Mustang Sammie Pt. 01

Literotic asexstories – Mustang Sammie Pt. 01 by Red_22b,Red_22b Happy twentieth story to me

Happy twentieth story to me……

To celebrate, I have a new series. A fictional, incestuous tale of mother and son, of dangerous and sometimes impersonal, hot sex, and a sense of disbelief.

I hope you enjoy. Your feedback helps my ideas form.

####

At the time it first happened, I was a far cry from the sultry protagonists in most of these stories.

Samantha, Houston, Sammie to my friends, I’m neither tall, thin, blonde nor, in my opinion, drop dead gorgeous. I am 5 foot 5, and no matter how many workouts I’ll ever do, I’ll always have a somewhat pronounced potbelly, from having both my kids by 23 years old, with my 36DD breasts jutting out over it, in my non-sexy, underwired white bra. Working out had helped to keep my ass trim, and I had looked after myself for almost all of my 41 years, but I just had to face facts long ago that my body was built with natural curves.

Also, I haven’t been abandoned by my husband either, nor was I sex starved, regularly enjoying the sights and feelings of Mike, my husband, having his nose buried in my dark brown bush, as he snuffles at my pussy before he impaled me with his 6 inch rod.

We had a son and daughter, she was living with her boyfriend, Marcus, at university. Thomas, my son and only child still living at home, had never been the academical sort and had left school at 17, enrolling in an apprenticeship to become a mechanic, as he had always had a keen interest in cars. As a result, Mike’s Dad, Thomas’s grandfather, had agreed that if he could get it going and back on the road, Thomas could have his 1968 Ford Mustang, that had fallen into dilapidation.

For six weeks, Thomas and Mike had did nothing with their spare time other than take this pile of shite apart, to see how bad it really was. The answer was quite clear, it was awful. In some places, my husband had said that it was the rust that was holding it together, but that generally, the body was sturdy enough.

Work at it they did, every night and I asked them what they were going to do with it whenever they were done. They told me they, setting themselves a goal date of 1 year, they were going to enter it in a vintage rally across the Scottish Highlands, to raise money for cancer research. To say I was a proud Mum was an understatement, but secretly I doubted that they would ever get this thing back on the road by next March. Of course, my son was documenting his every move for his course, under guidance of his mate Ben, who was a year older than him and helped out, when Mike was at work.

Summer came, and the Mustang was taking shape, now almost distinguishable as a Ford Mustang. I had appointed myself my two boys’ chief assistant, bringing them lemonade, sandwiches and biscuits. I also noticed that I also brought them both a good eyeful of cleavage at times. My husband checking out my tits was fine, as for Thomas, seeing my son hold a good stare down my tank top, blouse or t-shirt as I placed their their refreshments down before them, left me smiling, but curiously distracted.

My son was not built like Arnold Schwarzeneggerr, with flowing locks and a 10 inch cock (not that I knew that then) but was a quite a scrawny, 5 foot 7 boy, and by the time it happened he was an 18 years old, with a girlfriend, called Shannon. Annoyingly, I had yet to meet Shannon, after a 3 month relationship I was maybe being slightly over zealous, but he got very shy whenever I brought the subject up, like there was something to hide.

My husband was an oil rig worker, and was away for weeks on end, and they would time it almost to perfection so that Mike would be there for all the heavy stuff. Ben was also a great help, until that one night late August, when the sun had been high all day and the temperature was searing and sticky.

From the garage at the side of the house, I could hear swearing from my son, and expecting to find his friend helping him as usual when his Dad was away, Thomas was underneath the car that was on its ramp, cursing and swearing at something.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, as he thumped, underneath the wheel arch.

“This fucking thing won’t go fucking on right. It’s really fucking pissing me off now!”

There’s something about watching a man working with his hands, something carnal and erotic. I used to get wet while watching my husband working on his car, seeing him probing at things, twisting other things with his fingers, contrasting lightly feathering things into place, with taking a hammer and pounding things into submission.

As he had said these words he had looked at me, standing in my Jeans shorts and pink tank top and already regretting my decision to take my bra off. I offered to help and he said thanks, and he had me holding a piece of metal with a hole on the end. I have no idea what it was, but as he stood again and stretched up beside me, our bodies being this close together felt different. I briefly caught him looking at my chest, as my arms being stretched upwards had pulled the material of my top, together with my unhindered tits, together. I was shamefully displaying quite a lot of deep cleavage.

Just then, he nipped his finger, before he threw his tools to the ground and peppered the air with more swearwords. I knew that there was something else bothering him, call it mother’s instinct or whatever, and I asked, “Thomas! Enough with the swearing, let me see that cut,” I said and went to get a plaster.

Holding his hand between us, I cleaned it with an antiseptic wipe, but I could tell there was something more to it than what looked like a small paper cut. Looking up, seeing his eyes flick away from my chest, I took a moment to process that, and as I secured a little plaster on his finger, asked, “Thomas, now what is really wrong? And why is Ben not here?”

Not looking at me, he was firming down the band aid on the small cut when he replied, “The same reason Shannon isn’t here. They’re probably fucking right now!”

Again, I admonished him for the language, but probed a little deeper and he lowered his hands, turned to walk away and said, “She was getting annoyed because I’m always here. He took her out to a friend’s and…..you know.”

I crossed the garage floor to where he had stopped to drop the used pieces of bloodied tissue in the bin. With him being only 2 inches taller than me, I turned him around and made him look me in the eyes. “Thomas, are you sure? You go back a long way with Ben,” I said, but when he handed me his mobile phone from his pocket and showed me pictures of them kissing, it was all too plain to see.

I didn’t know how serious it had been, how intimate they had been together, or even if my son was a virgin. As I flicked through the pictures, seeing Ben cup the buxom brunette’s plump butt cheeks in his hands, it would suggest that, at least those two, were not. As I looked, I realised that I had been lingering too long, as it thundered down upon me why my son had not brought his girlfriend home.

What with her dark brown hair and her chunky build, Thomas had been dating the very definition of his mother in her younger days.

Looking up, I handed him back his phone as, again, his eyes quickly darted up from my tits. I was already perspiring from the humid heat, but as the revelation hammered home that my son was sexually attracted to me, I thought that I would melt into a puddle on the garage floor.

Just then, my son asked me if I would hold something for him again. He directed me to hold this metal arm type of thing in place, while he took his hammer and started to go at it. He looked at me and asked if I was alright, and as he looked down to my up-stretched stretched tits again, I felt a tingle in my knickers. “I’m….yeah, I’m fine,” I croaked.

He then explained what he was trying to do, and as he held the other interlinking part, he explained, “You see that part you have, my part is supposed to slip inside it, but I had to replace the bushing, and new bushes are very tight so if it won’t go back in, I’ll have to take the whole bloody thing off again.

I smirked at his newsflash on tight bushes and his part slipping into mine as I held the part as he tried again. It was useless, and he scolded himself for doing things the wrong way around, “I can’t even get this fucking thing right, I should have done this bit first…..Dad will be so fucking disappointed when he gets home that I can’t even do simple things right!”

I could see that this was about much more than a stupid car part, “Let’s sit down and take a break,” I suggested, and I told him I would get us both a drink.

Coming back out, he had sat down on a little, flat, wheeled trolly that I knew was used to slide underneath cars. He had got me a slightly higher wheeled stool type object to sit on, and as I did, handing him his drink of juice, I said, “Ok, out with it.”

“What?” He said, looking up at me.

“Thomas Houston,” I said, leaning forwards and stroking the side of his cheek with my right hand, “You’ve been beating that old car up all evening. Now, are you going to carry on, and eventually have to re-do it, or are you going to tell me what’s eating at you?”

I knew I was leaning forward, giving him a direct view of particularly my right, but basically both my breasts. He didn’t look at my face, but kept his eyes lower as he said, “It’s awkward, Mum. It’s kinda like, I’ve did the ground work for Ben, with her, and now he’s getting the rewards.”

“Son,” I said, setting my drink down and scooting closer to him, reaching to guide his eyes up to mine. I had to, the way my boobs sat between my knees as I stretched downwards to my son on my little, low seat, was borderline pornographic now. No bra, tank top gaping and tits pressed together, I almost turned myself on. “It maybe just wasn’t meant to be. I had 3 boyfriends before I met your Dad.”

He smirked, shook his head and I asked him what was wrong. “It’s not really her that I’m mad at. Ben is a fucking asshole, he was supposed to be my best friend.”

I could see my son was really hurt, and again dragged myself closer still. “Come here,” I said As I opened my arms and I hugged him tightly between my legs, as he sat on his knees between them. I cupped his head, and brought his wayward gaze to my eyes and said, “Some day, you and Ben might laugh about this. Don’t be throwing him in the bin, just yet. As for Shannon……”

“To hell with Shannon,” he spat, then he shocked me when he continued, “I don’t really care about her. She’s a slut! Sure, I only asked her out because she fucking looks like……”

Already knowing the answer to this question, my heartbeat then sped up. The way we were positioned, with him on his knees in front of me, I looked straight into his eyes at arms length and said, “Who, son. Who does Shannon look like?”

He coughed and spluttered, then started to wheeze and rummaged in his pocket. Knowing full will how he had suffered from asthma all his life, I immediately knew the signs and what he was looking for.

I had seen his inhaler sitting on the work bench, and I sprang up to get it, handing it to him as he stood up. He took a few puffs of the little, plastic contraption and eventually he calmed down. I rubbed his back, hugging him tightly to my chest with his forehead under my chin, and kissed the top of his head, not ignorant to the fact that he was now, unquestionably, looking right down the front of my top. And you know what? I didn’t care.

Every fibre of my being, every religion and every realm of society, dictated that I should be appalled. In truth, as my husband had been away for 6 weeks, and I was ovulating, I was getting slightly turned on. If he could see enough of my breasts to the nipple, he would see they were diamond hard. If he were to dip his hand into my shorts, he would feel my pussy was moist and twitching. Suddenly, I no-longer needed to ask him who his girlfriend had reminded him of, I needed to get away from him.

“You should call it a night,” I said, pushing away from him and turning to leave, taking the 2 empty glasses with me.

“Thanks, Mum. For the drinks and….and, making me feel better.”

“Don’t mention it,” I replied, holding his gaze as I walked out the door.

####

And Then It Happened.

From the living room, I heard him running up the stairs, going into the bathroom and the shower turning on. Then, 10 minutes later as he exited the bathroom, his footsteps got quieter as he went into his bedroom.

2 hours later, I gently tiptoed my way about the house. I hadn’t seen Thomas since leaving the garage, and after watching the rest of my TV show, I was making my way to bed from the bathroom after showering, when I passed my son’s bedroom door.

To emphasise the fact glamorous MILF I am not, I was now wearing an old, white t-shirt with Peter Griffin from Family Guy on it, with a pair of panties/knickers on under the XL top and no bra. I had my chocolate brown hair with blonde highlights at the tips, hanging over my shoulders to where my tits once sat in my younger days.

I knocked his door, and he told me to come in and I opened the door to see him sitting up against the headboard. with his inhaler clutched in both hands and he was not looking good. “Thomas, what’s wrong?” I asked, and made my way to his side. I sat with one leg on the bed folded under me, my t-shirt covering my groin area. I was facing towards him with my other foot on the ground but he could hardly look at me, and I asked again what was wrong. “I keep seeing them, Mum. I keep seeing Ben and….”

“Sssshhhh,” I said, leaning forwards and hugging him over my shoulder. “It’s ok, it’s just a dream, don’t worry about it, son.”. Feeling like he needed to talk, I stroked his hair and purred, “Get it off your chest, baby…..tell me what you saw.”

Looking at me, I couldn’t understand why he was so shy. I asked were they ‘Together, Together,’ and he nodded his head, ‘Yes.’

He then broke his silence. With a still quite wheezy voice, he said, “They were having sex. They were laughing at me, Mum…..here. They were fucking in my bed.”

“It was just a dream,” I breathed, still leaning forward into the hug. “Then what happened?”

He adjusted his position and took my hand closest to him, my right one that was resting on my right knee, that was pointing towards him and with my foot still under my pussy. Then he continued, “She was riding him, Mom. God I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Go on, it’s good to not keep it inside,” I said, running my fingers along the top of his hand that was on top of mine on my knee.

Looking up at me with his weary, almost begging eyes, he proceeded with, “They were laughing as she bounced on him, I could only see her from the back and she kept looking over her shoulder….and then her face changed to……”

He bowed his head as if in shame and I reached over to stroke his face with my free, left hand. I knew the answer to the next question I would ask, but had to ask it, or I would forever wonder. “Who’s face was it, son?” I said, and his eyes shot up to mine.

He shook his head and lowered his gaze, focusing on where our hands joined. Then I felt why, and more importantly, what I had done. In leaning forward to comfort him, my hand and his were still on my knee and as I had learned into him, my right breast had covered them. I don’t know why I did what I did next, but as I stroked his cheek with my left hand, I released my right one from his hand, removed it from under my heavy boob and allowed my breast to smother the top of his hand.

“Mum,” he breathed. The sexual tension was palpable, my breathing was shallow and his eyes were now on mine, pleading me either for guidance, admonishment, wisdom, or consent.

“Who did Shannon look like, sweetie?” I again gently asked my son, lifting my breast from his hand as he opened his mouth to speak.

“She looked like you.”

As soon as he said it, he dipped his eyes to the bed. Stuttering out a deep, long exhalation, I repositioned my upper body and leaned forward, trapping both of his hands to my knee and soon, between my breasts. Releasing them, but not moving them away, I held his face up to my scrutiny while Peter Griffin was now the only barrier between my son’s hands and the fleshy mounds of my breasts. I asked, “Is that why you chose her as a girlfriend, baby?”

He looked like he wanted to cry, maybe like he wanted to die as I stared into his fearful eyes. He nodded his head and a barely audible, “Yes,” crept out from between his dry lips.

“Thomas,” I said, and he sheepishly looked to my eyes, “I think It’s time for my bed, don’t you?”

I had then got up and left him, sitting up to mull my emphasis on the “My”.

Quickly, I went into my bedroom, stripped off my panties and climbed into my martial bed. I always slept without underwear, except for that time of the month, of course. I loved sex, and even after 20 years together I was always ready to feel my husband snaking inside me and pleasuring me, whenever he was here.

He wasn’t here, however. He hadn’t been for 6 weeks.

As I lay there, holding the bedspread up around my neck with both hands, I told myself that being completely bottomless would keep me cooler and make it easier to masturbate. We both knew, however, what I had said, what I had did by allowing my son to feel the heat and weight of my breasts, knowing he already had inappropriate thoughts about me.

I lay there in the dark, childlike in my covering of everything but my head with the bedspread. I didn’t hear his footsteps, not a creaky floorboard to announce or pre-warn me, that anyone approaching my door. I heard the handle, then the rustling of the door bottom on the thick carpet, and then it closed.

He didn’t speak, he seemed to drift weightlessly across the carpet and, before I knew what was happening, he was at my beside and I drew in a sharp breath, as I felt him lifting the corner of my bedspread and protector. Neither of us spoke as I prised my own fingers from the sheet that I had been clutching around me, ever since I had got into bed.

I would like to say that, on autopilot, my body opened my legs. In truth, as my son lay lengthways down on top of me, I couldn’t get them spread open quickly enough, or wide enough.

He didn’t kiss me, nor did he speak and foreplay was not forthcoming. He first made contact with the back of my knees with his hands, as he settled between my thighs. He edged forwards, and I whimpered as the inside of his thighs kissed the underside of my butt and then let go of my left leg. I held it up as he reached between us. I groaned, “Oh yes,” as his thick, bulbous head spread my labia apart. My pussy was soaking, and highly aroused as he settled above me and bottomed out in 1 stroke. I yelled out, “Ah,” as he filled me, deeper than my husband could and then drew back, then pounded into my audible wetness again.

With his cock now fully coated in my natural lube, he was pistoning in and out with the steady tempo of a metronome. I didn’t hug him with my arms or legs, just lay with my legs at, ‘Ten to Two,’ as Thomas thumped my hair covered pelvic bone with his claiming me as his own.

“Uh, uh, uh, huh, hooh, ah, ah,” my voice punctuated every impact, as I heard his breath getting ragged.

“Hmmmm,” I heard his first sound, since our very first connection. He sat up and closed my legs, and I felt his naked torso with the back of my legs up against him. Hugging my legs, he started to stroke his length in and out again. I was aroused, highly charged, but was too nervous and shocked to cum, so I lay there as my son’s new cum whore, and let him have his way.

Faster he got, and his breath increased in time with his rampant cock. “Hmmm…oh fuck,” was the first sign of his imminent climax.

‘Thump, thump, schluck, schluck, slap, slap, slap,’ was the soundtrack of the night, as my pussy enabled this sinful meeting, by bathing his member in juices.