“Come on, Mom. Just a little,” Matt whispered in the kitchen.
“No,” she replied sharply.
“But it’s been an entire week without—”
“No!” she whispered, pointing the long sharp kitchen knife in her hand at me to make the point. She had been dicing tomatoes on the large cutting board. The vegetable platter she was preparing to bring out to the barbeque was nearly finished. Neighbors and friends swarmed their backyard. The thump of music could be heard through the closed sliding glass door. Monica had kept her distance from her stepson since their last encounter. There was a difference between clearing a man’s head so he could focus on his schoolwork and being a distraction.
I was not raised to be a distraction.
“Go outside, go on your father’s out there, your sister, your friends. Go think about that,” Monica shooed him away, then got to work dumping the tomatoes in the last slot of the vegetable tray.
It was Labor Day weekend. A Meyer family tradition was to have a cookout for the neighborhood every year and this was the eighth year in a row. The sun shined with a nice breeze. The tables they set up in the front and back yard were full of people, most of whom Monica and Todd, her husband, tolerated, but still. Parties were about people coming together and not just the ones you knew.
The sulking expression her eighteen-year-old son wore morphed into one of thought as the hue on his cheeks pinked.
“What is it?” Monica finally asked.
“Well, um, nothing,” Matt hung is head and turned around from the kitchen island Monica worked on.
“Stop. What is it?” she said in a warning tone. Her son turned around carefully so no one could see through the sliding glass door. “Oh, my,” Monica put a hand to her mouth, astonished by the size of the tent formed in his jeans.
“It’s just that red dress you're wearing is my favorite, and I can’t stop thinking about you and—”
“Okay, um, let’s uh—let’s just go over here,” Monica said, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching as she led her son into the nearby master bedroom. Her and his father’s room. The forty-year-old mother of two wore a form-fitting strawberry-red dress with spaghetti straps and a matching pencil skirt. Overtop, she wore a colorful apron that was covered in drawings of fruit. Removing the apron, she laid it on the bed and looked at her gold fossil watch, worried that her husband could come looking for her at any moment. “Okay, come on. Take off your pants.”
Monica waved her hand for her son to hurry up. He unbuckled his jeans and slid them down as she closed the door. Matt’s massive cock bounced and stood erect like it was pointing at her. Pinching the sides of her tight skirt so she could hike it up a few inches, Monica kneeled before her son who sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers gripping her son’s shaft and started pumping. The veiny shaft flexed against her grip and she felt its strength. Looking up at Matt’s face as she worked his cock over was exhilarating. She loved the way he looked down on her. With her hand jerking his hard cock, his eyes looked at her like a queen. The pleasure he felt, the power she had… it was intoxicating.
“Mmm, you like that? Is this what you wanted?” she whispered, stealing glances at the closed doors. “I had no idea how dirty my son was. I can’t even wear a low-cut dress without him walking around with this big hard cock.”
Pumping faster, Monica shook her blond hair off her neck as she felt the sting of sweat beginning to form. Her tits bounced wildly as she jacked her stepson off, she felt her loose spaghetti straps teeter and fall off her shoulders. First the left, then the right. Matt’s mouth was wide as he breathed heavily staring in anticipation. The power of his gaze and the drunk feeling it gave her was almost too much.