August hit hard that morning. By nine o’clock it was already ninety degrees, and the three of us — me, my husband, and our son Mike — were sweating through our shirts loading up the car for his first day of college. The trunk was packed solid. The back seat was nearly gone. We were close to done.
Then the front door swung open and Mike came walking out with his forty-two inch flat screen TV.
His father spotted it first. “Where exactly are you planning to put that?”
“I don’t know yet,” Mike said, not breaking stride. “But I’m not leaving it. We can probably shuffle some stuff around in the back seat.”
I looked at the back seat. “No we cannot.”
Mike looked too, undeterred. “What about the front? We slide it in the middle, there’s still room on both sides.”
“Sure,” I said. “And where does your mother sit?”
I watched him think. With Mike, you could always see the gears turning — that brief pause before he arrived, with great confidence, at a terrible idea. He opened the passenger door, set the TV in the center console area, and climbed in beside it. He turned and patted the sliver of remaining seat cushion.
“See? Plenty of room. Come on, Mom, sit next to me.”
I’m not a large woman. Five feet tall, a hundred pounds. I squeezed in next to my son — or tried to. I got into the seat just fine. The door, however, had opinions. It wouldn’t close. Not even close.
I looked at Mike. Mike looked at the door. Six feet tall, two hundred pounds, folded into a front seat built for one.
“It’s not me,” I said flatly. “It’s you.”
He opened his mouth.
“Leave the TV,” I said. “When we come visit, we’ll bring it.”
He didn’t argue. He just unfolded himself from the car, carried the TV back inside, and came out empty-handed — looking only slightly less sure that he’d been right.
“No way,” Mike said, planting his feet. I climbed back out and stood by the door, the heat already pressing down like a wool blanket.
“Make up your mind, Mike. It is hot out here.”
He went quiet for a moment, staring at the car with the focused expression of someone who believed, genuinely, that the right answer was still in there somewhere. Then his face changed.
“Ok.” He looked at me. “You can sit on my lap.”
His father let out a short laugh. “Mike. It’s a five hour drive.”
“I know.” Mike glanced at him, then back at me. “But Mom doesn’t weigh much. She’s little.” He said it like it was a perfectly reasonable engineering solution. “What do you say, Mom?”
I looked at my son — this enormous, six-foot, two-hundred-pound boy who had once fit in my arms — now offering his lap as a car seat for a five hour highway trip so he could bring his television to college.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll sit on your lap. But if it gets too uncomfortable, we stop at a rest area. No arguments.”
Mike grinned. Steve caught my eye over the roof of the car and gave me the look — the one that said you know this is insane, right? I gave him one back that said I know, but pick your battles.
“Agreed,” Steve said.
“Alright then.” I pointed at the house. “Let’s go get cleaned up and get on the road before it gets any hotter.”
My shower didn’t take long. Since I would be sitting on my sons lap for five hours, I wanted to wear something real comfortable. My jeans would be too tight. Plus it was too hot to wear them. I looked in my closet. As I was going though my clothes I found a summer dress I brought. It was the short type with sleeveless arms. It buttoned up in the front. I unbuttoned it and put it on. When I finished buttoning it up, I noticed it showed my bra to much. I took it off again. I removed my bra and put the dress back on. I looked in the mirror. I really didn’t need a bra. Even at thirty seven my tits were still perky. The dress was short. It only came to the middle of my thighs. I slipped on a pear of white panties. I took one last look in the mirror. I thought to myself. “For a mother of an eighteen year old son, I still looked good. I know my husband still likes what I look like. He tries to fuck me at least five times a week.” I heard the car horn.
I ran downstairs, closed and locked the front door and headed for the car. My son was already in the seat. I sat down on his lap and swung my legs into the car. I looked down and notice my dress barely covered my thighs. It rode up pretty high. My son was wearing baggy shorts and a t-shirt. I closed the car door.
I was glad I was wearing this dress. I could feel the back of my bare legs on my son’s bare legs. “How are you doing?” I asked my son.
“Fine, mom, you really don’t weigh anything. No problem.”
I looked over the TV at my husband. “Do you have enough room to drive?” I asked him.
“Sure,” he answered. I could only see his head. “Can you even see me?” I laughed.
“Only your head, dear.” Are you comfortable?”
I wiggled around on my son’s lap. “Yea, I don’t mind this at all.”
I turned on the radio. As I was listening to the music. I started to feel something hard. I reposition my ass, but it didn’t go away. I also noticed my son got real quiet. “It wasn’t there when I first sat down.” I thought to myself. Then I realized what I was feeling. My son was getting a hard on. I really didn’t think about giving him a hard on by sitting on his lap. I could feel it still growing. “My god,” I thought to myself. “How big is it going to get.” I wondered what he was thinking. Does he think I can’t feel it between the crack of my ass? I looked down at my legs. My dress had rose up a little more. I could almost see my panties. My son’s hands was on the seat on each side of me. I wondered if he could see how high my dress had ridden up. I realized I like the idea of my dress being up so high. It gave me a little thrill knowing I could give my son a hard on. We only been on the road for about an hour. There was still four hours to go. I knew my husband couldn’t see how high my dress was or he would be looking at my legs. The TV block everything from his view. I felt my son shift his body around. When he did his dick ended up on the back of my ass. I kinda wished he would try something.
“How you doing back there, son,” I asked him.
“I’m Ok, mom, how are you feeling?”
“I like what I’m feeling,” I answered him. “Are your arms getting tired where you have them?”
“Yea, it’s a little uncomfortable,”
“Here try this to see if it feels better,” I said as I took a hold of both of his hands and placed them on my bare thighs. “Is that better?”
“Yea, that’s a lot better.”
I looked down. When I put his hands high on my thighs, I put them palms down. His thumbs were resting on the inside of my thighs, very close to my panties. I liked what it looked like. I wished he’d move them up and touch my pussy. I knew he wouldn’t. The more I felt his hands on me, the more I wanted him to feel me. I rested my hands on his. This seemed very innocence. I started rubbing the top of his hands. Just like any mother would, but I had something different in mind. I looked over at my husband. I liked the idea of my son’s hands on me with my husband right there. As I rubbed his hands I tried to move them up my thighs just a little. He didn’t give me any resistance. Now his hands were on my skirt with his fingers still on my bare thighs. I rose up a little so I could pull my skirt up a little. His hands moved with my skirt. I looked down and could see my panties. His fingers were so close to touching them. I raised his right hand and put it on my panties. He left his hand there. I spread my legs a little. When I did, his hand fell between my legs. I took a hold of his hand and pressed it against my panties. My sons hand was now on my pantie covered pussy. I could feel myself getting wet. I wanted more. When I removed my hand, he left his hand on me. He wasn’t moving it around or anything. He was just letting his hands rest on my pussy. I waited for him to start moving his fingers. Nothing. Maybe he was afraid to. I knew how to fix that.
I took a hold of his hand and moved it up to the top of my panties. When I knew his fingers were above my panties, I pressed his hand against my body and slowly slid his fingers between my panties and bare skin. I kept moving his hand down until I could feel his finger tips just barely touch the top of my pussy lips. I pushed his hand down further. I couldn’t get his hand all the way between my legs under my panties so he could feel my pussy. My panties were too tight for both of our hands. Finally I felt him try to move his hand further down so he could find my entrance. When I took my hand out from under my panties, my son left his hand on my pussy. I rose up my hips, hooked my thumbs on each side of my panties and pulled them down to my knees. As soon as I did this I felt Mike move his hand so he could get his fingers in me. My panties kept me from spreading my legs out for him to really get to feel me. Before I could move my hand to take my panties off, Mike used his other hand and started pulling them down around my ankles. I lifted up my leg so he could take them all the way off. I spread my legs as wide as I could. This was all he needed. I was so wet he sunk two fingers in me at once. I let out a low moan.
“Are you OK?” my husband asked me. He was looking at me. I smiled and said,” I’m OK; I thought it would be a problem sitting on my sons lap, but it really isn’t. This isn’t going to be so bad of a ride.”
Here I was talking to my husband with my son’s fingers in me. “How much farther until we stop?”
We had been on the road for a while when I shifted my weight and asked, “Do you want to stop at this rest area coming up?”
“I don’t want to stop until I go a little further,” Mike said.
I turned to check on him as best I could from my perch. “How about you, Mike — can you go a little further?”
“Yeah, Mom.” He sounded almost offended by the question. “I can go a lot further.”
“Good.” I settled back and watched the highway open up ahead of us. “The further we go, the better I like it.”
Steve had both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, the faintest smile on his face. “That OK with you, honey?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I like the idea of not stopping.” He meant it too — Steve was always that way on road trips, always wanted to make time, hated the rhythm of pulling off and pulling back on.
I turned as much as I could and looked at my son. His chin was practically over my shoulder. “Me too. I don’t want you to stop.”
A few more miles rolled by. Fields. Billboards. The sun climbing higher. Steve glanced up at the rearview mirror, then over at me.
“Mike?” he said. “How are you doing back there — with your mom on your lap?”
Read More – Part 2
