Satyrday Afternoon

After a light lunch, she got the ingredients for dinner out of the cupboard.

Vacas Fritas, she decided. She had told Owen she would be making empanandas last night, but she had changed her mind. She wanted something that would slow-cook and not fill the small house with heat. Something that would need minimal attention while she spent a lazy Saturday afternoon to herself.

Isabel mixed together the marinade, then sliced the pork and set it out to steep until it had soaked up the juice. In a few hours, she would start to braise it until it was ready to fall apart, then serve with rice, peppers, and onions.

Sighing, she sat down, then frowned as the prickle of her unshaven legs rubbed against each other.

I said I would take care of that sometime soon, she thought. Sometime soon is now.

She took a long, hot shower, soaking in the luxury of an afternoon free to do what she wanted. After she dried off, she wrapped herself in a light robe and spread shaving foam on her legs. She smiled as the hair was removed, soft warm skin emerging. She ran her hands up and down her legs, taking pleasure in firm flesh and strong muscles, imagining it was a man who touched her.

Strong hands and gentle fingers, she thought, and a nice hard cock to ride. Isabel's hand crept to her pubis, and stopped as it encountered the thatch of hair on her mound. She eyed it with distaste, then pulled a small pair of scissors out of the medicine cabinet.

Working quickly, she trimmed her pubic hair down to stubble, sweeping the thick black curls into the wastebasket. Smiling to herself, she uncapped a small bottle of oil and worked it into her skin, preparing it. Her fingers ran teasingly over her labia, oil-slick fingers coating her lips.

With a shudder of longing, she pulled her hand away from her core and applied the shaving lotion. Working carefully, she lightly stroked her skin with the razor, removing all of the hair from her mons. She was tempted to leave a strip behind, but instead shaved herself bare as a newborn.

Or one of the wicked women you hear about in church on Sunday morning, she thought with a smile. Isabel and her family had a tenuous relationship with the Catholic church. Her parents had left the island partially because of their faith, but in a life which had seen most of her loved ones die young, Isabel had slowly drifted away from religion, and her sporadic trips to mass were more for the social aspect than for any real belief in a higher power.

Her oil-slick fingers probed at her opening once more, then she stood up. What she needed, she decided, was a nice long masturbation session. A good orgasm would wash away some of the tension which had been growing in her over the last few days.

Take away the indecent emotions she was feeling for her son.

She went into her bedroom, shedding her robe as she did so, nipples tightening in anticipation. She lay on the bed and opened her nightstand, looking for the spicy novels she kept there for inspiration, on those few nights when she had enough time to read and enough energy to pleasure herself.

Frowning, she sorted through the stack, eying the covers in irritation.

White girl, white girl, white girl. Rubia, rubia, rubia. Not a single Latina in the mix. If they don't have blond hair and blue eyes, they have red hair and green eyes. And if by some miracle they have black or brown hair, their skin is a pale as milk.

She tossed the stack back into the nightstand and opened a drawer. Inside was a sex toy that her friend Lynette had given to her as a gag gift at the last Christmas party at the office. She smiled as she stroked the warm, fleshy rubber of the dildo, then untied her robe to let it fall at her sides. She raised her knees high and spread her legs, letting them sag open. With one hand she spread open the lips of her labia. The other held the dildo in her grip, then flicked the buzzing tip on.

Eyes closed, she sought in her memory the form of her husband, before he grew tired and worn out from a weary procession of low-paying jobs, before he died hanging drywall in a crappy apartment building on the east side.

In her mind's eye she saw him as he was in the first years of their marriage, smiling and good-humored, blond hair tousled, fair skin glowing with good health, his hands and body eager for hers.

She gasped with pleasure as the purring surface of the dildo found her clitoris. Unerringly she massaged her bud of pleasure, moisture wetting her petals, gently unfolding. Warmth pooled in her belly, her breasts, a sweet ache that fought for release. She imagined Gary over her, his mouth covering hers, his hands on her breasts, his cock hard and ready for her cleft.

But surely, she frowned, my Gary's hair was never that dark? And his eyes were blue, not as brown as my own?

And his cock had never been so large and thick, the throbbing, mushroom-shaped tip glistening with juice.

Not Gary. Owen!

She fought to free herself from the shameful fantasy, but her body had ideas of its own. Her breasts flushed, and sweat broke out on her upper lip and her groin. One hand guided the phallus over her pulsing nubbin, the other gently mauled her breasts, fingers playing over her sensitive nipples.

She hunched around her core as her orgasm hit, the muscles of her belly and womb spasming in release. A thin, high-pitched wail broke from her lips as she thrust the rubbery cock deep within her sex, plunging into her depths.

Oh...oh God! God forgive me!

Curiously calm, she relaxed as the aftershocks of her climax subsided. Her mind and her body, for once, were at peace, in harmony with each other.

Oh, Blessed Mother, what is happening to me? Why do I want my son so badly? Her thoughts turned to her actions the previous night and morning, her body shuddering with desire.

My boy. My beautiful boy, loving and strong and sweet, who would never betray me or leave me. Who has cared for me when I was scared and alone.

Is it so wrong, to want to take my son as my lover?

%%%

Samara drove up I-80 towards Des Moines that afternoon, relaxed and content. The May sun was warm and she had the windows rolled down and an arm cocked on the driver's side door, soaking up the sun and the deep green smell of growing things. One side of her mouth quirked in a smile.

Let the big-city kids look down their noses at us. Iowa's farms produce more wealth than all the diamond mines in the world. And you can eat corn and pigs and cows. Diamonds, not so much.

She sighed and wriggled back into the warm cloth of her seat. The sun, past its peak and sliding towards the west, fell through her window, dappling her dark skin. A pool of light gathered in her lap, heating her loins. She smiled as the warmth gathered within her, a growing pulse in her belly, making her nipples tighten.

God, I'm horny. Too bad I didn't pick a fight with Charlie after we screwed. At least that way I might not be so antsy right now.

Hah. The way he performed in bed, you'd just be even more frustrated. How many times did he actually make you come after you first dragged him into bed? Three times? In two months? Remember last weekend when you were so hot for him that you practically raped him on the couch back at his place, and he was worried that you were messing up his hair?

He might be gay, she considered thoughtfully. He wouldn't be the first self-loathing gay guy I've run into, trying to stay in the closet by dating a woman. That doesn't make him a bad guy.

No, the way he treated you is what makes him a bad guy.

Christ, I need a man. She switched hands on the steering wheel so her right hand could gently rub her crotch. The heat from the sun and the pressure from her hands made her secret core ache, and she was half-tempted to find a rest stop and pleasure herself in the car.

Right. And a family on their way home to Nebraska from vacation in Chicago would see you, skirt hiked up and your fingers buried in your pussy, and they would be so traumatized they would be in therapy for weeks. She snickered at the thought, then her eyes widened as she caught the sight of a line of cars, their brake lights on, slowing ahead of her.

"Oh, godammit," she said resignedly. There were two seasons in Iowa, the joke went. Winter and road construction. It looked like the old saying was holding true as Samara slowed to a crawl, craning her head to see traffic backed up for well over a mile as the interstate narrowed to one lane.

She carefully pulled out her smart phone and checked the website for the Iowa Department of Transportation. She swore as she saw the notification.

Motorists should be advised that IDOT will be performing construction work on Interstate 80 between Guernsey and Des Moines from May 18 through September 4. Motorists should allow for extra time if they plan on traveling on Interstate 80 this summer. Bridgework and patching will be ongoing throughout this time. We apologize for the inconvenience.

Seething at her own stupidity, she dialed her mother's number. Isabel answered on the fourth ring.

"Hello, Mama," Samara said.

"Hola, mi tesora," Isabel replied cheerfully. "Is my daughter and her novio on her way to visit her Mama?"

"I am Mama," she replied shortly. "But Charlie isn't." She quickly told her the story of their breakup.

Isabel hissed in outrage. "Stupid boy! To speak so to my daughter. He is lucky he lives so far away, or I would make him sorry he was ever born."

"Don't worry about it, Mama. He is out of my life, and good riddance to him."

Isabel sighed. "Why did you ever go out with a boy like that?"

"Because his ass looked really good in a tight pair of jeans," Samara snickered. "Too bad he had another ass that was on his shoulders."

Isabel laughed softly, if a little sadly. "I know how a pretty man can turn a young woman's head, mi vida. How else would I have met your father?"

"Speaking of Papa," Samara said, happy for the change in conversation, "You shocked Owen quite a bit this morning."

In her kitchen, Isabel's hand tightened on the handset of her phone. Owen had talked to Samara? What about? Had he told her the way she had touched herself in front of him the night before? Or the way she had kissed him that morning?

"Oh?" she said, keeping her voice calm, "How so?"

"By talking about your sex life with Papa in front of him," Samara said, giggling again as she remembered Owen's half-frantic call earlier that day. "He couldn't believe you were talking to him about something so...intimate. He thought you might have brain cancer or had a stroke that was making your inhibitions go away, and the next thing he knew, you would be walking down the street in your underwear, or hitting on the mailman, or something."

Isabel laughed. "Poor boy! To have his Mama discussing her sex life in front of him!" Standing nude in the kitchen, she cupped her breast, thumb idly flicking her fat nipple as she dreamed of her son. Suddenly she desperately wished that Samara wasn't visiting, so she could spend the evening alone with Owen.

Doing what, foolish woman? He doesn't want you. He wants a girl near his own age.

"I'll try to be more...careful...in the future," she said. "But tell your hermano that his Mama is getting older, and her wits are wandering, and that she may say something like that again."

Samara snorted. "Right. You've got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, as Grandpa Howard used to say. Don't worry about Owen. I told him you and I have been talking about sex since I was a kid. He won't give you any trouble if you are more open with him that you used to be."

Isabel relaxed. Apparently Owen had kept the more disturbing events of the last day to himself. Samara was as uninhibited about making her feelings known as her mother was, and if Owen had let slip even the slightest hint that she had acted inappropriately towards him, Samara would have said so.

Samara let her car creep forward as the line of cars in front of her slowly began to move. "But the real reason I called was to let you know I will probably be a bit late. I didn't check the traffic situation before I left home, and they are doing roadwork on the interstate. So don't worry. I'll call you once I have a better idea when I'll be getting there."

"That's all right, my love," Isabel said, her voice warm. "We'll be here waiting for you. Drive safe and be careful. I love you."

"I love you too, Mama. Bye." She hung up the phone and relaxed back into her seat, scowling as a minivan tried to cut in front of her. She gave the driver a steely glare, daring him to ram her car. He backed off, muttering.

Back in Des Moines, Isabel smiled quietly to herself as she prepared supper. Time alone with her son! Her mind swirled through a fog of lust, trying to settle on a plan. A spasm of desire, almost painful in its intensity, cramped her belly.

I want him. I do. But how can I get him?

%%%

Owen glanced at the clock on the wall, then at the orders waiting to go out. With the good weather, business had been disappointing, as it seemed that most people were cooking out rather than choosing to have food delivered. He checked the addresses on the deliveries, and chose two that were close to each other.

"It's quarter after six, and I'm off at seven," he said to Jimmy Clark, who had come in with the rest of the night-shift drivers at five o'clock. "This will probably be my last run." He nodded towards Anaya, who was on the phone. "Can you tell her I'd like to clock out once I get back?"

"Sure, man," Jimmy said. He shuffled his feet awkwardly, then looked up. "Hey, Owen. Sorry about bailing last night when Darren called in. Me and the wife wanted an afternoon with the kids, and I didn't want to get roped into another shift, you know?"

Owen nodded. "I understand, man. Don't worry about it. I needed the hours anyway, and it worked out for the best."

Definitely for the best, he thought smugly as he left the store. First, the awesome sex with Anaya. And then a blow-job from an ex-girlfriend. He hardly would have gotten that if he had stayed home and come into work at five as originally planned.

He drove through the green, leafy streets of a quiet residential neighborhood. He knew this area intimately, having delivered for the store for years. He knew in which areas he could expect a good tip, and where he should keep an eye peeled for trouble. He hoped these last two deliveries would push his total for the day significantly higher.

He pulled into the driveway of his first stop and rang the doorbell. Hearing nothing, he pulled open the screen door and knocked firmly. He heard hurrying steps from inside, and the door was pulled open abruptly.

A handsome woman, nearly as tall as he was, stood in front of him. Around the same age as his mother, she wore an expensive skirt that dropped below her knees and a loose, comfortable blouse. Her lips were pressed together tightly as she looked at him.

"My husband's asleep," she said softly, "He's the one who ordered the food. Come in, but please be quiet. I don't want to wake him up."

Moving carefully, Owen entered the house, sighing in relief at the feel of the air-conditioning, comfortably pleasant on his skin. As he walked through the family room, a big-screen TV was showing a baseball game. On a couch, a fat man in a White Sox t-shirt was sitting, head slumped back, snores whistling from his slack mouth. He was unshaven, and a litter of beer cans sat on the table in front of him. He followed the woman into the kitchen, where she turned abruptly, frowning.

"His wallet's in his pants, and I'm not going to wake the fat slob up," she said, her deep voice harsh with dislike. "Come into my office and I'll write you a check."

Owen followed her through a series of well-decorated rooms. His eyes fell to her sexy ass as her pace slowed and her hips began to sway to a seductive beat. In his pants, his cock itched fiercely. He scratched it, and it immediately began to swell, filling his crotch with heat.

Oh, God, he thought. I don't need this. Please don't let her notice my boner. As he entered the office, he dropped the bag in front of his groin, desperately trying to hide his erection.

"You are a good-looking young man," the woman said, eying him speculatively. "What's your name, honey?"

"I'm Owen," he said, mouth dry. He pulled the food out of the bag and set it on the desk, careful of the papers scattered on the surface. "One large meat-lovers' pizza," he said, trying to pull the conversation back to normal ground. "One order of bread sticks. The total is seventeen seventy-nine."

"I'm Wendy," she said, ignoring the food. "Wendy Davis. And I'm a meat-lover, too." She stepped closer to him, the scent of her perfume tickling his nose. "That pig out there hasn't fucked me for weeks," she said softly, nuzzling closer to him. Owen stepped back, but she followed him. "And even if he tried," she said, "How would I find his dick under all that fat? All he does anymore is sit around and yell at the TV."

She stepped out of her sandals. "What I need," she continued, "Is a nice hard cock. I bet you have one, don't you, Owen? Long enough to ride on, thick enough to open me up real good." She reached an arm past him and pushed the door closed, shutting him in with her. Inside his pants, his erection raged, fighting for release.

"Mrs. Davis," Owen stuttered, "Please let me out. If your husband woke up and found us...I could get fired for this. I would get fired for this. I need my job."

"You can go," Wendy replied. She reached under her skirt and pulled off her panties, tossing them negligently into a corner. She bent over, one hand braced against the door, and flipped up her skirt with the other, the fabric settling on her lower back, exposing the pale flesh of her ass. She spread her legs, and the scent of her arousal, strong and musky, struck Owen's nostrils, making his cock surge inside his slacks.

"As soon as you come, you can go. As long as you come inside of me."

Despite himself, Owen felt himself being drawn forward. His cock throbbed, aching. He raised his hands and set them on the full curves of Wendy's hips, his shaft settling into the crack of her ass, separated from her skin only by the thin cloth of his khakis and boxers. Wendy moaned, and ground back into him, her rear rising and falling to the strokes of her hips.

He bent forward, hands sliding over the sleek cloth of her blouse, and rested his cheek on her back as his hands found and cupped her breasts, softly kneading the abundant flesh of her tits. She ducked her head and groaned, and then she was unbuttoning her blouse, knocking his hands away as she pulled the garment off, and her hands reached nimbly behind her and unclasped her bra, leaving her only in her hiked-up skirt, displaying herself wantonly to his gaze.

Her head came around, eyes blazing fiercely. "I thought I was clear on what I want, Owen. You can play with my titties all you like, but you better make sure your cock is inside me when you do."