Queen & Prince Together Forever #3

She loved her breasts and now wondered again if her son was a breast man, an ass man, or a leg man. If only she knew which womanly body part he preferred, she'd pay closer attention to that one body part when choosing what to wear. Wearing a low cut blouse to show off her breasts and a short, tight skirt to enhance her round ass and long legs, now she'd have to show off all of her body parts. She wondered if her son loved her tits as much as she loved her breasts. Giving men a split second glimpse of what was to follow, her big breasts rounded the corner just before she did and her round, firm ass was the last bit of her that they saw when she was leaving.

Ready for battle, as if her son was her Prince and she was his Queen, and perhaps he was and perhaps she was too, she stepped into her suit of armor shade of grey, short skirt and tucking it in, zipped it over her silk blouse. As if adjusting her bullet proof vest to protect two of her best assets, she tucked her blouse in tighter to make her breasts look even bigger than they were. Not that she needed to make her breasts look any larger than they were, she did that out of habit because she loved how they looked from the front as much as she loved how her breasts looked from the side. At the same time, by tightly tucking in her blouse, she pulled the top opening of her shirt even lower to show off even more of her sexy cleavage.

Sometimes after dressing so dowdy every day for months, she sometimes forgets that she's a sexy woman with a hot body beneath her clothes. Last but not least, she stepped into her deep, silver gray, high heeled shoes. Comfortable for high heels, she loved these shoes because they were well padded and didn't bite or make her feet and legs ache her as the evening progressed. One last look at herself in the mirror, turning one way before turning the other, she didn't look bad for an old broad if she said so herself.

"Not bad," she said turning to the side, tucking in her stomach, and pulling her shoulders back to push out her breasts.

* * * * *

Just by innocently leaning forward to reach for her wine glass or a cracker and some cheese, she'd be inadvertently but deliberately exposing the tops of her breasts, her long line of sexy cleavage, and the top of her bra to her son. She leaned forward in her bathroom mirror to see how much he could see of her while she imagined innocently, albeit seductively staring up at him with her big, blue eyes while flashing him her tits. Obviously, whenever she leaned forward, her blouse fell forward too and, just as she could see a lot of herself in the mirror, she imagined that he would too. As far as she knew, being that she's always so morally modest around him and he's always so well manneredly respectful of her, he's never seen as much of her sexy body as he'd be seeing today.

Being that he's been away from her for so long and is returning to her as a 22-year-old man instead of an 18-year-old boy, she wondered where he'd look when she was purposely flashing him the top portion of her breasts. She wondered if she could entice him to notice the impressions that her breasts made in her blouse in the way that she noticed the bulge his cock made in his pants. She wondered if he'd notice her big nipples pushing against her bra and blouse as if begging to be fingered and sucked. She wondered if he'd break eye contact with her to stare down her open blouse. She wondered if he'd take all of what he saw of her that night to his room later. She wondered if he'd masturbate over the thoughts of having sex with her in the way that she planned on masturbating over the thoughts of having sex with him later.

In the way she hoped he would, would he dare look down his mother's blouse as if she was some trampy barmaid in an English pub? Truth be told, when she thought more about it, thinking about changing her clothes to put on something more modest and less revealing, she already felt guilty by the thoughts of sensuously teasing him and sexually arousing him by flashing him. Yet, now that she's staring back at herself in the mirror, as much as she looked beautiful and felt sexy, she felt pathetic, especially if he rejected her because she was his mother and he was her son. Suddenly she was sad that she was begging for her son's sexual attention. Yet, if only he has had the same dreams of reincarnation that she's routinely had, he'd understand her need to seduce him.

Even though she felt sexually hot wearing such a low cut blouse and such a short, tight skirt, she felt wicked wearing this blouse and skirt for her son instead of for another man. Only, she wasn't interested in any other man. Her son was the only man she wanted. Her son was the only man who she was sexually interested in taking to bed with her. Her son was the man she wanted to seduce.

* * * * *

"Madam?"

Always an interruption of her thoughts, the voice over her front door speaker that routinely announced her every guest commanded her attention. Having instructed him and tipped him before not to do so, she hated it when he called her madam. Being that she's divorced and no longer married, she preferred that he call her Miss. The madam salutation made her feel so old. She felt like her mother whenever the doorman called her that but her mother never looked as good as she looked now. She looked sexy. She looked hot. She looked irresistible. She walked to the door to depress the talk button.

"Yes," she said releasing the button with a sigh while waiting for him to respond.

'He's here. Henry must be here,' she thought to herself getting even more sexually excited than she was before.

Trying to remain calmly unflustered, she quivered with sexual anticipation with the expected arrival of her son.

"You have a visitor?"

The voice responded in Arabic and even though she's fluent in the language, with the thoughts of Henry preoccupying her, it took her a moment to understand what he had just said.

'Oh my God, Henry is here. He's here. He's here. Henry is here,' she thought. 'Who else could it be?'

"Who is it?" Even though she knew the language, she had a habit of falling back in her native tongue when excited or nervous and she responded to him in English.

Intuitively she knew it was her son. Yet a good habit and one that's hard to break but easy and necessary to live with, with her not feeling totally safe as a woman living alone in Qatar, she asked who it was for security sake. A secured building, the doorman was just doing his job and showing her his respect by calling her madam was one of the things that he was trained to do.

"It's Henry. Your son," he said in English.

She swooned at the sound of his name coming from someone else's lips to tell her that she wasn't dreaming this or imagining that he was here, Henry was really here. He had finally returned home to her. Forsaking living with his father to live with her, as she hoped he would, she was beside herself with happiness.

"Send him up," she said in Arabic.

She couldn't wait to see him. She couldn't wait to hold him. She couldn't wait to touch him and to kiss him.

* * * * *

Dismissing the maid to have her return tomorrow so that she may have some privacy tonight with her son, she moved to the kitchen to put out her already prepared trays of crackers and cheese and a fruit, veggie, and nut plate with dips. Perfect with a glass of wine, she already had everything ready he liked to eat, and with her washed, powdered, and perfumed, she was ready for him to eat too. Swooning with her sudden, sexual fantasy, she imagined her naked body laid out on the dining room table and festooned with fruits, vegetables, crackers, and cheese. With her knees raised and her legs spread, she swooned at the thought of him literally and figuratively eating her.

"Lick me Henry. Lick my pussy," she imagined saying to him instead of to herself. "Make me cum and I'll suck your cock."

With everything in Qatar imported and with all of it so very expensive, she spared no expense in entertaining her son as if she was entertaining a member of the royal family. Stopping to check herself in the mirror again, she suffered the torture filled minutes of waiting for him to walk from the cab to her front door. As she lost count of how many steps he needed to take to her, she lost count of how many times she checked herself in the mirror. Fixing her lipstick, she wanted to leave her red mark on him as if branding him with her lipstick tattoo for everyone to know that he was hers and he belonged to her. Counting the seconds one by one, she imagined with the quickness of his pace and the length of his long, legged stride that he was already here.

"Henry is here," she mumbled under her breath. "Thank God, Henry is finally home."

Not wanting to appear too anxious and certainly not wanting to appear as if she was his girlfriend instead of his mother, she controlled herself from opening her front door and greeting him in the hall. If she were his lover instead of his mother, she'd run down the hall to him, jump on him, and wrap her long legs around him. With her short skirt up to her waist, she'd push her panty clad pussy against the bulge his cock made in his pants while French kissing him. It made her wet and her nipples hard while imagining greeting him in such an incestuously vulgar way.

Yet, how dare she even think those incestuous thoughts? She wasn't his lover but his mother. He wasn't her lover but her son. She didn't want to make a public spectacle of herself in front of her neighbors to give them something to gossip about; she needed more privacy than that. Yet, as soon as he unlocked the front door with his key and closed it behind him, she ran to him as if he was a wounded warrior returning home while on leave from the war in Afghanistan.

"Henry! You're home," she said running to him to wrap her arms around his neck. "I missed you so very much."

To be continued...