A Mom, Her Son, and His Lap

"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. . . .