A Mom Her Son And His Lap

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* * * * *

1

The Naughty Nun

Okay, Valeria Jones,

I thought,

it's time to get sexy.

I undid the tuck in the towel between my breasts and let it drop to the floor. I took one small foot and kicked the towel to the side, where one of the maids would pick it up later.

The young maids in their tiny French outfits

, I thought. My husband loved those outfits so much. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips.

We both loved them so much.

Thankfully, my daughter had moved out of the house a year ago, and my son was finishing his senior year of high school; otherwise, those outfits would be going back into the closet until Colton went off to college.

I fluffed my hair, throwing my wavy, spun-gold locks behind my shoulders. I had to get ready for the long drive to my in-laws' house. I had to dry my hair, put on my makeup, and then my Halloween costume, where it sat atop the mannequin sculpted to my forty-year-young body. And it was a young, forty-year-old body. I had breasts that just passed for big, a narrow waist, a round butt, the tapered thighs of a woman who did squats, strong shoulders, and I had just a little bit of the meat on my bones that comes with age. My bikini model days were over, but I was still a sexy, bendy MILF who enjoyed her husband's cock nearly every day.

I pulled my eyes from my costume, thinking,

I'm going to be a nun for Halloween,

then I thought of my husband.

We are some kinky fuckers, aren't we, Val?

* * * * *

I gave myself one last look in the mirror, checking the mascara darkening my eyes, the red brightening my lips, and the blush rosying up my cheeks. If I only had ten more minutes, I always wanted ten more minutes when I was putting on my makeup.

"If time had no meaning, you women would spend an eternity on your faces," Dex loved to say to me . . . and our daughter, but unlike our daughter, I didn't have a team of professionals working on me for hours at a time before a shoot.

Must be nice,

I thought, thinking of my daughter's modeling career. I was only ever a bikini car show model, standing next to cars at car shows with my twin sister, waving at the men who were taking pictures of my G-string from all angles. I sighed, then looked up toward the vaulted ceiling of my coastal bedroom, and I rolled my eyes.

Not too bad for a car show model.

The door to the bedroom opened, and my husband's deep voice boomed, "Hey, hey, hey, where is that sexy bitch who married me?"

I smiled and turned away from my vanity, looking at my husband as he closed the door behind him. Dex was tall, lean, blue-eyed, brown-haired, and handsome—a slightly smaller version of our son. Or, our son was a slightly larger version of him, either way . . . the man was sexy.

"If anyone else called me a bitch. . . ." I said, trailing off as my smile overcame my face.

"I know, you'd cut their sack off," Dex said, laughing. "Should I stop calling you that dirty word?"

"I like being your bitch," I said as my husband walked toward me. "But if I ever want you to stop, I'll let you know."

"Aw,

che bella che sei oggi,"

Dex said, stopping to put his hands on my hips. "Maybe we should have dressed you in one of those sexy poodle-girl costumes."

"Too bad that's the only Italian phrase you know." A blush reddened my face as my insides warmed, and a tingle massaged me between my thighs. "And it always makes me so wet." I licked my lips. "You should learn Italian for me."

"Oh, my," Dex said. "You really are the naughty nun I hoped you'd be."

I laughed as my husband turned me around, making me face my vanity mirror. I

was

a naughty nun, and there was no mistaking it. My nun's gown hugged my breasts instead of dropping straight down, clinging to their underside, then riding my slender tummy down to my hips and round ass before dropping to the middle of my thighs. The hem barely hid the welts of my black, mid-thigh stockings, and I could see the outlines of my lacy garter belt and matching suspenders through the nude-sheer fabric of my gown. I had a thin rope belt around my waist, a white bib, a silver crucifix, a white habit with a long black veil, and white cuffs at the collar of my sleeves. At the moment, I was wearing plain white tennis shoes, but I had a pair of black, come-fuck-me heels in my weekend luggage for later.

"So fucking sexy," Dex said as he wrapped his arms around my waist.

I shuddered, feeling his size and strength envelope me. My nipples hardened, turning into tight, knotted buds that pushed against my top over the support of my slutty shelf bra.

"Are you wearing a bra?" Dex asked, raising his right hand and cupping the underside of my heavy breast.

"Yes and no," I said with a shaky breath. "Only a shelf bra." As my husband's groin pressed into me, I turned my ass in a sexy circle against the lump in his khakis. "And no panties."

"It's a good thing you're not." Dex pressed his cock against my ass. "Those panties would be wet right now, wouldn't they?"

"Do we have time for a quickie?" I asked, watching my breasts rise and fall in the mirror. "Bend me over right here, Father Jones"—I frowned—"where's your priest costume?"

My husband laughed as he said, "I can't wear that while I drive."

"I thought we were wearing our costumes to the party?"

"The party is not until late tonight," Dex said, laughing, then he looked to the side, a grin appearing on his face. "I wanted you to wear your costume because it's so fucking hot." He stepped back and patted my butt. "Is the see-through habit in your bag?"

"Yes," I said, sighing. "No time for a quickie?"

"The kids are waiting by the car."

I sighed again, turning around. "So?" God, there was a time he would have fucked me at just the thought of my muff without panties to protect it. "Look." I dropped my fingers to the hem of my gown, and I pulled the hem up my thighs, revealing my garter's suspenders, my smooth skin, the bottom softness of my hairless pussy lips, and upwards. . . . My clitty came into view, and then more, my mound, where I had shaved my blonde pubic hairs into the shape of a small cross. "Don't we have time, Father Jones?"

Dex growled, dropped to his knees, and wrapped his arms around my legs, taking my bare ass in his hands. His lips touched my fur, and his tongue traced the cross, then he stood and growled again.

"Aw," I sighed as the tingling in my pussy melted my insides, sending a slippery rush of wetness down my lips. "Are you serious, Dexter Allen Jones?"

"Only my mother calls me that," Dex said, laughing.

"Then maybe next year I'll go as your mother," I whispered, teasing him with a head shake as I dropped my skirt back into place. "You'd listen to me then, Mr. Dexter Allen Jones."

"Now we're talking."

"Nasty man," I said, walking past him to my panty drawer. I'd need a liner down there to keep me from soaking his Porsche's passenger seat.

Fuck, I need some cock,

I thought.

No sooner did I have a lacy black thong in my hands than a thought hit me, and I said, "Remember when you first met me?"

"You and your twin," Dex said, standing near the bed where my weekend luggage lay. "Yeah?"

"Remember what you did with us?"

Dex moaned.

"Come on, you remember," I whispered in my poutiest voice. "Tell me what you did with us." I offered him a sexy, little kitten moan. "Tell me what you made me do with my twin sister. Remember the blow job, baby? Remember when we swapped your cum, tongue to tongue." I needed to give my sister a call, married or not; she had always been sluttier than me, and another sister-sister threesome would be a nice Christmas present for my husband. "Tell me, Dex, what did we do with that big, fat dick of yours."

"We. . . ." Dex said, then shook his head.

"C'mon, Daddy, tell me," I said, lifting the hem of my gown again. "So I can think about it while you fuck me really quick, and then I can think about how you fucked me in the car while sitting next to you as the engine's power roars through my twat."

Dex clenched his jaw shut.

"While I play with myself while our kids are in the backseat," I added, moaning again.

"I. . . ." Dex scrunched his face and growled, grabbed my luggage, and raced toward the door. "We have to leave before the Coast Road fills up with drivers, and it's supposed to rain later, don't forget."

Damn it!

There was only one thing that could pull my husband away from my pussy, and that was driving and driving fast.

2

Seating Arrangements

I took my towel to the laundry basket in my restroom—I couldn't help myself—before taking the elevator down from the third floor to the first. I walked through the open first floor toward the back of the house that faced the cliffside, Coastal Road, where my husband parked two of his four Porsches. For a man who was heir and co-owner of one of the biggest Engineering and Technology companies in the world, the man only drove Porches when he was at home. He kept his car collection somewhere else.

Outside, the sun showed gold in a mostly blue sky, but off the coast, near the horizon, billowed a storm of gray clouds. Great. Dex would use those clouds as an excuse to drive faster than he usually did on the way to his parents' home. I frowned, then my frown deepened when I looked at the car.

My daughter, Lana, stood next to the passenger-side door in her sweats with a little backpack in her right hand, looking nothing like the twenty-year-old cover girl she was. Would she be a cover girl if it wasn't for her father's family name? Probably, but I'm sure it would have taken longer. A woman could be an eleven, but in

that

world, elevens were everywhere. At least she didn't have to fuck her way to the top.

She looked like me; my daughter did, only she was a little taller and more willowy, with a sharper face, longer hair, and blue eyes instead of green. To be in her place . . . .

"Why aren't you in a costume?" I asked my daughter as I walked toward the car, and she walked toward me with a frown on her face.

Her brother and father were already in their seats, waiting on us.

"I don't feel well," Lana said in a low tone when we stood face to face. "And I can't wear my costume in the car."

"You okay?" I asked, then I added, "you're going to your grandparents' party this weekend. I don't care what other parties are going on in the city."

"Oh, I know," Lana said. "I flew in, didn't I? I'm not trying to get out of it. I'm not a teenager anymore."

I laughed as if being twenty had given her a world of experience and wisdom. Who knows, in her fast-paced life, maybe it had.

"But, you know, it's shark week," Lana said with her arms crossed across her stomach.

I raised an eyebrow.

"I got my period," she said, rolling her eyes. "I need to sit in front with daddy."

"Oh," I said, giving my daughter a sympathetic smile, but then. . . . "Oh, no. No-no-no-no-no." I looked at my husband's Porsche, the four-door Panamera Turbo S E-Hybrid Executive—that was his idea of

a family

car—and I shook my head. "We need to change cars."

"You look hot, Mom," Lana said. "Very sexy. Is Daddy making you wear that?"

I mumbled something to her. My daughter knew too much about my sex life, but that's what happens when your twin sister is your daughter's favorite aunt. Fuck, I couldn't sit in the back with my son, Colt. Our luggage would be in the trunk. Colt would sit behind his father, who liked to sit as close to the wheel as possible. Lana would sit in my seat, and in the seat behind hers would sit the biggest fucking pumpkin Dex could find. He wouldn't carve until he got to his parents' house so that he and his mother could carve creepy, life-like faces into its skin and pulp.

"I can't sit in Colt's lap," I said, trying to look through the tinted windows at my son, but I was too far away to see through them.

"Oh, when you have to sit in Colt's lap, then driving in that little car is suddenly a big deal," Lana said. "But when I have to sit in his lap, you and dad say, 'Oh, it's just your brother, he won't bite you.' Thanks, Mom."

A bitchy look crossed my face, and not even my nun's habit could soften that glare.

"Sorry," Lana said, looking to the side. "Colt's kind of comfortable, I guess, but I can't sit in his lap when I feel like this. You know, I've got cramps, and I feel—"

"I know what it feels like." I looked toward our home's roof, where sat the helicopter my daughter had flown in on.

"Dad wants to drive," Lana said, having followed my gaze. "That's his thing. He's not going to call a pilot—"

"Get your father for me," I said, sighing. "I need to talk to him."

I waited as my daughter walked back to the car, got into

my

seat, and spoke to her father. He honked the horn. I crossed my arms under my tits. He exited the car, smiled at me over the Porsche's roof, and said, "Just kidding, baby."

Away from the car, we stood face to face, where I said, "I can't sit on Colt's lap. Not in the costume."

"Why not?" Dex asked.

"Look at me?" I said, looking down. "A stripper would wear this, not a mother. " I lowered my voice. "I could dry fuck a man to death in this."

"It's not a big deal," Dex said after a quick laugh. "Make Lana sit in his lap. She'll get over it."

"I'm not going to make her do that with how she's feeling." I looked toward the helicopter. "Call the pilot."

"No," Dex said. "We have an agreement. When we go to my parents' home, I get to drive us there, no questions asked. It's the only time I get to drive fast."

"All so you can pretend that you're a racer again," I said. "When I said you had to buy a family car for drives to your parents' home, I meant a family car, not a Porsche."

"It has four seats."

"Only three of which we use," I said, thinking of all those holidays and how something always ended up behind my seat, whether it was my husband's stuff or my daughter's things or something of Colt's; something always took up that space. "Just this once, we'll take my car. It has room for that stupid pumpkin in the back."

"Val," Dex said, "Val, Val, Val. Come on. . . . Just, you know, come on. . . ."

I laughed at this big, boyish jackass.

"In my car, I turn an hour and a half ride into an hour," he said. "You won't even notice you're in Colt's lap. Besides, he's drunk."

"What?" I asked, looking at the car, trying to see through the passenger-side door and its tinted windows all over again. "Why is my eighteen-year-old son—who's still in high school—drunk."

Dex shrugged, but I knew what he was going to say before he said it, and he said what I thought he was going to say like I knew he would.

"He signed a letter of intent with my alma mater," Dex said, which is what I knew he would say. "He's red-shirting his freshman year; then it's four years as the starting QB if he doesn't go pro first."

"That's no excuse," I said.

"I always wanted to be a start—"

"You were on the team." I balled my hand into a fist and hit my husband in the chest. "You played."

"Like two downs in four years," Dex said. "It's the story of my life, the same with my father's NASCAR team. I was the fourth driver for two years; thank God I'm a better businessman than I was an athlete."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I asked. "You're a great athlete."

"Until I ran into better ones." Dex sighed. "It's every father's dream to live vicariously through his son. You see the way my father looks at you; don't I deserve to look at my son's wife like that one day?"

I punched my husband's chest again as I said, "What the fuck does that have to do with letting him get drunk on a Friday afternoon?"

"With that kind of résumé," Dex said, then he started singing,

"he can have whatever he likes. . . ."

"You're supposed to sing that that song to me," I said, sighing once again.

"Look, the car is packed, your kids are in it, and it's getting late . . . in the afternoon." My husband offered me a cheerful smile. "Colt will probably sleep the entire trip. Let's go." Dex grabbed my hands. "Come on, let's go. Let's go, baby. Do this for Daddy."

I growled, but I let my husband pull me towards the car, mumbling, "You can't say things like that to me,

Daddy,

you know how it makes me feel."

A smile crept onto my lips. I had packed my leash, collar, cuffs, and paddle for Dex as a surprise. I mean, who didn't want to see a nun in bondage? And I'd get to call him

Father

tonight, instead of

Daddy.

I should have told him that before getting into the car. I should have told him I wouldn't let him use them on me if I had to sit on my son's lap.

Looking back, I should have stood my ground, but that's life.

3

The Long Road Ahead

I opened the passenger door as my husband jumped into the front seat. My son, lean and broad and built like an Olympic athlete, looked up at me with cherry-flavored eyes. Yeah, he sure was drunk. And he wasn't wearing a costume either. He had his thin, cotton workout shorts on and a matching shirt, the standard-issue to his school's athletes.

"Make room, Colt," I said. "Your sister is upfront today."

My son's eyes traveled over my body—thankfully, my nipples had softened, but they still made thick bumps against my silky gown. (I wasn't wearing your typical nun's outfit.)

"Oh," was all he said.

I rolled my eyes as he stretched his legs and shifted around in the backseat.

What a fucking farce,

I thought, then I glanced at my daughter, who sat in my seat, leaning into the car door. Maybe I should have had more sympathy for her when she first complained about having to sit in her brother's lap. Her complaints hadn't lasted long, but still. . . . I glanced at my husband, who had his driving gloves on and was in the middle of adjusting his 18k, solid gold Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses.

Who would ever pay three grand for a pair of glasses,

I thought. Twenty years I had been married to my Dex, but I was still the girl who once lived in a one-bedroom apartment with my parents, and I was the same girl who thought moving into a two-bedroom, third-floor walkup was like moving into a penthouse. I was the same girl who could hear my father humping my mother into the wall night after night. And, I was the same girl who used to sneak my boyfriend into my room—and my twin sister Vanna would do the same—and we'd have sex in our small beds while our parents had sex in theirs, believing that their daughters were deep asleep and still innocent.

How many times had I seen my sister getting the D? How many times had she watched me come on some guy's cock? (This wasn't the time to be thinking about that.)

I looked at my son's lap as I bent over to enter the backseat. And I was still the same girl who used to have threesomes with her twin sister, where nothing was off-limits so long as we pleased the guy we were fucking.

That was a long time ago,

I thought as I climbed into the car and sat down on my son's left thigh. I closed the door, having to move more to my right.

"Close your legs," I said as I tried to find a place to sit that wasn't directly on my son's lap.

"Get that seatbelt on," Dex said.

"How?" I asked.

"Stretch it," Lana said.

I glared at the amusement in her tone.

God, my son had hard thighs. Muscular. He had very nice thighs, harder than his father's when his father was young, and Dex had been one hell of an athlete back then.