Satyrday Nights

No time for that tonight, she thought. Mama would never forgive me if I came home and then went out to party.

But oh God, a nice hard cock would feel so good right now.

Fuck it, she decided. The sun's down and no one can see me. And we're going so slow that it would be the slowest traffic accident in history, even if I hit somebody.

Working carefully, she unbuttoned and unzipped her shorts, then raised her ass high enough off the seat to slip them down to her knees. She shivered as a soft breeze came through the window and cooled her, taking pleasure in the thin sheen of sweat which highlighted the dark curves of her body.

I might not have world-class titties like Mama does. But what I do have is damn fine. She cupped a breast in her hand, wishing she dared to pull off her shirt and bra.

Pay attention, girl.

She tested the set-up. Yes, if she was careful, this could work. She lifted her foot off the brake and let the car roll forward. If traffic stayed slow, she wouldn't have to move her leg to work the gas. But she would still have to keep one hand on the wheel.

If Mr. Curtis could see me now, she giggled, thinking of her high school driving instructor. The tight-ass would probably drop dead of a heart attack.

She eased her hand down her belly and through the tight curls of her landing strip. With an eager whimper, she slipped two fingers inside her, her slippery-wet canal making the task effortless. The pad of her thumb grazed her clit, and her hips jerked forward as she hissed her pleasure.

She leaned back in the seat, eyes unfocused, barely paying enough attention to her surroundings to let the car drift forward when a space appeared in front of her. Imagining her fingers a cock, she built her fantasy-man inside her mind.

Not too tall, she decided, but with large, strong hands and clever fingers. Hands that could move her easily on their bed of passion, fingers that would stroke her skin and leave her gasping for more. No beard or mustache, as she had grown sick of stupid young men with their wispy mustaches and their neck-beards, and of white-trash with their mullets. A simple, pleasant face, clean shaven and smooth, was what she wanted.

Thick hair, long enough for her to plunge her hands into as her man rose above her in bed. Hair enough on his chest and legs for her to know he was a man, not so much that it scraped her tender skin. A slim, fit body, carved with ropy muscle. Not the sculpted, chiseled looks one got from spending time in a gym with a personal trainer, but what her friend Catalina called "the working man's workout"; the muscles men got from doing labor, day after day.

A nice tight ass. A decent set of shoulders. And oh God, I need a cock. Long enough so that when I get on top I can really go to town. And lips and a tongue and a brain that knows how to use both.

Now her fingers were pistoning in and out of her soaking cleft, her thighs shaking as her thumb massaged her button. Inside her bra, her nipples peaked, pressing vainly against the cloth, seeking escape.

"Oh God. Oh God," she panted. She blinked through the fog of lust, the car in front of her swimming in her vision. "Oh God I want it I want it I want you I want you Owen I want you I want you Owen take me Owen fill me fill me Owen fill me take me oh Owen oh GOD!"

In an excruciating spasm of pleasure, she hunched and came onto her hand, foot slamming the brake all the way to the floor, the slow drift of the car abruptly halted. Behind her, a car honked its horn petulantly as it braked to avoid her.

She raised her head, gasping with the aftermath of her climax, face burning in shame.

Owen! What in the wide green world made me think about him? His form still hung in her mind's eye, lean and strong, with a hard cock standing, straining before him. She itched to curl her hands around it, to feel the hot flow of blood pulsing through it, to take it within her, to make love to it until it delivered his seed deep inside her welcoming body.

No!

Hands shaking, she leaned over and pulled a wad of napkins out of the glove compartment. She cleaned her hands with rough, impatient swipes, then dabbed gingerly at the junction of her thighs, removing the evidence of her arousal. She pulled her shorts and panties back up, grimacing as her sodden underwear, clammy with her secretions, clung damply to her nether lips.

Craning her head out the window, she was pleased to see that the line seemed to be moving quicker. Another batch of officers had arrived to speed up the inspections.

Not too long now, she thought happily.

Not too long now.

****

Owen walked nervously into the office, finding Anaya there already.

"Ready to check out?" she asked cheerfully.

"More than ready," he said. "It's been a long couple of days."

She pulled up his list of runs on the computer. "How were the tips today?"

"Pretty good," he shrugged. "Nothing spectacular. Got a pretty decent one when I delivered to the weatherman for 'RNL."

"You met him?" Anaya asked curiously. "Cool. Did you get to meet the Snow Maid?" she giggled.

"Sure did," Owen smiled, leaving out the stranger parts of that conversation. He pushed over the pile of checks and credit card receipts for her to deduct against his total. "She's gorgeous. And they have the cutest little girl, too," he continued quickly, catching a jealous glint in her eye.

"Nice save, Owen," she said, amused. She pushed a pile of bills over to him. "Here's your cash."

Owen quickly counted, then slowed. He frowned as the total mounted. It did not remotely match with the running estimate he had been keeping in his head.

"This is too much," he said.

Anaya puffed out her cheeks in exasperation and turned back to the computer. "Let's do it again."

She counted out the bills and the receipts. Using an adding machine, she re-did the numbers as Owen riffled through the checks, trying to find the error.

"The count looks right to me. Maybe you got a big tip that you didn't catch?"

Owen held out a check, his face blank. "Here it is," he said. "My next to last run. Bill was just shy of twenty dollars."

"How much did they give you?" Anaya asked curiously. He showed it to her and her draw dropped. "They gave you a tip of over a hundred and thirty bucks?" she said, disbelieving.

Indeed she had. The check was made out for one hundred and fifty dollars. Owen shook his head. "This has to be a mistake. I'll go back there and talk to her."

"Do it and you're a damn fool," Anaya said. She examined the check. "It's clear as day. She wrote it out longhand, too. Take the money, Owen. You can use it.

"Any idea why she gave you so much?"

Owen paused, then spoke slowly. "I got the impression she was really mad at her husband. She said some pretty raw stuff about him."

Anaya shrugged. "It's obvious then. She was getting back at him by giving some of his money to you. Take it and be happy."

Or she was paying me for services rendered, he though grumpily. I wonder if this is what it is like to be a prostitute? Or a televangelist?

Or maybe, a soft voice murmured in his mind, she was expressing her gratitude to you, Owen. A gift freely given should not be resented.

He shook his head and stuffed the bills in his wallet. "I'll think about it."

"I'd rather you think about me," Anaya replied, her voice low and full of promise. "Call me tonight?"

"Absolutely," he said. "It might be late. I'll probably be hanging out with Mom and Sam and her boyfriend until pretty late. You can come over if you want," he continued, daringly. "I know Mom would like to see you."

She shook her head. "I've got dinner with my folks, as soon as I can get out of here. But call me," she said, taking his hand and squeezing it hard. "I want to talk about us."

He nodded, returning her grasp. "As soon as I can." Giving her a smile goodbye, he left the office, then the store.

****

Isabel smiled to herself as Owen pulled into the driveway.

She had stopped fighting against her desire. She knew that when the time came, Owen would join her in her bed. She slipped a hand inside her dress and palmed her breast dreamily, her nipple hard against the soft skin of her hand.

Why did I ever think this was a bad thing? she thought, her mind blazing with lust. My boy will never hurt me, never leave. We will be together, as it was meant to be.

But be slow with him, a voice in her mind warned her. Do not frighten him away as you did this morning.

She removed her hand from her tit moments before he entered, smiling at her.

"Hello, Mama." He gave her a hug, and she returned it eagerly, the hot wanting at her core growing as she felt his strong young body against hers. She pulled away reluctantly, taking care not to notice the way his pants tented at the groin, his sweet young cock eager for her.

"Where's Sam and her boyfriend?" he asked.

She turned back to the stove, the hem of her sundress swirling around her knees.

"Pah," she said over her shoulder, her mood darkening. "Samara kicked that stupid boy out of her apartment this morning. He did not value her as he should, and said terrible things to her. How can a man not want to take my beautiful hija to bed and love her as she deserves?"

"I don't know," her son said mildly. Was that the slightest sparkle of humor in his eyes? "So this Charlie fellow isn't coming, and good for Sam, if he's the kind of tool who won't make love to my sister.

"But that doesn't answer the question of where she is," he finished, raising his brows in inquiry.

"Have you not been listening to the radio, mi tesoro?" she asked, stirring the vacas fritas in the saucepan, sending up a whiff of aromatic steam. She turned to face him again, arms crossed beneath her breasts, lifting them for his view, her warm brown flesh threatening to spill out of her dress. "Some crazy man escaped from the jail a little while ago. Samara called me from the road, and the policia have the interstate blocked and are checking every car coming into the city. She will be here as soon as they examine her car and find out she is not a criminal who attacks the police.

"Now shoo!" she said, waving her dishtowel at him. "Supper will be ready in a few minutes. Get out of those pizza clothes and clean up for mealtime. When Samara gets here I don't want you in your uniform. Take a shower and put on something nice."

"Yes, Mama," he said meekly, and hurried out of the room.

****

Good God, Owen thought, stripping out of his clothes. The pull hasn't lessened. It's gotten worse! He slapped his erect cock irritably, the itch maddening him.

"Go down," he hissed at it, hating the way it defied him. "She isn't for you. Don't you know you're in the bible belt?"

It bobbed happily, ignoring him, the pulse of his blood thundering through his veins, singing a simple song of desire. Furiously, he stripped the bracelet off his wrist, setting it on his bedside table. Cringing internally, he waited for his mother's shriek as the events of the last day cascaded into her memory, and her furious entry into his room.

Nothing happened.

After a few more minutes, nothing continued to happen. Giving a slow sigh of relief, he picked a set of clean clothes out of his bureau and headed for the bathroom.

Well, it took time for things to reach this level after Phoebe gave me the damn thing, he thought as he soaped up, his hand drifting lower to tease his phallus, thumb rubbing over the sensitive head of his glans. Maybe it'll take a while to wear off.

God, I'm so fucking horny, though, he thought, his fist slowly pumping his erection. It's worse than it was before I got the bracelet, when I hadn't been with a woman for months. His cock saluted him jauntily, eager to fill another woman. He thought about jacking off, but he feared that his mother would hear him.

Finally, in desperation, he turned the water to a brutally cold setting. Gasping, he shivered under the flow until his cock sagged under the onslaught of frigid water. He dried quickly and went back into the bedroom, the towel wrapped around his waist, fearing that Isabel would be waiting to ambush him in the hallway. Once there, he dressed in a lightweight pair of slacks and a nice button-down shirt. He even put on his best pair of dress loafers and dashed on a bit of cologne.

He was about to leave the room when the gleam of the bracelet, lying abandoned under his bedside lamp, caught his eye. Unwilling, he heard Phoebe's voice in his head.

"Accept mediocrity. Deny the possibility of beauty and power and passion.

"And for the rest of your life, you'll always wonder.

"What if."

He stood, eying the bracelet uncertainly, torn with indecision.

I can say no, if I want to. I can push her away, and in a few weeks, if Phoebe is telling me the truth, this will just be a forgotten moment.

And I want it. God. I want the passion. The desire. The feel of a woman wrapped around me. I don't want to risk it all because I was afraid. What if I blow my chance with Anaya because I was terrified of what would happen with my mother?

I don't want to lose her.

He nodded grimly, threw a choke-hold over his lust, and slipped the bracelet back onto his left wrist.

****

The itch in his groin redoubled as he entered the kitchen. Isabel was moving plates and trays to the table, and he quickly moved to help her.

"Gracias, mi vida," she said, dropping a quick kiss on his cheek as he set the large, cast-iron skillet onto the table. She set down a pot of rice, and another of onions and peppers beside it. As one, they sat down and filled their plates.

"De nada, madre,"

"So how was your day, Owen?"

He smiled. For all of the life-altering changes in the last day, Isabel sounded like she had at meals over the kitchen table for years. He took a bite of his meal, turning up his eyes in pleasure at the spicy pork, mingled with fresh vegetables and rice.

"Pretty good, all things considered. I made some decent tips. Oh. I ran into Sandy Jorgensen. I delivered some pizza to her little boy's birthday party."

Isabel smiled, which did pleasant things to her chest. Is she wearing a bra? I...don't think so.

"Sandy," she said, the name falling lilting from her lips. "You dated her when you were how old? Sixteen? I liked her. How is she?"

"Not so great, not so bad. Her little boy is a cutie, though." He described Sandy's problems, wisely leaving out the blow-job she had given him behind the bouncy house.

Isabel took a sip of wine, her eyes bright. This was how things were meant to be. Her son beside her, eating a meal as a family.

"Oh!" Owen said, brightening. "It looks like Anaya and I might be going out sometime soon."

"Really?" Isabel asked. She had to close her eyes briefly as a tide of jealousy surged through her, bitter as gall. How dare she try to steal my Owen away from me! She smiled at her son, hiding her pain. "How did that happen?"

Owen laughed. "God only knows. We were talking in the office this morning and something just...clicked...between us." He opened his mouth as if to continue, but dropped his head, blushing as he took another bite of food.

Below the table, a knuckle cracked as Isabel clenched her fist. She raised her shaking hand and took another sip of wine.

Filthy tramp! I know what she did. She pulled down her shirt and flashed her Indian tits at him and he couldn't help himself.

He's mine, damn it. Mine!

She took a last bite of rice, then reached for a piece of bread, sopping up the juice on her plate.

Two can play your game, Anaya. Without even thinking, she pulled the straps of her dress down, letting the top half of her garment fall to her waist. Unbound, her breasts sprang free, her dark nipples crinkling, fat and cheerfully erect.

"Mama! What the hell are you doing?" Owen's voice was a breathless shout of horror.

She lounged back in her chair, her stiff buds pointing at her son. She raised her glass to her lips and took another swallow of wine. She tried to appear calm, but her hand shook slightly, and a trickle of wine ran down her lips and dropped onto her chest. To Owen's eyes she looked free, fierce, and slightly mad.

Quite a bit, the thought came to him, like Phoebe had, the night he first met her.

"What are you so worried about, mi corazon? It is night and the doors are closed. Who is to know if I choose to eat in comfort, rather than staying sweaty and hot in this dress?" She picked at the thin cloth on her lap disdainfully. She shot him a wicked look from under her lashes. "Perhaps you would prefer to be comfortable, too? Why don't you take that shirt off, mi vida? Or even better, your pants?" Her tongue came out and delicately wet her lips, licking off the wine. She deliberately raised her hand and smeared the wine into the brown skin of her chest., holding his gaze as a muscle jumped in his jaw.

"Mama," Owen's voice was hoarse. "I want you to calm down. I want you to think. You shouldn't be doing this. If Samara comes home, how will this look?" His fork clattered on his empty plate and he looked at her, eyes haunted. "I shouldn't have come home with it," he muttered. "I should have thrown it away and damned the consequences."

What is he talking about? Silly boy. Doesn't he understand how wonderful this is? She cupped her breasts in her hands, offering them to him. Her fingers came together, pinching the sensitive nipples, and she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming as lust boiled in her belly. Her hips rocked in slow circles on the chair.

Owen made one last, desperate attempt. "Mama, stop it! Please! Get hold of yourself," he hissed, trying to break through the wall of desire.

She stood up. "Oh, it is too late for that, mi vida. Far too late." She could feel the moisture gathering inside her, the changes, as her nether lips opened shyly, unfurling like a flower in springtime. She walked to her son, then around behind him, a fingertip trailing across his shoulders as he hunched and shuddered.

Let him tell himself he doesn't want me, she thought wantonly, as the blood rushed to her breasts and her aching, engorged nipples. It will make his surrender all the sweeter. She spun and sat in his lap, looping her arms around his neck, her face only inches from his. The tips of her breasts rubbed lightly on the thin cloth of his shirt, and she moaned softly as she looked into his dear, confused eyes.

She glanced down between them, sensing the heat of his organ. She dropped a hand into his lap and squeezed slightly, her small hand not quite able to encircle his thickness. The material of her dress had hiked up, exposing her warm brown thighs as she spread her legs to straddle him, and the moist humid air felt wonderful on the shaved flesh of her mound.

She nuzzled in closer to him, then tilted her head sideways, nose sniffing, darting in for a kiss where the delicate skin of his neck met his shoulder. She licked him, tongue sweeping up from his neck to his jawline, then up to his ear, sharp teeth setting themselves painfully in the lobe.

He hissed, whether in pain or pleasure she could not tell. His hands came up and bunched in the tangled cloth at her waist. What would he do, she thought desperately. Would he throw her down and walk away, horrified and disgusted?