ON THE RUN & IN HIDING WITH STEPMOM

Stepmother and stepson do an unthinkable thing. They take the money and run.

This isn't your typical stepmother and stepson story of pornography with sex, sex, and more sex. This is my erotic literature version with character development, dialogue, imagery, description, plot, and tension, as well as sex, of why a stepmother would have sex with her stepson. As we all know, stepsons don't need a reason to want to have sex with their stepmothers. Stepmothers have long been surrogate mothers and unwilling victims of their stepsons' sexual attention.

Especially if a stepmother is tall, sexy, shapely, and beautiful, as Emma is in this story, and especially if the father is no longer in the picture, she's ripe for the sexual seduction and/or groping of her stepson. Yet, it takes a little more for a woman to cross the line of what is deemed incestuous sex between a stepmother and her stepson. Most women need to be romanced. Most women just don't want sex. It takes longer to get women in the mood. Yet, if only men would take the time, women would give men more sex than they could handle.

I apologize for the long introduction but this is my writing style. If you don't like this introduction you may skip it and continue to read the rest the story. If you don't like my writing style and/or don't like me, then don't read my story. That's your choice.

Author's Warning:

Dear Reader,

If you're reading this warning, then consider yourself warned. This story is rated XXX, the highest, sexually explicit rating under Literotica's incest, story guidelines.

For those who enjoy reading incest stories, trust me, an incestuous story doesn't get any better than this story. This is one for the books. A true story that really happened, this is an incestuous story between a stepmother and her stepson that you'll remember for the rest of your life.

For those who don't believe that this is and XXX rated story, after you're done reading this story and after you're done masturbating yourself, consider me saying, "Duh? I told you so." If you are offended by XXX rated stories and/or by incest, please read another story.

For those who are sensitive to inappropriate, sexual situations, and/or incestuous sex, I must confess and am embarrassed to report that there is graphic, explicit, and shockingly inappropriate, albeit consensual sex between a 24-year-old stepson and his 38-year-old stepmother. Albeit not blood related, they still live in the same household and under the same roof, thereby deeming whatever sexual relationship they have as incestuous.

For those who don't approve of this sort of incestuous story, being that it's impossible to continue to read the story with your eyes closed, perhaps you could enlist someone to read the story to you. Perhaps, instead of reading the story yourself, you could ask your mother, your sister, your mother-in-law, your sister-in-law, or ideally, your stepmother to read the story to you while you masturbate yourself.

Taking it as a personal compliment that you thoroughly enjoyed reading my story, I encourage you to masturbate yourself and hopefully cum while reading my story. Then, using your other hand, your clean hand, of course, as if your vote is my applause, all that I ask in return for your masturbation pleasure in reading my story is the support of your vote. Please vote and please add me to your list of favorite authors.

Being that this is a Winter Holidays contest story, please vote. Please give me the support of your vote.

SusanJillParker

* * * * *

Shall we begin reading my story that I wrote expressly for your reading enjoyment and sexual pleasure?

"Are you ready? Here we go."

Imagine this scene with me, if you will. It's Christmas Eve, the night before Christmas and it's cold, frosty cold, and windy. Feeling like it's going to snow, it's the kind of damp, bone chilling cold, that penetrates your soul. It's the kind of cold that makes you reject cold beer for a bowl of hot, beef stew.

To make the weather worse, depending on who you are and where you are, it just started snowing. Everyone's dream but for those who have to go to work the next day, Christmas Day, it's going to be a white Christmas. The children are going to awaken to presents beneath the Christmas tree and snow to try out their new sleds.

You're on your way home from last-minute Christmas shopping but then stop to run an errand. As soon as you pull in the driveway, with everything so eerily quiet, you sense there's something not right. As if seeing a ghost or feeling the heaviness of evil in the air, the hairs on your arms stand, and you know that there's something so tragically wrong. You look around and there in the distance, your worst fears are materialized.

Think about it, what would you do if you happened upon a crime scene where everyone was dead, and no one saw you? No one knew that you were even there. What would you do? Would you call the police? Or not wanting to get involved, as most people wouldn't want to be involved to be questioned, interrogated, and accused of a crime while having to testify against others in court, would you leave without calling the police? Or, feeling guilty while thinking that there may have been someone who survived, was still alive, and clinging to life, would you leave and then anonymously call the police?

"Think about it. It's your call and it's your decision to make. What would you do?"

'Tick tock, tick tock...'

"No rush and no pressure but I need a decision. Hurry, before the police come, what would you do?"

Now wait. Hold on. Let's spice this up a bit and sweeten the pot by adding a new dimension to the crime scene, shall we?

"Are you ready?"

What if there was unprotected and unsecured money just waiting for someone to claim it, scoop it up, take it, and leave with it. With your financial problems solved in one fell swoop, imagine all the things you could buy and all the bills you could pay. Without anyone ever knowing that you were ever there and without anyone knowing that you took the money, be honest, tell me the truth, would you take the money and run?

"Yeah, baby. Free money. Now we're talkin'. Right? Money is everyone's inspiration, motivation, and temptation. C'mon, take it. It's free. It's free money. I dare you to take the money. I double dare you to take the money. Once you claim the money and once you walk away with it in the darkness of night, it's no longer someone else's money. It's now your money. You're rich."

Those who were here to rob the money as well as those who were here to protect the money are all dead. With no one knowing you were here and that you took the money, no one will ever know that it was you who took the money. There's no witnesses to you just helping yourself to the money. If you need justification in taking the money, think of taking the money as a public service...your act of selflessness against littering. There. Do you feel better about taking the money now that you cleaned the area of all of that dirty money?

Being that we're back to the same, original question, now, what would you do? Would you call the police? Would you leave without calling the police and without taking the money? Would you take the money, leave, and then call the police? Or, as I would do, something that I dare write is what most people would do, why wouldn't you just take the money and run?

"Think about it. It's your call and it's your decision to make. What would you do? Trust me, any priest will listen to your confession and tell you that God will forgive you for taking the money, especially when you generously and anonymously donated one-hundred-thousand-dollars to the church."

...and you were thinking about not taking the money, weren't you? That would have been dumb, wouldn't it? I knew you weren't that stupid.

"Thank you for your generous donation. For you penance, say 10 Hail Mary's," said the priest who was already on the phone with the Bishop.

'Tick tock, tick tock...'

"No rush and no pressure but I need a decision. Hurry, before the police arrive, what would you do?"

Now, wait a minute. Hold on. Allow me to be more specific. Instead of just a little money, what if there was a lot of money? What if there was more money than you had ever seen in your miserable, credit card indebted, hardworking, and never getting ahead life while driving a 13-year-old, shit box of a car that needed tires? With you about to lose your underwater, second mortgaged house that you can no longer afford to continue to pay the blood sucking bank, why wouldn't you take the money and run?

"Yeah, now we're talkin'. Think about it. Now, what would you do? Would you take the money and run? I would. Without a doubt and without a second thought, I definitely would take the money and run."

However, not so fast. Keep in mind, of course, that a million dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills weighs 22-pounds. Twenty-two pounds may not sound like a lot to carry, especially when you lug way more than that carrying in groceries for your three, hungry kids after working your two, crappy, part-time jobs that don't have any benefits. In the scheme of things, twenty-two pounds is nothing. A box of produce that you unpack at the supermarket where you work weighs more than that.

Yet, what if there were mega millions of dollars, lottery type of money. What if there were 100's, 50's, 20's, 10's, 5's, and 1's all in cash, just waiting for you to pick it up, take it, and bring it home? What if there was enough money to change your life...forever? Now, what would you do? Seriously. Especially if there was no one there to see you taking the money, wouldn't you take the money and run? I would and you should too.

Only, you'd need a car, of course, a big car. With all that money, you'd need a pickup truck, a Lincoln Navigator, or a Lincoln Town Car, the extended wheelbase version that has 7 more inches of legroom in back, of course. You'd need something to put the money in too. A brief case or a duffle bag would hardly be big enough to fit all that money. You'd need not just one but two huge steamer trunks on wheels to fit and transport that kind of very, heavy money.

With this getting a little more complicated, now what would you do? Would you take the money? Would you take the money or would you leave the money for, perhaps, someone else to take the money? Think about it. Just between me, you, and the lamppost, with no one else ever knowing that you were even there and that you took the money, what would you do?

No pressure and no rush but what would you do? What would you do? Hurry. What would you do?

'Tick tock, tick tock...'

"Again, no rush and no pressure but I need a decision. The cops are coming soon. What would you do? Tell me, what would you do? For God's sakes, don't quibble. With this an opportunity of a lifetime, what the fuck would you do?"

Now, just for some much-needed pressured motivation, think about this. Forget about Bill Cosby, Harvey Weinstein, James Toback, and Kevin Spacey, just as they have their own problems, you have your own problems too, don't you? What if your whole life was about to turn to shit after the sexual relationship you've been having with your mother, your sister, your daughter, your mother-in-law, your sister-in-law, your wife's best friend, and/or your next-door neighbor was about to be exposed? What if you needed money, lots of money, to leave the country and move to Cuba, a country without an extradition treaty, to lay low while on a beach while drinking pina coladas and flirting with beautiful, bikini clad women?

As my friendly warning to you, the least that I can do is to give you my words of caution, don't drink the water. Have your drinks made with bottled water, never drink or brush your teeth with tap water, and don't leave any unattended valuables in your room. Just as the police won't protect you, the military won't come to your aid either. This isn't the United States. You're all alone and on your own in Cuba...Gringo.

Perhaps, a better hiding spot to lay low until all of this blows over is somewhere in the middle of America. Have you ever been to Kansas? Between the cattle and the corn, I'm sure you could find a desolate farmhouse to hide all of that money. Kansas is a beautiful state. Kansas has a lot to offer someone's who's rich. Kansas is the backdrop of the Wizard of Oz and where Dorothy used to live with Toto while wearing her ruby slippers.

"I wish I was back in Kansas. I wish I was back in Kansas," she said as she clicked her slippers together. "I wish I was back in Kansas."

Well, now, here you are, your wish has come true. You're in Kansas. Yeah, Kansas may be a better place to lay low than Cuba, especially with all that money. At least you're still in the good ol' USA and can still drink the water. Moreover, the residents of Kansas, Kansans, as they're called, speak your language, English. Now, who wants some barbeque?

"Now, what would you do? Why wouldn't you take the money and run...to live in Kansas? Think about it. What would you do?"

Hey asshole, what's your problem? Why the indecision? Are you kidding me? Your life is shit. You have a junk box of an old car. You're about to lose your house and can no longer afford to pay your mortgage. You're about to lose your job because your boss is an asshole who hates you. Your mother, daughter, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, wife's best friend, and your next-door neighbor are all out to get their pound of flesh after you told them that they were the only one and that you loved them. Take the frigging money.

Wishing you were dead or wishing you could get a divorce to marry Vanna White, Sofia Vergara, or Jennifer Lopez, your wife grew fat, old, and ugly. Your children don't appreciate all that you've sacrificed and done for them. In the way that 34-year-old Justin frigging Verlander just married 25-year-old supermodel, Kate Upton, you don't have a woman in your life who's tall, blonde, beautiful, and blue-eyed with 36D cup, natural breasts. Do you? You don't have a beautiful woman who loves you and who's willing to have sex with you. Do you? Why? Because you don't have any frigging money, that's why.

"Duh?"

Yeah, think about that while you're thinking about not taking the money. Just think about that. All of that could change with money, a lot of money. With all that money, even you, you ugly son-of-a-bitch could have a beautiful, sexy, and shapely broad on your arm, a woman with a big frigging brain in her head to help you and guide you through life.

"Well, hello, Mr. Moneybags, even though you're short, fat, and ugly, for some obscure reason, I find your very attractive. I'm Susan. Susan Jill Parker. What's your name? And...how much money in cash did you say you had?"

See? What did I tell you? Money is the magic elixir. Money allows you to get any woman you want. You still don't believe me? Allow me to prove it to you.

Think of Donald Trump with Melania. I know. It makes my skin crawl too. If that's not disgusting enough, think of Billy Joel with supermodel Christie Brinkley, Ric Ocasek of the Cars with supermodel Paulina, and Mick Jagger with supermodel Jerry Hall. Wait. There's more.

Think of Seal with supermodel Heidi Klum, Heidi frigging Klum, and Rod Stewart with any woman, never mind all of the beautiful women that he's bedded. Think of Gene Simmons of Kiss with Shannon Tweed. Are you kidding me? What in the Hell did Shannon Tweed see in Gene Simmons? Come close to the screen so that I don't have to yell.

"Money! Shannon Tweed knew that Gene Simmons was mega-rich. That's why she married his cheating ass."

Larry frigging King has been married 7 frigging times to 7 beautiful women. Ugly, skinny, suspender and eyeglass wearing Larry King. Are you kidding me? Give me a break. Why? Because he has money. He's loaded. Didn't you see him sitting front row center at the World Series in $6,000 seats next to Mary Hart?

"Money! It's all about money. The more money you have the more women you'll have."

Simon frigging Cowell has had sex with more than two-thousand women because he's worth more than five-hundred-million-dollars. Disgusting. Ugly Howard Sterns, scary Steven Segal, and Frankenstein look-a-like, Quentin Tarantino, are chick magnets because they have money. Gross. Think of billionaire J. Howard Marshall with Anna Nicole Smith. Think of Hugh Hefner with all of those Playboy Playmates. Think of Harvey Weinstein and/or Bill Cosby with any woman beautiful, ugly, forced, or sleeping.

"See? It's all about the money. What did I tell you? Forget about being a player, you need money just to get in the game."

Now, let's paint the real picture why you should take the money and run, shall we? Your wife is about to find out that you've been having incestuous sex with your mother, your sister, and your daughter. Your wife is about to find out that you've been having a forbidden, sexual affair with your mother-in-law and your sister-in-law. Your wife is about to find out that you've been having an inappropriate, sexual relationship with her best friend and your next-door neighbor. If identifying you as a pervert, an incestuous pervert, isn't enough than I don't know what is.

"Now, what would you do? Would you take the money and run? Think about it. What would you do? This the chance to get away from your short, fat, ugly shrew of a wife. This your chance to hook up with someone as tall, sexy, young, and beautiful as Kate Upton. This is your chance to run away with Susan Jill Parker and move to Kansas."

'Tick tock, tick tock...'

"No rush and no pressure but I need a decision. What would you do?"

The true story below is about what 38-year-old Emma Capizzi and her 24-year-old stepson, Anthony, did when confronted by that very situation.

* * * * *

On the Run & in Hiding with Stepmom

It was Christmas Eve, and not how someone would spend their Christmas Eve, five, very bad and desperately, dangerous men were locked, loaded, and staying quiet while hiding behind huge mounds of gravel in the dark. Not exactly knowing when they'd come but knowing that they'd soon appear, Billy Sullivan, his brother Ritchie, his cousin Sean Connelly, and their best, childhood friends Brian O'Hara and Micky Coyle were waiting for the Brink's armored truck to arrive. Living just a mile away, all five men were from the public housing projects in Charlestown, Massachusetts, the armored car robbery capital of America.

Just as they were aware that the police and the FBI would immediately identify who to look for, they knew the police and the FBI would come looking for them with a search warrant. Yet, by the time the police and FBI discovered and examined the crime scene before searching the projects for them as their prime suspects, they'd be gone, long gone. They'd be out of the country and living life large in Cuba.

"Buenos dias. Good morning. Buenas tardes. Good afternoon. Buenas noches. Good evening," said Brian while practicing his Spanish with is best friends, Sean and Micky.

With Cuba still not a friend of America, especially with President Trump in office, the United States had no extradition treaty with Cuba. Cuba would not return any American fugitives. Safe from being returned to the US, they had a seemingly perfect plan. After robbing the Brink's armored car, they weren't sticking around and waiting to be arrested. A smart move on their part, they were going to take the money and run.

Once taking the Brink's' employees by surprise, a simple in and out, and hit and run robbery, they weren't expecting any trouble. They weren't expecting any gunplay but, just in case, a precaution on their part, armed and dangerous, all five men were prepared for any situation should things go sideways. Ready to take innocent lives than to lose their own lives, they were ready if gunplay happened. Willing to do anything for the money, rather kill than to be killed, they had no problem with killing anyone who got in their way. There weren't going to be any heroes, not today.

"Oh, no. No way. They'll be no heroes today," said Ritchie putting a bullet in the chamber and taking his gun off safety.

They knew the one, biggest weakness of the armed, armored car security job, no man would risk his life to protect someone else's, insured money for a measly thirteen-dollars an hour. Yeah, sure, there was always the lone, gung-ho, ex-military Brink's guard who hoped to have his name splashed across the front page as a hero while hoping to receive a reward. Yet, easy to spot, and not putting up with any heroes today, they'd identify and take care of him first. He'd be first to go down, not in a blaze of glory or in a hail of bullets, but with a single bullet to the head.

"Stay low and be quiet. I'll keep watch. The rest of you stay hidden out of sight," said Billy.

Ritchie pulled his hat down over his ears, stuck his hands in his pockets, and shivered from sitting quietly still behind a huge mound of gravel that, at least, protected him from the wind.

"It's fucking cold out here and it's starting to snow. I can't see my hand in front of my face, it's so frigging dark," said Ritchie who sounded more like Bunchy Donovan in Ray Donovan played by Dash Mihok.

Billy, acting more like Ray Donovan in Ray Donovan played by Live Schreiber, glared back at his always complaining and never satisfied, younger brother.

"Quiet. We'll be plenty warm enough once we're in Cuba," he said looking from his brother to keep a lookout over the landscape. "I see headlights in the distance," said Billy. "Someone is coming."

Until the heat cooled, they already had a good hideout spot to lay low in the D Street housing projects on West Broadway in South Boston, another mostly Irish section of the city. Unless someone tipped off the cops that they were hiding there, or unless SWAT was mounting a drug sting, filled with hardened criminals, no one comes there, not even the police. From there, with them pretending to be fishermen, they had arranged for their cousin's fishing boat to take them to Cuba where they'd live like kings.

With their thoughts already filled with booze, sex, naked, Cuban women, and legalized prostitution, they couldn't wait for this to be over. Eventually, from there, after having new identities made, they'd make their way to Ireland. With plenty enough money to buy whatever they'd want, they'd buy a farm to live out the rest of their lives in obscurity while married with children.

* * * * *

Brian, Sean, and Micky were already practicing their Spanish.

"Micky," whispered Brian. "How do you say blowjob in Cuban?"

Micky, the multi-linguist of the bunch, stifled a laugh.

"You mean, Spanish. Much like saying that we speak American instead of English, they speak Spanish and not Cuban," said Micky laughing at his friend.

Ritchie looked at Micky embarrassed by his stupidity.

"Duh? You're right," said Ritchie. "I'm so dumb."

Micky explained how to say blowjob in Spanish.

"Blowjob is a worldwide language no matter where you're from, who you're with, or where you are. Much like the translation for wanting to fuck a woman, blowjob is a universal sign. You just stare at her while moving your hand to your mouth and moving your hand back and forth while pushing your cheek in an out with your tongue. Like this," said Micky demonstrating his universal hand and tongue blowjob sign. "If you wanna fuck, you just give the woman a sexy look while moving your hips back and forth as if you're already fucking her," whispered Micky. "It's that simple."

Distracted from his lookout post, Billy turned with impatient frustration to look at his stupid brother and their just as stupid friends.

"Shh! Quiet. Shut the fuck up. They're coming," said Billy.

A good plan, especially after a few beers, yet a plan that was seemingly perfect was sometimes no better than a pipedream. The five, lifelong friends and convicted criminals were experienced enough to know that no plan was foolproof. When it's least expected, with nothing easy, and with there always the unexpected, unforeseen, and unplanned complication, something always goes wrong.

All they wanted was the money and for no one to get hurt, especially during the Christmas holiday. All they wanted was to take the money and run. Yet, they never expected that one of the Brink's employees was a 35-year, retired veteran of the Boston Police Department. They had no way of knowing that he was a veteran of the Vietnam war, a war hero, and a decorated sharpshooter.

Yet, getting it from both sides, from the cops and from the Irish mob, they had planned robbing Brink's without paying Patrick O'Halloran his just due respect by giving him a cut of the money. Giving them a new chance for a better life, ready to leave the country, they just wanted to take the money and run. While hoping to clear a million-dollars each, being that it was monies collected from Christmas shoppers on the last day before the close of business, the vast amount of money they'd steal blinded them from thinking the worst.

They didn't think that they'd lose their lives during the robbery or later, after being hunted by the FBI, and/or the Irish mob. They never thought that they may have to spend the rest of their lives in prison for first degree murder during an armed robbery. They didn't even think that they'd have to kill anyone who got in their way. All they thought about was all of that money. They more thought of all the things they could buy and all the fun they could have than the price that they'd have to ultimately pay.

* * * * *

Tomorrow was Christmas and John, a 65-year-old, retired, 35-year veteran of the Boston Police Department was working his last week for Brink's Armored Car Services. Not officially leaving the employment of the company until January 2, 2018, he'd be paid not only for the Christmas holiday but also for New Year's Day. Moreover, by staying for just another week more, he'd earn his three-week vacation. He had already decided to take that money and run.

Even though they planned and saved, retirement wasn't easy for them. With his healthcare expenses for his wife, Mary, escalating out of reach of what he could afford, he took the Brink's job seven-years ago to bridge the gap between his 35-year pension and his wife's paltry, Social Security. As a retired police officer in Massachusetts, John was ineligible from receiving Social Security benefits but being that his wife worked and paid into the system, she was allowed to collect. Now, finally, with her cancer in remission and his mortgage and cars paid, he was safe, debt free, and to finally ready retire.

Finally, in the Spring, when the weather was warmer, he could hookup his trailer to his truck and travel. There was so much of the country that he always wanted to see but never had the time. His goal was to see all forty-eight, continental, United States. He already had a map of all the campsites where they could safely and comfortably stay. With Mary unwilling to rough it and sleep under the stars in a sleeping bag, with her running around the house screaming whenever she saw a spider, she had a deadly fear of spiders. He needed a campsite that had electricity for her hair dryer, to charge her cellphone, and running water with shower facilities.

The part-time job with Brink's didn't pay much but it included additional healthcare benefits that overlapped his healthcare benefits. Besides, the job kept him busy. Instead of falling into a deep depression and drinking, as many of the other, retired police officers have done, and instead of wanting to swallow his gun, the job kept him not only sane but also sharp. The job allowed him to continue to use his training, his experience, and all of his related skills that he had learned over his long, successful career as a Boston policeman.

The younger men looked up to him because he had been a real cop instead of a wannabe police officer. Many of the younger men at work, most of them veterans of Iraq and/or Afghanistan, already on the list, waited for their names to be called after having taken the police exam for different cities, towns, and counties. John considered himself lucky to have had such a long, law enforcement career without being shot or having to shoot anyone. Other than at the firing range, he never had to draw and fire his gun. Instead, with his inherent people skills, he could talk anyone down from a ledge.

"Hand me the gun and we'll talk about it over a cup of coffee," he had a way of people trusting him. "I know what you're going through. Been there and having come out on the other side, I've gone through that at your age."

Yet, as soon as the man surrendered his gun, he was arrested. Nonetheless, true to his word, John visited the man in jail to bring him a cup of coffee. They talked about all that led up to that fateful day where they crossed paths. One of the good guys, he not only worked to serve and protect the public abut also, he cared about people.

As a beat cop, he was a beloved member of his community and a Deacon in his church. He knew most every resident of Dorchester and Roxbury by name, where he was stationed for twenty-five-years of his thirty-five-years with the force. A marksman in the Army, he still went to the gun range regularly to practice and, hitting the bullseye every time, he was a deadly shot, and one of the best shots on the force.

Retired as a sergeant with 75% of his salary as his pension, the men at work affectionately called him. "Sarge." When they weren't calling him, "Sarge," they called him "Father John." As if he was their priest, any one of them could talk to him about anything and somehow, he always had the answer.

* * * * *

It was their last run of the day and, with all the banks already closed for the Christmas holiday, this last, Brink's truck arriving late had been delayed by holiday traffic. Some stores still remained open and would stay open for 24-hours. Brink's wouldn't be collecting their receipts until after the holiday.

They were dropping off their shipment of collections in Charlestown. Brink's had a secret hideaway, a secured building behind Boston Sand & Gravel. Within walking distance of the FBI repair facility, where the Feds repaired their fleet of cars. They brought confiscated motor vehicles there to repair and/or to get them ready to sell at auction. With armored cars entering and exiting and with undercover FBI cars coming and going, the Brink's location, as well as the FBI garage, was no secret to Charlestown residents.

A stone structure and a stark, cold contrast to the scenic Boston Harbor, as if a monument to crime and to criminals, looking more like a prison than a garage, the grey building was comprised of walls without windows. After seeing the parking lot filled with Ford Crown Victoria's and dark colored SUVs, John suspected what the building was. After seeing suited men and woman coming and going, a stone's throw from the Charlestown police station, it didn't take John long to figure out this is where the FBI maintained their fleet.

Between the FBI lot, the Brink's building, and with the police station right across the street, this was a secured location. With security cameras everywhere, John felt as safe here as he did when stationed in a police station. Yet, the in the way that the world is today with crime, criminals, and terrorists, no one is safe anywhere.

Even Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator when he said to the desk sergeant, "I'll be back," breached a police station. John knew that if men were desperate enough to gamble their lives for money, with no telling what frantic men would do, he needed to stay vigilant and ready for anything. Now with lone wolf terrorists killing innocents in the streets of every city in America and around the world, and with everyone who wants one carrying an automatic weapon, truly no one was safe anywhere, not even in church.

Whatever the Brink's employees collected today would be transferred to the secured Brink's vault until the day after Christmas when everything opened again. Until then, with everyone on their way home to families to enjoy Christmas, it wouldn't be business as usual until next week. No one wanted their holidays ruined by criminals. No one wanted to be dragged into work to investigate yet another stupid, endless crime until after New Year's.

Between the FBI garage, the Brink's building, and the police station, there were surveillance cameras everywhere that monitored the area seven days a week, 24-hours a day. Yet, with this the day before Christmas, not expecting to be robbed, except for a few skeleton workers, most everyone had already gone home early to enjoy the holiday. Seemingly sometimes, expecting everyone to be home with their families, including law enforcement, Christmas was a free pass for criminals to practice their illegal craft without being chased and caught by police.

Along with the police, unless they were specifically tipped off and/or notified, the FBI wouldn't be looking at the camera feed footage until after the Christmas holiday. Whatever happened today wouldn't be reported until after the holiday. No one wanted their Christmas ruined by armored car robbers, especially these armored car robbers, and especially when the police not only already knew who to arrest but also where to find them.

Yet, once the victims were discovered, with the crime scene littered with dead bodies, and with most of the money gone, an all-out man hunt, the Brink's parking lot would be crawling with Boston cops and the FBI. Just as with a bank robbery, there was a lot at stake with an armored car robbery. Sending a strong message to those who'd think they could rob an armored car, whoever did this needed to be caught, convicted, and put away. Only, this crime wasn't engineered by a man but by a woman, a tall, sexy, and shapely, beautiful, Italian woman, named Emma, Emma Capizzi, the wife of Mafia hitman, Fatal Frankie.

* * * * *

Charlie, a forty-something-year-old man lived alone with his mother, never married, and had no children. He had a small dog naked Dunkin', named after Dunkin' Donuts, and was the driver of the Brink's truck. Where some men have a weakness for women, for drinking, for gambling, and/or for smoking cigars, Charlie loved donuts. Eating donuts every day, he always had a box of donuts on the front seat with him in the truck. A bit overweight, not hired to chase anyone on foot, he didn't need to be in shape to drive the armored vehicle.

His job was to stay with the truck and always remain inside the locked vehicle. His orders instructed him to do just that, to remain inside the locked truck and, happy to obey orders, with his thermos full of coffee and his box of donuts by his side, he never disobeyed his orders. He always stayed in the locked truck. No matter what happened outside the bulletproof truck, when he wasn't driving the truck, until he parked the armored car at the Brink's secured location, his job was to stay inside the locked truck.

Twenty-six-year-old, Vincent, street name, Vinegar Vinnie, was named that because his favorite restaurant was the Olive Garden. Never eating anything but Italian food, when not eating spaghetti with meatball, ravioli, manicotti, or lasagna, his favorite food was pizza. Any time he'd take his girlfriend, Gina, out to eat, they ate at the Olive Garden or bought takeout pizza at Regina's Pizzeria in Boston's North End. Sometimes called Vincent Vega instead of Vinegar Vinnie, with his cool manner and the way that he shuffled when he walked, everyone remarked how Vinnie reminded them of Vincent Vega in Pulp Fiction, played by John Travolta.

Serving his country with honor, thanking him for his service, and recently honorably discharged from the Marine Corps, Vinnie hoped to be a Boston Police Officer one day. Having done well in the test, he placed high on the list and was waiting and expecting to be called to train at the Boston Police Academy soon. Especially with John being a retired Boston police officer and a wealth of information, and with his recommendation, Vinnie constantly and continually asked him questions about the force and what it was like being on the job.

Vinnie was the money man. He picked up the deposits, carried the bags of money, and delivered them to the truck. Young, strong, and in shape, and able to carry heavy bags of money, he escorted the money out of the malls and stores and to the truck with his gun drawn. Always vigilant, if anything, with his safety off and his finger on the trigger, Vinnie was too quick on the trigger.

He loved guns, collected guns, and, costing him a week's salary, was especially proud of his Glock 9 mm. Due to his immaturity, quick to react without thinking things through, if anyone was liable to shoot anyone, it was Vinnie. In the way that John had never drawn his gun, in the way that it was part of Vinnie's job to have his gun drawn when escorting money, seemingly he was itching to shoot someone. John didn't dare tell him that he'd never make a good cop. Nonetheless, his quick trigger finger, trying to make a good impression, he took his armored car job very seriously.

"This is where they filmed the movie, The Town, with Ben Affleck," said Vinnie pointing to Boston Sand & Gravel while nodding his head as if that was his first time saying it. "This is where they also filmed the Equalizer with Denzel Washington. I loved that movie," he said and something that he said every day.

Not the brightest bulb and obviously taken with movie stars, he loved taking his girlfriend to the movies. He said the same, exact thing every day they left and pulled in to the Brink's facility. Actually Charlestown, the Irish section of the city, as they were familiarly identified as such in the movie as The Town, were known for their armored car robberies. Brink's was based in Charlestown with their old facility just across the Charlestown bridge, in the North End of Boston, the Italian section of the city, where the famed Brink's robbery of the '50's happened.

* * * * *

An inside job, unable to pull off the robbery without the help of the driver, Charlie, as soon as the gate opened, obviously thinking that the truck was stuck, all three men alighted from the vehicle. Unable to push such a heavy vehicle, they usually dug around the tire and put something in front and/or in back of the rear wheels to rock it free. The road was unpaved and littered with deep potholes from thirty-plus-ton dump trucks hauling their heavy loads of gravel and rocks to and from Boston Sand & Gravel.

With the armored vehicle so heavy, weighing 55,000 pounds, 27 and a half tons, as much as a small humpback whale or a Chinook, cargo helicopter, the truck was always getting stuck in one place or another. Obviously, thinking their delay routine, John and Vinnie weren't expecting anything to happen. The only clue that something was up, leaving his truck unattended and unsecured, was when Charlie turned off the engine and alighted from the truck with them.

John looked at Charlie with a face filled with disbelief and shock. As if leaving his post while on watch, he had never seen Charlie out of the truck unless he was inside the Brink's facility. As if he was done for the day and was going home, leaving his unsecured and unprotected truck parked there, oddly and suspiciously enough, he had his thermos of coffee and his box of donuts with him.

"What are you doing out of the truck, Charlie?"

With his police training second nature and his police alarm going off in his head, John looked at the driver with suspicion. Charlie never got out of the truck until he had delivered the truck inside the secured, Brink's building. Obviously not taking any chances, John flung open double, rear doors of the armored vehicle. Reaching inside, he immediately grabbed the shotgun from the side of the truck and used the body of the armored vehicle as cover to shield him. With them sitting ducks in the light and with whomever was out there hidden by the dark of night, as if he was on reconnaissance patrol in the jungle of Vietnam again, he scanned the area with experienced, police trained eyes.Then, as if fired from a sniper's rifle from a distance in the dark, a bullet from out of nowhere hit Charlie in the head. Not taking the chance of being identified, cutting loose ends, Billy immediately shot Charlie. Charlie had arranged to park the truck over the gate rail so that the gate couldn't close. If the gate closed, the truck would have continued inside the secured building and the money would have been lost to them.

All that Billy needed to do to win Charlie's friendship, trust, and cooperation was to introduce him to his childhood friend, sexy Maureen Shea, who had big, natural, Irish milkmaid, D cup breasts. After allowing Charlie to grope her big tits and finger her erect nipples through her blouse and bra while kissing her, and with Billy buying them beers, he'd do anything for his new, Irish friends, even leave his truck unattended. Unless they took the time to force open the gate and shoot their way in the building, the money would be lost. Besides, with not enough time for that, Brink's would have alerted the police.

Long before she was married and had kids, Billy Sullivan had once dated Maureen Shea. Back when they were 18-year-old teenagers, he had become quite fond and quite sexually intimate with Maureen's huge tits. They had a brief romantic affair until he fell in love with Kathleen Kennedy who dumped him to leave for college. Leaving him and her old life behind, she never returned to Charlestown after graduating and getting married to a financial adviser.

Somehow feeling responsible for her and continuing to watch over her, especially after her drunken husband left her and her two children for someone else, Billy continued helping Maureen out with a few dollars. Once in a while, when he was drunk and horny, nothing serious, they'd have sex. He promised her a big bonus after the robbery if she was nice to Charlie. A big, intimidating man, at 6'5" and 240 pounds, even though Billy didn't take any shit from anyone, he had a kind and generous heart. His 6'3" brother Ritchie was too dumb to plan the robbery so everything was left up to Billy, even getting Charlie as their inside man.

The armed armor car robbers needed to somehow hit the truck before it was moved inside the Brink's garage and Charlie was their inside man. A tragic end for such an affable, albeit naïvely dumb man, not even having the time to pull his gun, spilling his box of uneaten donuts, Charlie was dead before he hit the ground. By shooting Charlie, not telling the rest of his crew that he was going to terminate him, Billy surprised Ritchie, Sean, Brian, and Micky. From that moment forward, all Hell broke loose.

* * * * *

"They killed Charlie. They killed my friend," yelled Vinnie. "Take that you motherfuckers."

Immediately, Vinnie returned a barrage of gunfire but with everything so dark, he was shooting at nothing but imaginary shadows. John stayed low to the ground. He turned his cap around, as if he was a SWAT cop or a sniper again back in Vietnam shooting at little men in black pajamas. He crawled beneath the back of the Brink's truck and used that for cover. Obviously, he figured that it was armored car robbers shooting at them and not snipers. Unless a bullet ricocheted, whoever was shooting at them would have to be a crack shot to hit him from his secured position beneath the armored truck and behind a double wheeled axle.

"Hold your fire until you see something," ordered John. "Don't waste your bullets. You may need them later."

Taking patient aim when he saw movement of dark shadows against the snow-covered gravel in the distance, Vinnie shot and killed one man, Brian O'Hara, before Sean Connelly returned fire and shot and killed him. Now all alone to defend his life more than the money, armed with a shotgun, John returned fire and shot and killed two more of the robbers, Sean Connelly and Micky Coyle. Not giving up their claim on the money, two more men, Ritchie and Billy Sullivan, came out of the shadows and advanced for him. With his Glock in his right hand, he pulled his backup gun from his boot and held that in his left hand while waiting for them to move closer.

"Come on, you bastards. Just a little closer. Steady," said John talking to himself while taking aim. "Wait."

Not waiting for them to shoot first, as soon as they were close enough, he shot and killed Ritchie, Billy's brother, and wounded Billy before the last surviving robber shot and killed him. Not even making it to the truck to claim the stolen loot, Billy collapsed and died from his fatal gunshot wound. Had John's bullet hit Billy an inch more to the left, Billy's heart would have exploded, the gunfight would have been over, and John would have survived as the hero that he was.

Yet, over as soon as it began, with five robbers and two Brink's employees firing a couple dozen bullets, all eight men were dead. As the white, Christmas snow silently fell to the ground to cover the crime scene in a blanket of white, eight families would be forever touched by this tragedy. Silent night, deadly night, such an eerie sound on such a deadly night. As if knelling the bells for multiple funerals instead of ringing out Christmas, church bells could be heard in the distance and in readiness for Christmas Eve Mass.

Obviously, a call from his worried mother, Charlie's cellphone played Jingle Bells from somewhere in his jacket pocket. They always opened gifts on Christmas Eve, and obviously, sensing something was wrong for her to call her son while he was working, it was getting late. Several cars drove by on their way home from last-minute Christmas shopping at the shopping malls while oblivious to the crime scene.

* * * * *

Thirty-eight-year-old Emma Capizzi and her twenty-four-year-old stepson, Anthony, lived in the North End of Boston in an exclusive condo that overlooked the Boston Harbor. They were taken care of after Emma's husband, known as Fatal Frankie, a Mafia hitman, went to Walpole State Prison, now known as Massachusetts Correctional Institute, MCI -- Cedar Junction for double consecutive life sentences. After keeping him out of jail, Emma and her stepson were given special treatment by the mob for Frankie not ratting on and criminally implicating his boss, Don Vito, in the first-degree murders, as well as dozens of other crimes.

As future investments and to be used as safehouses, the Don bought several waterfront condos for low six figures each before they were even built, after he heard that urban renewal had plans to rehabilitate Boston Harbor. Now, twenty years later, the cheapest condos were selling in excess of two-million-dollars with some of the larger ones selling as high as ten-million-dollars. In addition to free rent, when Frankie first went inside, Don Vito supplied Anthony with a then brand new, 2011 Lincoln Town Car, and Emma, with a brand new, 2011 Lincoln Navigator.

"Don't worry your pretty head 'bout nothin'," said Don Vito in broken English as if he was just off the boat from Sicily or doing his impression of Marlon Brando as The Godfather, even though he was born in Boston. "As if I'm your surrogate husband, I take care of everythin' for you," he said giving Emma a kiss on each cheek while reaching his hand around her to feel, squeeze, grope, and pat her firm and shapely, Italian ass.

At 5'9" tall, as tall as Sophia Loren but more beautiful, Emma had long, lush, blue-black hair, olive skin, dark brown, expressive eyes, and a sexy body enhanced with C cup, shapely breasts. A rare, Italian beauty, where most Sicilian women were short and fat, Emma was tall and shapely thin. Only, she wasn't Sicilian. She wasn't from southern Italy. An American citizen who was born in Boston, her family all hailed from northern Italy. An issue with his family, nine years after Anthony was born, 40-year-old Frankie divorced his Sicilian wife to marry sexy, 23-year-old, Emma.

Anthony, a good looking, young man, looked nothing like his father. With his blue-black hair, olive complexion, and his big brown eyes, he looked more like his stepmother than he did his biological mother. A throwback to another generation, he looked like the younger brother of famed actor, Raoul Bova, best known for his roles in Alien vs. Predator and the movie, the Tourist.

"Frankie," said his mother, Maria, in broken English while talking with her hands after he first introduced Emma to her.

Even though she lived in the United States much longer than she lived in Italy, she still spoke in broken English. Rather than learn the language to speak in English, she spoke in fluent Italian any chance she had. With her father, brother, and husband all having mistresses, goo-mahs or padronas as they were affectionately called, she was accustomed to Italian men having women on the side. It was no big deal to be having sex with a young and pretty whore while still supporting their wife and children.

"Ma? What? I love her," said Frankie knowing what his mother was going to say before she even said it.

He looked at his mother with impertinent impatience. Obviously, with this a never-ending issue, he didn't want to listen to his mother disrespecting his wife, yet, again. He didn't want to listen to his mother defending his ex-wife while not accepting his current wife.

"She's so younga, too younga for you, Frankie," she said pinching his cheek. "You divorca Angela, the mama of your children, to marry thisa whore? Why? Who is thisa whore? Anda why marry her when you coulda just maka her your goo-mah?" She waved her hand in the air. "Ah, stupido. You maka no sense."

No doubt, with her husband already incarcerated for six years and put away for good with no chance of parole, Don Vito would be visiting Emma for some sexual payback of his generosity soon. No doubt, they'd be taken care of until they no longer needed to be taken care of and until they really needed to be taken care of, if you know what I mean. Once Don Vito no longer needed Frankie's silence, after he was tragically killed in prison, but not before he had his wicked, sexual way with Emma, he'd end his relationship with Frankie's wife and son.

Eventually, both Emma and Anthony would be swimming with the fishes somewhere off the Boston Harbor and at the bottom of the deep Atlantic Ocean. Only, something that she knew that Don Vito didn't know, not a stupid and/or naïve woman, she suspected his plans. Having lived this life of crime long enough after being married to Frankie for fifteen years, she knew what Don Vito had to do to keep himself out of prison.

* * * * *

Like so many other last-minute shoppers, Emma and Anthony were on the way home from the North Shore shopping mall in Peabody after doing some last-minute Christmas shopping. As if a mirage on the horizon, Emma spotted the huge, lighted sign that advertised Boston Sand & Gravel. It was then she had an idea to pick up some free stones for her garden.

With the gates left wide open and never locked, the security guard, no doubt, had already gone home to celebrate the Christmas holiday. Besides, with snow in the forecast, who in their right mind would be out looking to steal some dirt and rocks? No matter, who cared if they did? Unless they were filling a dump truck, dirt and rocks were relatively cheap. Moreover, everyone knew who owned Boston Sand & Gravel, just as everyone knew whatever construction project being done had to be approved by Don Vito. Unless it was one of their own, no one in their right mind would dare steal from the Mafia, even if it was only rocks and dirt.

"Turn in here, Anthony," said Emma.

Her stepson made a face but immediately obeyed his stepmother.

"Ma? What do you want here? This is Boston Sand & Gravel," said Anthony raising his hands in a shrug while looking at her as if she was nuts. "There's nothin' here but dirt and rocks."

Always following her lead, obviously Anthony knew that his stepmother had a nose for spotting merchandise that had just fallen off the truck.

"It will only take a minute," said Emma with a warm smile that made her stepson never say no to her and want to do anything to please her.

Never paying retail for anything, instead using her five-finger discount, most of the expensive, designer clothes she owned were shoplifted from high-end stores on Newbury Street. As if she was prettier and sexier version of Letty, played by Michelle Dockery, in Good Behavior, a master of disguises with wigs, makeup, and clothes, she was a talented thief, pickpocket, and shoplifter. Yet, this time, and obviously thinking that there was nothing of value worth stealing, Anthony looked at her as if she was mistaken in wanting to stop here.

"I just wanna go home and relax," said Anthony.

She squeezed his arm while looking deeply in his eyes as if she was about to lean to him an kiss him. A look that he hadn't yet learned to resist, casting him under her sexy, sexual spell, whenever she looked at him in that way, he'd do anything for her. In the way that his father was contracted to kill people to support his family, Anthony would kill anyone to protect his stepmother from harm. In the way that his father loved his wife, especially in the way that he was looking at her now, it was plain to see that Anthony loved Emma too.

She was so beautiful. She was so sexy. She was so shapely. His stepmother was such a MILF. Just as he'd do anything to kiss her, French kiss her, he'd do anything to see her in her bra and panties. He'd love to see her wearing one of her sexy, sheer, short, and low-cut nightgowns without the modesty of a robe just as he'd love to see her topless and/or naked.

Anthony stared down at his stepmother's hand while, no doubt, wishing that she'd squeeze his cock instead of his arm. Masturbating over her every chance he had, he'd love nothing more than to see his MILF of a stepmother without her clothes. Now that his father was put away and out of the picture for good, he'd love nothing more than to have sex with his sexy stepmother. In the way that his father made her his woman, his wife, his bitch, and his sexy, sexual slave, Anthony would love to make Emma his woman, his wife, his bitch, and his sexy, sexual slave.

"I need stones for my rooftop garden. Why pay for them when I can get them here for free now? There's no one here. They're all gone home for the holiday," said Emma with a shrug as if stealing stones from Don Vita's place of business was no big deal. "Pull in here. We'll just make a quick stop. There's a shovel and a bucket in the trunk. One bucketful should be enough and all that I need."

A typical Mafia wife, with her condo filled with stolen merchandise from TV's, to laptop computers, to Smartphones, to microwave ovens, and coffeemakers, Emma was always looking for something for nothing while selling hot merchandise on the side. Selling to only those she knew and to only those she trusted, she sold stolen goods to her neighbors and friends. Christmastime with everyone looking to buy gifts for cheap, even taking orders for those looking for something special, was her busiest time of the year.

* * * * *

Yet, always aware of her surroundings, just as she was no one's fool, she was no one's victim. Before alighting from the car, as if she was a paid assassin surveying the scene for witnesses or complications, seeing something out of the ordinary, she saw the opened Brink's gate and the Brink's truck with the back doors wide open. Accustomed to what a crime scene looked like and felt like, with her having seen enough of them, in the way that John grabbed for the shotgun, Emma sensed that there was something wrong.

Then, when she scanned the immediate area, it was as if a scene from out of No Country for Old Men when Josh Brolin as Llewelyn Moss stumbled over a drug deal gone bad in the desert. Staring at them while watching for any signs of life, Emma saw eight, dead bodies strewn everywhere and lightly covered with the snow that continued falling while her son, Anthony, was oblivious to it all. With everything so ghostly quiet, the lull before the storm of police sirens, flashing lights, and the bright spotlights from noisy helicopters, this was it.

Serendipitous serendipity, as if she won the lottery, lucky for her, she was at the right place and at the right time. It was now that she needed to make a split decision that would change the rest of her life forever or prematurely end it. A life or death situation, her decision to make, it was now or never. What does she do?

Having little time to waste in her indecision before the police arrived, her decision to take the money would spare her and her stepson from certain death at the order of Don Vito. Her decision to take the money would set her free with plenty of money to live out the rest of their lives in hiding. As if she'd be entering the Witness Protection Plan with Anthony, if she took the money and ran now, at least no one, not even the FBI would know that she took the money and where she was hiding. Moreover, if she took the money, free from being under the murderous thumb of Don Vito, she'd be set for life.

Either she takes the money and runs now or be doomed to tragically die later at the hands of a contract put on their heads by the Mafia. If she decided to take the money, she didn't have much time before the police arrived on the scene. She needed to make a decision now. If she was going to take the money, she needed to do that now.

Instead of taking the money, an idea that she immediately dismissed, does she call the police to report the robbery and be questioned for hours at the police station? With her husband a known, incarcerated criminal, a murdering hitman, and a member still in good standing with the Mob, no doubt, they'd suspect her of being somehow connected to the robbery. No one, especially with her ties to the mob, coincidentally stumbles upon a Brink's robbery gone bad, but she did.

Does she beat it the Hell out of there or does she take the money and run? With her only witness her son, she could trust him not to talk. Anthony was as loyal to her as her husband was loyal to Don Vito. Yet, with her having no such loyalty to a mob boss who'd want to see her, her husband, and her son all dead, again priding herself in her ability to survive, just as she was no one's fool, she was nobody's victim. Not a difficult decision but an easy choice to make, with her street savvy and not stupid but cunningly smart, she decided to take the money and make a run for it.

* * * * *

"Ma? What? What are you doin'?" Anthony stared at his stepmother frozen in place while she stared at the unguarded Brink's truck in readiness to make her split decision. "Are you gonna get the rocks or not," asked Anthony while still oblivious to the crime scene?

Emma looked from the Brink's truck to look at her son.

"Screw the rocks. Free money, Anthony. Free money," she said with an excited smile as if it was a miracle that their lives would now spared. She looked at her stepson. "Are you carrying?"

He made a face as if saying, duh?

"With all the enemies that Dad made, I'm always packing a gun," he said.

Obviously pleased that he was armed, just in case someone was still alive, she smiled.

"Drive the car around to the back of the Brink's truck and parallel to it with your trunk open," said Emma pointing him where to go. "But before you do, turn off your headlights, keep the engine running, get out of the car, and remove both license plates. Hurry. Then, get your father's hooded, hunting jacket from the trunk and a flashlight."

Obviously, not noticing it before, he hadn't even noticed the abandoned Brink's truck until his stepmother made him aware of it by pointing to it. Oblivious to him before, with dead bodies scattered everywhere, he obviously noticed the crime scene now. He looked from one dead man to the next dead man before staring at the unguarded truck and before looking as his stepmother again.

"Holy shit," he said. "Ma? Are you sure? We could be arrested for accessories after the fact," he said knowing the law as well as any prosecuting attorney or any criminal, defense lawyer.

Anthony looked from the truck to look at his stepmother before looking back at the truck again.

"Go! Drive," she ordered. "Hurry. Before the police come," she said raising her voice in excited but controlled panic. "After getting your father's hooded jacket, when you get out of the car again, get out with the hood over your head. Keep your head down and stoop as if you're shorter than you are. Whatever you do, don't look up at the cameras."

Anthony turned off his headlights, removed his license plates, and popped the trunk to get his father's jacket and a flashlight. He put on the jacket and pulled the hood over his head. He kept his trunk lid open and parked his black, Lincoln Town Car, the extended wheelbase version, behind and to the side the Brink's truck. Using the truck and his open trunk as his cover, with the truck blocking the view of the cameras, he pulled up parallel to the Brink's truck with his trunk in line with the back doors and on the far side of the cameras.

Just as she instructed her stepson to do, Emma covered her head with the hood of her coat before they both alighted from the car to peer in the back of the truck. Not looking up at the cameras, following the advice that she told her stepson, she kept her head down and stooped a little while walking to the truck. She peered in the truck with her son. As if she had just won a supermarket sweepstakes and were able to pile in as much food in her shopping cart as she could pile in bags of cash in their Lincoln, they hurried as if they were on a 3-minute clock.

* * * * *

"Ma, there's bags and bags of money in here," he said with glee. "There's so much money. There's a lot of bags and lots of money."

He stepped in the back of the truck. With them both already wearing gloves due to the cold weather, they were free from leaving any fingerprints as evidence to their identities.

"Duh, Anthony? It's a Brink's truck. What do you think would be in there, fish? Stop wasting time and hurry. Get the key. One of the guards has a key to the locked gate in the back of the truck. That's where the big money is. I wouldn't even bother with anything towards the front of the truck," said Emma as if she had robbed a Brink's truck before. "In comparison, the rest of the money is all chump change, mostly donation monies they collect from churches."

Anthony hoped down from the back of the truck and checked Vinnie's belt before he found the key in John's shirt pocket.

"I got it," he said hoping back in the truck.

He opened the locked gate where they kept the bags of their largest depositors, BJ's Wholesale, Costco, Target, T. J. Maxx, Sam's Club, and Wal-Mart.

"Take only the bags of cash. Forget the coin and receipts. You can tell one from the other by the feel and the weight of the bags. The receipts are in the waterproof, leather bags. Leave those. Take only the cash," she said again as if she had robbed a Brink's trunk before.

No doubt, with them leaving bags of lessor amounts of cash, and with them hitting the locked part of the truck that separated the larger bags of cash, the police and FBI would obviously know that this was a professional job. With everyone murdered and with there no witnesses, the police and FBI would obviously know that this was an inside job and/or a double cross. They'd never be suspecting and/or looking at a hitman's wife and his son as armored car robbers. They last people they'd accuse is a stepmother and her stepson. They'd never be looking for a woman for this horrific robbery.

As if he was Santa Claus giving money to the homeless, Anthony tossed bag after bag of money out of the truck while his stepmother loaded the bags in the backseat and in the trunk of his huge car. Working as a team, by not taking the coin, because the interior and the trunk of the car was so huge and with the self-leveling rear air suspense keeping the car level, they were able to take most of the bags of cash. They would have taken more but not wanting to be greedy and get caught, they made good their getaway before the police came.

They drove straight home and, from their private elevator that opened to their condo, they made several trips back and forth with a two-wheeler covered with a blanket. Thinking that they were transporting Christmas gifts, no one who saw them thought anything of a two-wheeler covered with a blanket. Once inside, as if they were sandbagging the wall in preparation of a flood, they stacked the bags and bags of money against the far wall in the living room.

"I wonder how much money there is," said Anthony turning on the TV and flipping for the news. "There's nothing on TV about the robbery. Obviously, the incident hadn't been reported yet."

Tying up loose ends and leaving nothing to chance, Emma tossed her son his car keys.

"Your car is hot. If not now, it will be soon. Get rid of it. Once the FBI analyzes the video and does tire tread analysis, something that will lead them right to us, they'll be looking for your car. With the car in the name of one of Don Vito's businesses, they won't immediately trace it back to us but eventually they will. Get rid of it now while we still have chance and still have the time," said Emma.

Even though he loved his car, Anthony nodded his head without argument.

"Okay, Ma," he said.

As if telling him that he was a good son without words, she gave him a warm smile.

"I'll buy you a new car later, a new Lincoln Continental. In the meantime, drive it to the underground garage in the Boston Common, conceal your face with your hand when going through the entrance. They have cameras there. Then, vacuum the backseat and the trunk, take whatever possessions there are that will identify you as the driver, wipe off your fingerprints, then cover it with your car cover. Buying us some valuable time, I'll report it stolen later," she said. "With so many cars entering and leaving, it will be weeks before they discover it parked there."

As if he was a Mafia soldier and his stepmother was a mob boss, Dona Emma instead of Don Vito, he seldom questioned his stepmother. Privy to all of his father's secrets, she was as much of a professional criminal as he was. Yet, being that she was never even suspected, caught, arrested, prosecuted, and incarcerated, perhaps she was the mastermind in this family and not her hitman of a husband who followed orders without question and who didn't plan his own jobs.

Trusting her completely, Anthony obediently obeyed his stepmother to the last detail as any good Mafia soldier would unquestioningly obey their Don. He knew that she did everything for a reason and with his best interest in mind. Just as she was his stepmother and he loved her, he was her stepson and she loved him. Together, with her the brains and him the brawn, they were an invincible and diabolical team.

"It will be weeks more before they tow it to Boston's impound lot and weeks more before they discover it there. Unless Don Vito rats us out, which I doubt that he will, and tells the Feds that he gave us the car, I doubt they'll ever come looking for us. No matter if they do or not, we'll be long gone by then," she said as if she was an expert at this sort of criminal activity, and obviously she was. "If anything, he'll be glad to be free of financially taking care of us."

Anthony turned to leave in readiness to dump his beloved car.

"Okay, Ma," he said. "I'll be right back."

She stopped his departure with more words of warning.

"Return here by subway. Do not take a cab. Do you understand? Do not take a cab," she said pointing her manicured finger at her son. "Taking a taxi is the best way to ruin your alibi. The last thing we want is a record of where and what time the cab picked you up and the time it delivered you home."

He nodded his head to show her that he understood.

"Got it. No cab," he said as he left to get rid of his beloved car.

* * * * *

By the time that Anthony returned home, Emma had opened every bag, unwrapped and counted all the money, and stored them in two, huge steamer trunks that she used on her Alaskan cruise with her husband years ago. Making sure the bills weren't consecutively numbered, not taking any chances, and tying up all the loose ends, the empty, bank bags were already burning in the fireplace along with the bank wrappers that wrapped the money. She even had time to relax and unwind with a glass of wine before Anthony returned home.

With Christmas music playing in the background, a warm fire heating the condo, and the lighted Christmas tree twinkling in the corner of the room, no one would suspect them of being armored truck robbers. Yet, with their names, perhaps, soon to be added to the FBI's most wanted list, they were just as bad as those from Charlestown who tried to rob the armored truck. Emma took a big breath along with her sigh of relief while staring at her two, huge, steamer trunks filled with money.

Not including the weight of the steamer trunks, each trunk was filled with one's, five's, ten's, fifty's, and hundred's. With a million in hundreds weighing twenty-two pounds and with her having four-million, four hundred, forty-five-thousand dollars and change, she figured there were several hundred pounds of cash. Fortunately, saving them a tremendous amount of weight to lug around, there were more larger bills than there were smaller bills. Otherwise, had there been more smaller bills than big bills, she would have burned the singles, fives, and tens in the fireplace and only lugged around the larger bills, the twenties, fifties, and hundreds.

"Now what do we do, Ma?" As if she was his sexy Dominatrix, Anthony looked at his stepmother with for direction, guidance, and leadership with perplexity. "How do we get out of the country?"

As if she was his girlfriend and he was her illicit lover, as if they already had sex, and as if she had already planned this caper months in advance instead of stumbling over it, she gave him a sexy smile.

"We don't leave the country. We stay here somewhere. I just don't know where yet. They'll be expecting us to do just that, to leave the country, and I don't want to give them any help in finding us. No planes, no trains, no buses, no cellphones, no credit cards, and no debit cards. We pay for everything in cash, even a cup of coffee and a newspaper. We'll buy some burner phones that we can use to make calls. You cannot call your girlfriend, your friends, or any relatives," she said pointing her manicured index finger at him. "Do you understand?"

He nodded his head.

"Yes, I understand."

As if they were CIA spies who were just exposed and burned, disappearing without a trace, she gave him the reasons that he needed to understand the importance of staying silently and invisibly off the grid.

"As far as everyone is to know, we no longer exist. We're dead. We're ghosts. We make a habit of using landlines instead of cellphones whenever we can and only talk to those that we must. We don't talk about anything when in an enclosed area, even in the car. Whenever we need to talk, we go for a walk outside, in the way that Don Vito does when he needed to talk in private without running the risk of being recorded by the FBI. Capisce?"

Anthony nodded his head again.

"I understand," he said.

She gave him a look of warning.

"We use nothing that the FBI can trace to our new location. We never mention the robbery or anything that happened that night. If we need to discuss anything sensitive, we talk in code and/or whisper in each other's ears."

Anthony nodded his head again to let his stepmother know that he understood.

"Okay," he said. Already following her rule of silence, one, two-syllable word was all that he said.

She looked at her stepson as if she was thinking of something while planning something else.

"Do you have a clean gun? Something that can't be traced back to you? I need something small enough and light enough to fit and carry in my purse without it being obvious that I'm carrying a concealed weapon," said Emma.

Anthony left the living room and returned from his room carrying a Ruger LCRx, lightweight, carry, revolver, a .38 special. Not touching the gun with his bare hands, a student of his father, he was wearing gloves.

"It's never been fired. I've been keeping it clean and at the ready. As you can see, the serial numbers were removed," he said showing her the side of the gun. "This was the last gun that Dad brought home before being arrested," said Anthony handing the gun to his stepmother. "I kept it just in case it came in handy. I hid it so that the cops didn't find it in their search of our old house."

Before accepting the gun from her son, she put on her blue, leather gloves. Emma took the gun, checked to see if it was loaded, turned off the safety, and put it in her purse. Being that the steamer trunks were on wheels, she no longer needed the two-wheeler. Instead of using her cell phone, she picked up the land line receiver to call someone. Not mentioning him by name and not telling him who she was, the man on the other end of the line knew who she was by the number she called.

"I need to go fast. I need to leave here," she said lying. She gave him the code word, "here" for needing to leave the country. "I need everything, the whole package for a party of two," she said to the man on the other end of the phone as if she was ordering a turkey, Christmas dinner instead of new, fake identities for her and her stepson.

"When? Today. I need them today. I need them now. I'll pay extra. Whatever your price is I'll pay you double and in cash," she said. "How much? That's a bit steep, isn't it? Okay, okay. Yeah, yeah, I get it. It's Christmas. Merry Christmas to you too. I'll be there in fifteen," said Emma hanging up the phone and turning to Anthony. "Let's load the trunks in the Navigator," she said.

* * * * *

The man, a swarthy type, in the way that Anthony couldn't help himself from staring at his stepmother, the forger eyed Emma up and down as if she was standing before him naked. Now that her husband was in jail and unable to come to her rescue or to her defense, she was fair game for every sleaze ball who wanted to have sex with her. Except for the photos that he now took of them, he already had the ID's ready for them. As if this was his Christmas bonus for such a quick turnaround, he looked eager to receive his exorbitant payment and, perhaps, even more.

"Why don't you have your stepson wait outside? I need to talk to you about somethin'," he said giving her a look of lustful horniness.

She nodded to her stepson to step outside while the man gave her the eye. Knowing what he wanted, she gave him a sexy smile. Then when he looked down to add their photos to their ID's, she looked at him with disdain. She looked at him as if he was dreaming and thinking that she'd have sex with him. There was no way that this creep was touching her.

If she refused Don Vito's sexual advances, why would she embrace his sexual advances? He was nothing but a forger. He was nothing but a loose end. He was someone who could point the mob and/or the FBI in her direction as to where and how to find her by her new identification. If he was anything, he was a dead man.

"What? What do you want? Make it fast. I need to go," said Emma knowing exactly what he wanted.

He smiled and reached out to grab and grope her big breast before reaching around her to feel and squeeze her shapely ass. She stared down at his fingers fingering her already erect nipples through her blouse and bra. To say that she was horny and sexually frustrated was a gross understatement. To say that she'd have sex with practically anyone, including her stepson, especially her stepson, would be another gross understatement. Only, she didn't have time for this shit. She didn't have time for, yet, another man who wanted to fuck her and/or who wanted her to blow him.

Making him feel confidently comfortably and unsuspectingly relaxed, she smiled at him while allowing him to touch her, feel her, fondle her, and grope her. Then, unbuckling, unbuttoning, and unzipping his pants, he reached inside his underwear and pulled out his already erect prick. While staring at her, as if she'd be interested enough to watch him masturbate himself, he stroked himself to an even harder erection. He stared at her with sexual excitement and with forbidden lust, as if she was already naked, on her knees, and ready to suck his cock.

"This won't take long. I'll give you a hefty discount, a special, one-time price, if you're sexually nice to me," he said reaching out to push down on her shoulder.

Running out of time, she feared that her husband's ID man may have already alerted Don Vito or the FBI for whatever reward there may be. Not taking any chances, as soon as he made the ID's and handed them to her, she opened her purse with her gloved hand. What was he thinking? With her morally and criminally no better than him, she was the wife of Fatal Frankie, a dangerous and deadly hitman. She reached inside her purse as if to pay him and showed him two stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills before retrieving her gun.

As if having taken lessons from her Mafia hitman of a husband, as soon as she drew her gun, she shot the man twice, execution style, once in the chest and the second shot in the head. She grabbed his laptop, removed his paper file from his desk, and took the security camera memory chip. As if she was Michael Corleone in The Godfather and in the Italian restaurant after he shot Barzini played by Richard Conte and Captain McCluskey played by Sterling Hayden, she dropped the gun and left.

"Let's go," said Emma when going outside to Anthony. She handed him his new identification. "Memorize everything that's there, social security number, new address, date of birth, and your new name, James Rogers, and I'm Julie Rogers. We're husband and wife. In case we're stopped by police, you need to recite everything fluently, as if you were born with his name and social security number. This is our marriage certificate, birth certificates, drivers' licenses, and passports," she said handing him the folder. "With this our new life, everything is in there."

* * * * *

Taking turns with the driving, switching off every two hours, Emma drove their Lincoln Navigator west until she reached Jackson, Kansas, on the eastern part of the state. With no one looking for her son, she dropped him off at a used car lot and instructed him to buy a vehicle big enough to fit their steamer trunks. Disappearing in with the scenery, he bought a used, dodge minivan. Then abandoning their Lincoln Navigator at a busy, 24-hour, strip mall and away from the watchful eye of security cameras, they continued driving west.

From there, they could have driven north into Canada or south to Mexico. Instead, they drove for nearly two-hundred miles more west until they reached Wichita, the western part of the state, where they rented a room in a clean looking motel that had a restaurant attached to it. Tomorrow, they'd enlist the help of a real estate agent to rent a house. Being that no one would be looking for them in the middle of nowhere and in the middle of Kansas, the last thing that they wanted to do was to alert the IRS by flashing some cash and buying a house.

"I need a room for my husband and me, one with a king-sized bed if you have it," she said handing the clerk her money before he handed her the key. "We'll be here for a few nights until I can find a house in town to rent."

As if he was Norman Bates from the Bates Motel heading to his room to sleep with his mother, Norma Bates, Anthony looked at his stepmother with sexual excitement when she received the key and headed for the motel room. Walking with her in silence, especially if there was anyone within earshot of them, he stared at her as if she was already in her bra and panties. He continued staring at her as if she was already in one of her sexy nightgowns and showing him the tops of her meaty, jiggling breasts, and her long line of sexy cleavage. Instead of looking at her as if she was fully dressed and paying her the respect that any stepson should pay his stepmother, he stared at her as if she was topless or naked. "One bed?" He gave her a lustful stare as if he already had undressed her with his eyes. He looked at her as if she was already standing in front of him naked. He looked at her as if they were already in bed naked together and having forbidden, incestuous sex. "You rented a room with only one bed?" Trying to act cool, perhaps he should have remained quiet and not asked her the question, but he looked at her as much hopefulness as he looked at her with sexual lust. "Are we going to sleep in the same bed?"

As if he was already staring at his naked stepmother with his horny eyes, he looked at her incredulously. He looked at her with as much horniness as he looked at her with sexual excitement and erotic anticipation. He had always sexually fantasized over having sex with his MILF of a stepmother. When he wasn't masturbating over imagining having sex with her, he was masturbating over seeing her in her sexy, low-cut bra and bikini panties, in one of her sexy and revealing nightgowns, or topless, and/or naked.

"Don't get any ideas, Anthony," she said making a disapproving face when he reached out to feel her breast and grope her ass. "I shot and killed the last man who groped me in that sexually inappropriate way," she said staring down at his hand before slapping his horny, hand away from her sexy and shapely body.

Hoping to quell his incestuous horniness, she looked at him with patient understanding.

"Sorry that I got the wrong idea," he said apologizing but obviously not meaning it.

She gave him the loving smile that a stepmother would give her stepson.

"I got one room with a king-sized bed. You sleep on your side of the bed and I'll sleep on my side of the bed. With a king-sized bed equal to two XL twin beds, the bed is plenty wide enough for the both of us to be comfortable in our own spaces," she said.

As if he was expecting more than just sleeping, he gave her a sexy smile and a naughty look. He looked at her in the way that Don Vito looked at her. He looked at her in the way that the forger looked at her. He looked at her in the way that every Mafioso man looked at her fifteen-years-ago when her then, 40-year-old her husband, Fatal Frankie, introduced her as his new, 23-year-old wife.

"Just so that you know and won't be shocked, I sleep naked," he said.

Emma rolled her eyes and sighed.

"You may sleep however you like as long as you stay on your side of the bed. Besides, you forgot that I do your laundry. I know that you don't sleep naked. I know that you sleep in your pajama bottoms," she said with a snicker.

He looked at her with horny, hopefulness.

"With Dad away for good and never getting out, I don't see why we can't have a little sexy, Christmas holiday fun," he said putting his arm around her back and reaching around her to feel the side of her breast with his long fingers. "With me away from my girlfriend and you away from your husband, you must be just as horny and just as sexually frustrated as I am."

She shrugged his arm off of her and stepped away from him. As if she wasn't his stepmother but a stranger, she scolded him with her cold, detached stare. When he continued staring at her with sexual disbelief and horniness, she offered him her explanation.

"Anthony, listen to me," she said. "I didn't get one room with one bed to have sex with you. In case anyone asks, we need to make it appear that we're a married couple and not a mother and son or, in our case, a stepmother with her stepson. The last thing that we want is to draw attention to ourselves by anyone suspecting that a stepmother is sleeping in the same room and in the same bed with her stepson."

She left Anthony in the room to watch their money while she went looking for another car. She bought another used car. Not happy with the minivan, she traded in the minivan and bought an innocuously looking, dark blue, Ford Crown Victoria that looked like an undercover police car. In that way, with the police allowing her to pass through any roadblocks while thinking they were cops in that innocuous looking car, she figured she'd travel without the police even noticing and/or suspecting her of a crime.

* * * * *

Later that night, when they were getting ready for bed, Anthony looked at Emma with sexual excitement while she looked at him with the warning of a stepmother disapproving of the anticipated, potential and inappropriate sexual behavior of her stepson. They both separately showered and changed in the bathroom before getting in bed. Anthony was wearing his usual uniform; a t-shirt and pajama bottoms and Emma wore one of her sexy nightgowns. Short, sheer, low-cut, and revealing, sexy nightgowns were the only nightgowns she wore, even now, with her husband in prison and with her sleeping in the same bed with her stepson.

After a busy day filled with criminal excitement, while Emma was soundly sleeping and, as if he was a rapist, a sexual predator, or an intruder, Anthony gradually, silently, and stealthily moved closer to her. While staring at her in the dark and obviously listening to the regular sound of her breathing to make sure that she was sleeping, inch by inch, he continued to ever so slowly move closer to her. Afraid to dare touch his stepmother in a forbidden, sexual way, as if trying to discern if she was really sleeping, he listened again to her breathing and continued staring at her in the dark while she slept.

Then, as if opening a sealed envelope without the recipient knowing that it had been opened, he lifted the covers to peer at his stepmother's nightgown clad, shapely ass. With her nightgown already hiked up to the bottom of her ass cheeks, as if he was picking someone's pocket, he gently took the hem of her nightgown between his thumb and index finger. As if he was a burglar trying to steal her family jewels, he ever so gently and ever so slowly lifted the back of her nightgown higher.

Taking his time to lift her nightgown without her noticing, as if she was standing on an escalator in front of him and he was lifting her short skirt, he lifted his stepmother's nightgown even higher. Then, leaving it there in that inappropriate and sexually exposed position, he lifted her nightgown all the way up to her waist to expose her shapely, naked ass to his horny eyes. Then, obviously unable to see in the dark, he used the light from his cellphone to see something beneath the covers that he had never seen before and shouldn't see now. He peeked under the covers to stare at his stepmother's beautiful, naked ass.

Not stopping there, taking the chance of ruining their close stepson and stepmother relationship, while watching to see if she'd awaken, he lightly touched the side of her hip before softly feeling his stepmother's naked ass. When she didn't awaken and didn't even stir, he felt her ass, fondled her ass, and squeezed her ass. No doubt, he wished he could slap her ass before fucking her ass.

With no one there to stop him, he already went beyond the boundaries of what was sexually inappropriate. Then, with his naked, erect cock sticking straight out of his pajama bottoms, as if he was her husband and she was his wife, he moved closer to her. Silently moving closer and closer as if he was a snake ready to eat his prey, he moved right up against her. He moved close enough to spoon his stepmother with his exposed, naked penis while she slept.

With her obviously still sleeping and with her not moving away from him sexually abusing her, he waited for her to move away. When she didn't move away from him, when she didn't even stir, practically impaling her naked ass with his erect cock, he planted his stiff prick between his stepmother's shapely, naked, ass cheeks. He rubbed himself against her as if he was a dirty dog humping her leg. He continued slowly dry humping his stepmother's naked ass as if she was awake and had given him her permission to hump her naked ass.

If his father knew that he was getting ready to have sex with his stepmother, with him famous for the hot and deadly temper that he had, he obviously wouldn't care that Anthony was his son. Without regrets and/or guilt, he'd shoot his son dead for sexually violating his wife. Only, safe from the murderous retribution of his father's jealousy, as if he was the head of this Mafia family now, Emma was his spoils.

Then, when she still didn't awaken, Anthony reached around her to grope and feel her big tits through her nightgown while she slept and while he continued rubbing his naked, erect cock up against her naked ass. Seemingly, no longer caring if he awakened her or not, incestuously horny enough not to care, he stuck his horny hand inside the top of his stepmother's low-cut nightgown. Cupping them in his horny hand, he felt and fondled her big tits, first one and then the other. Then, hoping to get her sexually aroused enough for her to want to have sex with him, he fingered her already erect nipples.

Going for broke by gambling everything on this one, daring, sexual move, he pulled her nipples. He turned her nipples. He twisted her nipples. He squeezed her nipples and he pinched her nipples. Having his sexually incestuous way with his stepmother's nipples, as soon as he started forcibly fingering her erect nipples, with her obviously becoming sexually aroused, Emma awakened.

Awakened from a sound sleep while rubbing her eyes and yawning, she looked at him as if she was dreaming. She stared at him as if she was still sleeping. She looked at him as if she was in shock. She looked at him as if she didn't know who he was and where she was. Then, when she realized that she was in a motel room in Wichita, Kansas, and her stepson had been inappropriately, sexually groping her, she looked at him with shame, embarrassment, and outrage.

"Anthony! Hell no! Oh, my God!" Emma's eyes opened wide as if he had just stuck his prick inside of her. She evicted his hand from inside the top of her nightgown and pulled the covers up to her chin. "What the fuck are you doing? How dare you sexually molest me while I'm sleeping. What in the Hell is wrong with you? I'm your stepmother and you're my stepson. I'm not some whore you paid for the night."

She pushed him away.

"Ma?" He shrugged off her embarrassment with his lack of shame. "What's the big deal? It's just sex. Besides, it's Christmas. Being that we didn't take the time to celebrate Christmas with us driving more than sixteen-hundred-miles from Boston, Massachusetts to Wichita, Kanas, Merry Christmas, Mom." As if he was begging her for sex in the way he used to beg her for an ice cream whenever the ice cream truck was out front, he stared at her pathetically. "I thought we could celebrate Christmas now with you giving me a little step-motherly love for Christmas and as my personal Christmas gift from you instead of from Santa."

She looked at him as if he was nuts. She looked at him as if he was up to no good. She looked at him as if she could no longer trust her own stepson. He was a man after all and all men, even her own stepson, especially her stepson, only wanted one thing, sex and preferably a blowjob. With her having another split decision to make, either she relented her morals and gave him what he so wanted, incestuous sex or, not wanting him to make a scene, he could ruin everything by jeopardizing their plans of escape.

Being that she was now Dona Emma, the head of this family, she needed to keep him close. She needed him to keep him happy. She needed to sexually satisfy him. As if he was her employee instead of her stepson, having already come so far and with so much to lose over a few moments of desperate, sweaty sex, the last thing that she wanted was a disgruntled employee.

"Must I ban you from the bed and have you sleep in a chair or on the floor," she said.

He looked at her with panic. He looked at her with shame mixed with sexual excitement, sexual frustration, and horniness. Obviously, the last thing he wanted was to be forced to sleep in a chair or on the floor. The last thing he wanted was to be banned from his stepmother's bed. The last thing he wanted was to be banned from sleeping with her in the same bed while spooning her and groping her as she slept.

"Sorry Mom but I'm so very horny," he said as if that was a valid excuse for his inappropriate behavior and sexually molesting his stepmother. "I have such a huge erection for you," he said pushing his covers down to look at and pull out his exposed prick while obviously hoping that she'd look at his naked, erect cock too.

Obviously, not sincere with his apology, when she didn't stare down at his prick, he exposed his erect prick to her again while holding his cock in his hand and waving it at her. As if hinting for her to stroke him, he slowly stroked himself. Obviously, something that Anthony, no doubt, thought he'd ever do, in the way that he was staring at her, he seemingly couldn't believe that he was masturbating himself in front of his stepmother.

"With your father away for six, sexually frustrating years, and for good, I'm horny too but you don't see me groping you," she said. "There are limits and inappropriate incestuous, sexual lines we should never cross. You're my stepson and I'm your stepmother. We can't have sex. We can't," she said as if trying to convince herself that they shouldn't have sex. "We mustn't have sex," she said as if she was already reconsidering her moral code of a stepmother having sex with her stepson.

Nonetheless, her sexual self-control, she stared down at her stepson's hard, erect prick in shocked, sexual excitement before staring back up at him. Other than when the forger exposed his prick to her, she hadn't seen a hard cock in six, long years and here she was seeing two stiff pricks within 24-hours. In the way that she stared at Anthony's engorged cock, he stared at what he could see of her big breasts and the impressions that her hard, erect nipples made in the thin, sheer material of her sexy nightgown.

"A holiday tradition, I always have sex with my girlfriend on Christmas," he said with sadness as if she had died. With all intents and purposes, with them having to sever connections with everyone they knew, she may as well be dead. "Now that my girlfriend isn't here, being that you're now my lawfully, wedded wife, to love, to honor, and to obey," he said while pausing to stare at his stepmother with a victorious smile and as if she was already naked. "I need to have sex with you...wifey," he said with a shrewd laugh.

She made a face as if she had just swallowed a bug or eaten something bad.

"You having sex with me? In your dreams. Get a grip, Anthony. Just as I'm not going to have sex with you, you're not going to have sex with me," she said. "I'm still married to your father," she said holding up her wedding ring. "Besides, I'm still you're stepmother and you're still my stepson. Even though we're not blood related, being that we lived in the same household, under the same roof, and now share the same room, having sex would be incestuous."

He sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Dad's in jail. He ain't never getting out and I'm here now with you. After all that happened, I'm so tense, too tense to sleep. I can't sleep," he said pausing to put the back of his sorrowful hand to his forehead before looking at her with inappropriate.

She leaned forward to reach for her nightstand drawer.

"I have sleeping pills," she said.

He made a face while shaking his head.

"If you're not going to have sex with me, if you're not going to allow me to fuck you, then what if you gave me a hand job to relax me," he said taking her by her wrist and moving her hand to his throbbing and pulsating cock? "There's nothing wrong with a stepmother giving her stepson a hand job, is there? I mean, hand jobs don't really count as sex, do they?"

When he put it that way and put her hand on his stiff prick, she didn't pull her hand away. Instead of pulling her hand away in shocked shame and in embarrassment, already giving him her nonverbal, affirmative answer that she'd be willing to masturbate him, she not only left her hand there but also, she wrapped her fingers around his stiff prick. Seemingly, as if he was dreaming or sexually fantasizing her holding his prick, he stared down at his stepmother holding his erect cock in her hand before staring up at her beautiful face and in her dark, brown eyes.

"Will you go to sleep if I masturbate you?"