Incest/Taboo Show Your Tits, Show Your Tits

Can the entire trajectory of one's life pivot on the most trivial of events?

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.​