caress to it than his old man's. "You're going to have to sit back."

I huffed out a breath, then slid back along my son's legs. My short nun's gown rode up the back of my thighs, and I had to grab the hem, lift my butt, and shimmy down into his lap while keeping my bum covered. I winced for no reason other than I was now sitting on my son's bulge wearing nothing but an ultra-thin nun's dress while he was wearing nothing but his cotton workout shorts. I turned my head to the right, turning my shoulders slightly, which also turned my butt against his groin, rubbing him. How did my daughter put up with this situation once a month?

"I know you've been drinking," I said, narrowing my eyes at my boy.

Colt had the decency to blush, and it was like looking at a teen heartthrob who had just shared a secretive smile with some lucky fangirl. I had a really good-looking son. Handsome from some angles, beautiful from others.

"Sorry," he said, keeping his voice low.

I turned back around, grabbed the seatbelt, and started to pull it over my shoulder and toward the right, but after a minute, I let it go. There was no way Lana and Colt used that thing.

"We ready?" Dex asked.

"Yeah, but don't crash," I said. "Lana, don't let your father go over a hundred."

"But I like going over a hundred; it feels good," Lana said, then quickly added, "It's an adrenaline rush."

Riding in any of Dex's Porsche was an adrenaline rush with the way he drove, but I also knew what my daughter meant by "It feels good." There was over six hundred horsepower in the Porsche's engine, close to seven-hundred, and those vibrations tore right through the car, up the through the seat, and quivered through our bottoms and all the yummy places down there—she was damn right it felt good.

"However fast I go, I'll keep us in one piece," Dex said, turning the ignition over, and that soft, rumbling purr of his six-hundred-plus horsepower engine came to life. God, but I felt that power through my son's lap.

Oh, sweet Jesus, I thought, wishing I was upfront. At least up there, I could touch myself with my right hand as I held my skirt up with my left. No one but my husband would have known.

"Some driving music," my husband said, searching through his playlists, and Here I Go Again came on. "And here we go."

Dex hit the gas, and I flew back into my son's body, and a memory hit me. A memory of my husband asking me, "You'd date Colt if you were back in high school, right? He's like Hercules, so that would make me Zeus, wouldn't it."

And the sexy bastard wouldn't go down on me until I had said, "Yes, I'd date my son if I were back in high school and he wasn't my son."

"Well, he couldn't be your son," Dex had said. "You'd be the same age."

Sigh.

Stiffness.

Awkwardness.

How do I describe how strange sitting in my son's lap made me feel? But why did it make me feel so strange? It's not as though I hadn't cuddled with my son before, on the couch, watching TV, thinking nothing of it, but now? But now I was in a sexy costume, wearing a thong and a shelf-bra, with the engine's vibrations tightening my thick nipples, seeming to squeeze them and push them out at the same time. And, I had been wet, so fucking wet, from wanting to feel my husband's cock inside of me before going on this drive. And I had had the anticipation of playing with myself for my husband before I had to switch seats with Lana. . . .

Why did I have to be such a pervert?

Beneath me, the Porsche's rumbling pushed my son's groin into my butt. I must have looked every bit the virgin nun, afraid of any cock getting close to her. If I had been a nun, I would have been a nurse-nun because I needed cock in my life. I needed that sweet meat, long and hard, short and fat, any size really—any size would do so long as the man using it knew how to work a woman's pussy.

Christ, what was wrong with me? I looked at the back of my husband's seat, wishing I could smack his head every time he accelerated. Oh, but every time he tested his engine's power, I felt that rumble and that rumble made my son's lap shake beneath me.

Hang onto your butts; this is going to be one hard ride.

I looked away from my husband's seat and down at my thighs, where the hem of my gown had come up enough to show my stocking's thick, lacy welts. Another eighth of an inch, and my thighs would come into view, along with my suspenders. I had looked at myself in my mirror before putting on my gown, getting excited when I saw the black fabric against my smooth skin and the way my garter belt's suspenders framed the triangle of my blonde-haired muffin. Oh, and the cross upon my mound, that playful patch of pubic hair was so naughty I couldn't help but get wet. How fun it had been to get my stylist to wax that shape into my mound so I could surprise my husband the next morning.

No wonder I was so horny; we didn't have sex last night. He was up with Colt, probably drinking and celebrating his future college career, while I was upstairs, playing with myself, dreaming of how hot my new hairdo looked and how hard the fun-loving gesture would make my husband's prick before he put it inside of me.

And it was all for not because I didn't get my fucking quickie.

This couldn't go on. I sat on my son's lap, leaning forward, with my thighs together and my knees bent over his knees, my little feet dangling as though I were sitting on my father's lap and not my son's. My son sat rigid and stiff, breathing as though he were faking sleep with measured pulls of air meant to barely move his body. What was wrong with me?

I turned my head and body to the right, which shifted my butt over my son's bulge once again. A shiver ran through me, tickling my skin against my silk stockings.

"Are you comfortable?" I asked my son.

He turned his face to the side and shrugged, lifting both brows and pursing his lips.

"Well, get comfortable," I said, "because I'm not comfortable either."

"All right," Colt said. "I'd be comfortable if you weren't so stiff."

I rolled my eyes, saying, "You're the stiff one."

A silence hung between us for a second that seemed to stretch for an eternity, but it was only a second. Then my cheeks reddened, and Colt laughed, turned his head to the left, and looked out the window as he slid his butt down the seat and spread his legs a little. I had to place my hands on his thighs to keep my balance as I went up and then down, like riding a small ocean wave. Colt put his left arm along the windowsill while stretching out his right and resting his elbow on the center console.

I waited as he fidgeted, his movement pushing me up and down and side to side as he wiggled his butt and tried to find a comfortable sitting position. Heat warmed my cheeks and forehead. I could feel the soft bulge in his shorts against my butt, and I had to squeeze my thighs together as a tingling sensation licked at my butt crack and tickled my asshole.

A shaky breath left my lungs before I asked, "Comfortable yet?"

"Yeah," Colt said with one last movement that pushed his bulge against my butt again. I lifted my eyes, looking through the roof at the sky as if to say: "Really, God?"

When my son settled down, I took a silent breath and eased myself back against his hard, broad body. He stiffened, and I leaned back further. Fuck it, I thought. The only way to get comfortable is to get comfortable.

"Relax," I whispered, hoping my son could hear me over Dex's driving music and the purr of the engine. "I'm not a real nun."

Colt laughed, but he stayed stiff, so I reached down with both of my hands and squeezed the outsides of his thighs.

"Mom," he whispered, shifting again and again, pushing his meaty bulge against my silk-covered, thong-protected butt.

I laughed, and then he laughed, and as we laughed, he relaxed, melting into the seat beneath him. I smiled, feeling like a good mother, and I relaxed into him, letting my weight settle atop him, butt-to-groin, ass-to-bulge, mother-to-son in a friendly, family way that was no longer awkward.

Was it awkward for my daughter when she sat on Colt? It must have been; she had complained enough about it in the beginning—poor girl. Even relaxed, I felt the power of the engine shooting through my son and into my body—into the one part of my body that enjoyed the rumble the most. Did Lana enjoy that sensation? Yes, she did; she had said as much.

What's the big deal? I thought.

I grew up close to my twin. Had Vanna been a man and my fraternal twin, would it have been any different? I had to suppress a laugh—no threesomes for us. I smiled. Vanna and I had talked about that once, or twice, or a dozen times when we were younger: What if one of us had been a man?

We had shared a bed before and the pullout couch, and it wasn't as if we hadn't cuddled back then. When it came to who slept where, Vanna always spooned me, and the first time Dex introduced us to a strap-on . . . well, I had been the one to put my face down and ass up first.

I took a deep breath as my insides warmed all over again, warmed down in that secret place between my thighs where memories of my twin sister lay. I clenched my ass cheeks, trying to get rid of the feeling, but it didn't help.

In the middle of my memories, my son shifted beneath me again, making me shudder as his bulge pressed into the crack of my ass. What was Colt feeling?

Would he tell me if I asked—no, why would I ask? Just because my nipples had turned into a pair of thick diamond cutters didn't mean I wanted to ask him those kinds of questions. Just because Vanna and I would talk about what we did with each other to please Dex, and a couple of men before him, didn't mean I wanted to know what my son thought of his mother sitting in his lap. I had a twin, and that boundary-crossing activity was a twin thing. It was natural.

But what was Colt feeling?

Stop it, Val, I told myself.

Oh, god, I was hot between my legs. If my gown weren't so tight, I'd fan my top over my breasts. I rubbed my thighs together; I couldn't help myself. The movement pushed me into my son when I shifted them from side to side, and then I heard my son's breath catch.

Sorry, I thought.

Should I say something to him? No, that might embarrass him. I needed to stop thinking about sex, but once I got started. . . . My mind was a terrible thing.

What could I think about instead of sex? I faced forward, looking at the top of my husband's head. I couldn't think about him. Thinking about Dex made me wet, and getting wet made me want to fuck, and wanting to fuck made me want to cum until I was gushing rivers of pussy juice and making a mess on my husband's tasty dick and mouthwatering balls.

Stop it, Val, I thought as my breathing picked up speed.

Fuck; I needed to touch myself.

Then the car swayed, its momentum moving into a turn, pushing me—and Colt—in the opposite direction of the car's motions. I moved over my son's lap, one cheek sliding over the tube of sausage that topped his bulge, then the other cheek as the car shifted directions again. My son's breath caught when I settled back into him, pushing my ass harder against his manly bits than I should have.

No, no, no, this was bad, but it had felt so good. I loved friction against my ass. I loved the spreading of my cheeks as I tried to fight the momentum, and I loved the tingling in my crack and asshole and the buzz running across my perineum and up into my . . . into my . . . oh, god, into my pussy.

This was circumstance, no more.

Circumstance was making my cunny creamy. Circumstance was making a mess in my lacy panties, even with the liner. Why had I bothered with the liner? Once I got wet, nothing could stop the spreading of my juices.

Oh, no, how could I hide getting wet from my son?

I couldn't; I needed to think about something else . . . anything else, but my mind wasn't letting me. Sex had invaded my consciousness, embedding its naughty spirit deep into the gray matter of my brain. Maybe I could hold off until the halfway marker of our journey, a little '50s-style gas station where Dex would make his pit stop and pretend a NASCAR team was working on his car while he chatted with the clerk about what a lovely day it was before making his own pit stop. If I could hold until then, then I could run to the bathroom and ask God for forgiveness while I rubbed the little pink prayer bead cresting my pussy lips.

Damn it; I shouldn't have thought of masturbating. Think, think, think—think of anything but sex, and the sway of the car, and your son's hard body against yours as it trembled to the purr of the engine. Don't think of how broad he is, nor how small he makes you feel, nor that you're sitting on his lap with about two millimeters of cotton and silk between your pussy and a man's cock, and because of that, your panties are now soaking wet.

Oh, god, I closed my eyes to think, but the momentum of the car throwing my body around as my husband switched lanes and accelerated past the other cars made me think of one thing and one thing only: The last time I had sat on Dex's lap in the backseat of a paint-chipped Honda while my twin sat in the lap of the guy she had been dating at the time.

We were with my friends, driving home from the beach in a car that probably cost less than Dex's watch, but so what? His money scared me as much as it thrilled me. In that old Honda, our friends sat in front, the boyfriend driving, his skinny, hippie girlfriend in the passenger seat. I sat behind the driver, like now, and my twin sat across from me. By the end of the day, with the sun setting, we wore only our shirts over our tiny, string bikinis while we sat in the laps of the men who had been our dates.

I squeezed my thighs together, thinking of Dex, and my son uttered a soft, breathy sound as I pressed my bum into his lap.

We had flirted with our dates, laughed, and wiggled around their laps until our shirts rode our rumps upward and ended bunched around our waists. Dex had put his hands on my hips, his thumbs pushing through the underside of my waistband and pressing into my back with his fingers curled around my front. It was the first time I realized how big his hands were. Vanna's date had done the same, and as we drove, the laughter slowly came to an end as the guys moved us back and forth across their laps, making us slippery between our lips as their cocks hardened beneath us.

I closed my eyes, remembering, not aware that I was moving my hips back and forth as I pictured my husband pulling me against his cock, pushing me away, then pulling me back. Was I aware? I don't know, but I couldn't help myself. Vanna had fucked her boyfriend right next to us. And now, my son was right there, beneath me, big and bulging and all man, and here I was, dripping wet and unable to stop my pussy from controlling my mind.

God, god, god, what was I thinking?

But I kept moving. My son wouldn't feel it. He wouldn't know what I was doing. He wouldn't know that I was parting my thighs and hoping to feel his rubbery trunk against the soft curve of my clam, through my dress that was riding up my butt, exposing the tops of my stockings, my garter belt's suspenders, and my thighs. He wouldn't know about the heat spreading through my cunny, dampening my pink insides, and making my pussy lips and yummy clit tingle. He wouldn't know how hard my nipples were because of this, nor would he see the goosebumps rising across my limbs . . . he wouldn't know how good grinding my mommy butt against his crotch felt—no, he wouldn't. And if I touched myself, he wouldn't know I had because I'd be so careful.

And if he did notice, he wouldn't say anything, would he? His mother wouldn't grind her pussy on his soft cock, which seemed to be thickening beneath me, would she? He'd convince himself it was his imagination, no more, that's what he'd do and I could just enjoy the ride my son was giving me. . . .

My thoughts vanished as I felt my son's right hand on my hip, gripping me like his father had when I had been a silly, sex-obsessed, bikini-wearing, nineteen-year-old girl sitting in his lap. Jesus, but my son's hand was a little bit bigger than his father's. But I wasn't a teenager anymore—no, I was a sex-obsessed forty-year-young MILF who hadn't had sex in a day.

I should have sat still. I shouldn't have moved. I should have sat on my son's soft cock and . . . wait, it didn't feel so soft anymore, not through the veil of cloth protecting my backside. Colt wasn't hard, but neither was he soft. There was a swelling going on back there, a thickening like a fire hose filling with water and getting ready to stretch out to its full size.

A chill ran through my body. I shivered, looking toward my daughter, who lay curled against the passenger-side door. I looked forward, unable to see what my husband was doing, but I had been in front enough during our monthly trips to know he had his hands on the wheel, his foot moving from gas to brake, and his eyes fixated on the road. In his head, he was driving in that great NASCAR oval, passing cars on his way to being number one.

I took a deep breath; then, I placed my right hand over my son's hand. Would he move it? No, he didn't move it. Instead, he squeezed my side, sending a buzz through my body that had me shifting my shoulders. Okay, I would stay perfectly still . . . and then my husband sped up, moving to the left to pass a car, then back into the right-hand lane. That was all it took for me to shift to the right, then back to the left, my butt grinding against my son's growing cock, and on my way back to the right, I felt him push against me. I gasped, but between the music and engine's purr, no one upfront seemed to hear a thing.

It wasn't my imagination. I felt my son push against me. I squeezed his hand, and he pushed against me again, the growing thickness below my nearly bare ass forcing me to clench my cheeks. His cock lay right between my firm buns, and the pleasure that shimmied through my crack shook my body. I bit my lower lip to keep from sighing, then I looked upward, still holding onto my lower lip as I looked to the left and right for a way out. There was no way out, and even if there was, my body moved on its own, pushing my butt back into my son's half-swollen shaft hard enough to let him know what I was doing was no accident.

This was bad, and it got worse as his left hand went to my left side, taking hold of me in his strong grip. I dropped my left hand to his hand, then slid my hands down to his wrists, where I squeezed him hard. Colt, the little bastard, moved me back and forth, then around, shifting me across his lap as his cock turned to steel beneath my butt and the little triangle of motherly love between my thighs.

Oh, god, my muff had grown so hot.

Colt spread his legs, and I settled mine between his with my feet touching the floor. I leaned forward a little, pushing my ass back against his dick, feeling the length of his hardness pressing up against me, from the bottom of my cheeks to the upward curve of my pussy.

I closed my eyes and squeezed my son's hands again. Maybe I shouldn't have done that. Maybe I should have let go of my boy's wrists because the moment I squeezed him, he pushed his hips upward, forcing the length of his hard-on against the crevice between my thighs and fucking me forward a couple of inches.

Jesus, I moaned on the inside, thanking God that my son's cock wasn't pointed straight up with the head digging into the dripping wet pussy meat between my legs. Eighteen years ago, my son entered this world through that sexy little hole, and now he wanted back in. . . .​