3
I'm a naughty girl, I thought, but I as the thought ran through my mind, I turned my butt in a circle, grinding on my son's hard-on once again. Oh, yeah, I'm a naughty fuck, all right. So naughty. So nasty. So fucking horny.
If we never talked about this moment to each other, it would be okay, wouldn't it?
I hung my head, still biting my lip, still moaning on the inside as my core flooded with heat and a throbbing sensation entered my pussy, dancing around my lips and clit and releasing my juices into my panties. Oh, god, I had ruined my panties, but I always packed more panties than I needed no matter where I went. I had to. I was a pussy-juice dripping machine, always had been. . . .
I don't know for how long I sat grinding my butt on my son's lap while he pushed his cock against me, but his hands began to move while I did my best not to cry out in pleasure. First, they moved around to my front, massaging me through my silky gown. I drew in shaky breaths then he moved his hands up my sides until his fingers grazed the sides of my breasts.
I had my hands onto my knees by then, but I closed my arms over his hands. I thought I heard him laugh. He humped his cock upwards, then he moved his hands low to my hips, then forward across the skirt of my nun's gown and over my bare thighs. He stopped to trace the suspenders connecting my garter belt to my stockings; then he moved back to my thighs, then my waist, then up my front. I put my hands over his hands, but he kept going. Pleasure raced through me. My nipples tightened, and as his thumbs and forefingers touched the under-curve of my breasts, he slid his hands downward, not stopping until his fingers rested on the welts of my stockings.
My son ran his fingers over the lace, then moved his digits up my suspenders, pulling them away from my skin and letting them snap back into place. The music covered the sound, not that my son lifted them high . . . not in the way his father liked to snap my G-strings.
Then his hands went up again, along my sides until they reached my ribs. My son paused, squeezed, and moved forward and inward below my breasts. He passed my shelf bra quickly, pausing when his fingers touched my exposed skin above the support of my bra. Sighing—wanting more—I waited as my son held the undersides of my tits in the crescents of flesh between this thumbs and forefingers. I watched his hands, unable to look away, my hips turning on their own, pushing my squishy pussy against his hard shaft while spreading my legs so I could feel as much of his pole against my lips as possible. I wanted to lift my skirt up to my hips, but I kept my hands on my knees, careful not to ruin my stockings by digging my fingers into them whenever my clitty tingled with pleasure.
Move your hands, Colt, I thought. Move your fucking hands, you bad boy. Move them for Mommy, come on, move them for Mommy.
His fingers opened and closed against me, the topsides rubbing the bottom of my breasts, making my nipples sing as they tightened further.
Move those hands, Colt. Move them for Mommy. Come on, move them, baby. Move them.
My son's thumbs moved wave-like against my breasts. A tremor ran through me, rushing to my clit, making that little bud of pleasure tingle until I felt like I was going to squirt myself. I lifted my hands and placed my palms against the back of his hands, then I added a subtle amount of pressure, trying to force his palms over my breasts.
Come on, Colt, move those hands.
My son's hands lowered. I nearly screamed, then, without warning, up they went, pushing my silk gown head of them as they closed over my big breasts.
"Ahhhhh," I sighed, wincing, but the music covered my relieved sound.
Colt's big hands held my round breasts perfectly in his palms, his fingers curving around their inner swells. With a hesitant, almost apologetic touch, my son squeezed my tits—uncovered by my shelf bra, practically skin to skin—pushing them inward and testing their perkiness.
I leaned back against my son's chest, looking forward again, but my sleeping daughter and my speed-demon husband couldn't see us. Colt's chest rose and fell against my back. My stud of a son was breathing hard as he held Mommy's tits—it made my pussy cream. I squeezed his hands. He squeezed my tits harder, then he pumped his rock-hard rod upward, bouncing me on his lap for half-a-dozen mommy-pleasing strokes.
I should have never fucked my sister, I thought as my face broke into a helpless mask of pleasure and shame. I wanted to cry, but this felt so good. I should have never masturbated while listening to my dad pound my mother's pussy. I was such a bad girl. I shouldn't like this so much. I turned my hips in a sensual stripper's grind, giving my son's steel bar of a hard-on some love. I shouldn't be such a bad mommy.
What did my twin use to say? Oh, right: What's a little incest between family?
My son's palms pulled away from my tits, but his fingertips stayed connected, closing over my breasts until his thumbs and fingers caught the long, thick nipples he used to suck on for nourishment.
Oh, god, I thought as the silky friction rubbed my aching tit-buds.
His fingers came together, adding pressure to my nipples as my silk gown made my titties tingle. A tremor ran through me. A dirty, mini orgasm that squirted cherry-flavored cum into my soaked panties spread through my lower body. My son rolled my nipples between his naughty fingers. I shuddered as pleasure rolled through my body, making me hump my hips back and forth over his stiff pole.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. . . .
My son pulled my nipples outward.
Oh, yeah, I moaned in silence as an electric surge of pain that hurt so good stretched my nipples outward.
My son gave my nipples a soft twist then he pulled them again. I clenched my eyes as I rocked my butt across my son's cock. Its length and hardness tickled me between my legs, causing heat to bloom beneath my mound. God, god, god, this shouldn't have felt so good.
Colt gave my breasts one last squeeze before dropping his hands down my stomach again. I let go of his hands and cupped my breasts, where I rubbed my palms over my nipples in tight circles, bending them, stretching them, wishing I had someone to suck them.
I looked at the back of my husband's headrest, thinking, If I could let my twin sister suck my nipples for him, then he could suck my nipples while our son—oh, god, no, what was I thinking?
A fluttering of sparks danced through my stomach as my son tickled my belly button. I licked my lips as his hands went lover, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind them. He reached my waist, then my thighs, then he moved over my short skirt, back to my stockings. He played with the welts and suspenders again, then moved upward, his thumbs catching on the hem of my gown and pushing it up and up and up until it lay bunched against my waist. I could see my small, lacy panties as I looked between my thighs. What was I thinking? Why had I worn those panties?
Colt's hands went down my legs, sinking inward, touching the fleshy part of my inner thighs as he pushed his fingers down to my knees. My breathing quickened as he pulled his hands back up my legs, pulling them apart, touching me where I was damp and hot.
Oh, god, I thought. He's going to do it. My son is going to . . . uh, mmm, yeahhhhh!
My son's fingertips had pushed deep between my legs, touching me where the lacy edges of my thong panties met the small depression between my inner thighs and outer labia. He pressed on the soft flesh of my outer labia, running his fingers up and down, tracing the oval shape of my outer lips. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I should have wanted it to end!
Instead, I bit my lip as my son pushed his fingers inward, pressing my outer lips together over my inner folds and pinching my clit between the upper edges of my soaking wet pussy lips.
"Uh," I squeaked in my throat, like a little girlish mouse afraid of being caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
My son pulled his fingers away, pulling my lips outward, stretching them away from the stickiness dripping out of me. He pushed his fingers in, then pulled out, squeezing my pussy lips, then puffing them out against my panties, then pulling them apart. This was too much. He was hugging my clit with my upper folds in a rhythm that had me rocking my butt against his cock like a whore in heat.
Squeeze-puff-pull.
Oh my god.
Squeeze-puff-pull.
Oh my fucking god.
Squeeze-puff-pull.
Mmm, baby, mmm, you bad boy.
Squeeze-puff-pull.
Oh, you naughty bastard. You naughty fucking—mmm—bastard.
Squeeze-puff-pull . . . Oh, yeah, Colt, I'm almost there. My clitty throbbed, shooting bolts of ecstasy so deep into my body that my asshole clenched, and my nipples tightened. They ached so bad I had to pinch and pull them as I rocked my pussy harder against my son's naughty cock.
Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh—
"Pit stop!" Dex said over his music.
"Oh, no," I said aloud as Colt pulled his fingers away from my pussy.
You have gotta be fucking kidding me!
Dex guided the Porsche to the right, slowing down as we curved away from the highway toward the old '50s -style gas station that marked the halfway point of the trip.
As we pulled into the station, stopping at the full-service pump, I looked down at myself, shaking my head. Here I was, dressed as a nun, sitting on my son's thick cock, which I had drenched in my pussy juice and . . . and . . . and I couldn't believe it. But another thought came to me as I sat there in disbelief, a dirty thought: How many priests and nuns had done this for real? How many priests had pulled their sexy nuns into a confessional and asked them about their sins, all the while pulling their gowns up their thighs so they could get a piece of that religious pussy? God, if I was a nun, you couldn't stop me from crying out, "Father, Father, oh, fuck me, Father," every night of the week.
Fuck me silly—I had to put an end to this.
"Does anybody want anything?" Dex asked as my daughter said, "I need to use the restroom," and exited the car with her little backpack in hand.
"A large bottle of water," my son said.
I looked at my daughter's empty seat. I watched my husband throw open his door and slide his seat backward until he could exit the car comfortably. I felt my son's rock-hard cock throbbing beneath me, and a lightning bolt zigzagged through my mind.
"I want one of those small blankets," I said, trying to control my breathing.
"A blanket?" Dex asked, turning his head as far as he could. "I can turn on the heater."
I pushed my door open and exited the car, my legs trembling when I tried to stand up straight. Dex followed my lead, leaving his keys in the ignition as always. I closed my door and stepped up to my husband, pushing my tits against his polo-shirt-covered chest. The friction made my nipples tingle.
"I'm practically naked," I said, looking into my husband's eyes and grabbing onto his shoulders. "I'm sitting in our son's lap with nothing but my thong protecting me from his lap." I had lost control. "You got me so wet upstairs before we left"—did I see a glint of humor in my husband's eyes—"and I can feel the power in that car right between my legs." Why was I saying this to my husband? "You know how horny I get. Get me a damn blanket."
"Okay," Dex said, smiling. "One thin, piece-of-shit gas station blanket coming up."
"Thank you."
As my husband headed inside with visions of his pit crew working on his Porsche in his head, I looked through the car at my daughter's empty seat.
"Top her off and clean off the windows," my husband called to the full-service attendant as he headed into the station. "Quickly though, I got to get back on the road; there's a big tip in it for you."
I ignored the odd looks my nun's habit got me as I walked around the car—Halloween was a day away—and opened the passenger door. "We're sitting in front," I said, my eyes focusing on the tent lifting my son's cotton shorts, and what a fucking tent it was. A little bit bigger than his father . . . in every way.
"Something wrong?" Colt asked.
I looked up from his shorts, where his knob pressed against the cotton. Was he wearing his boxer briefs? I didn't think he was. I met my son's eyes, and I could see he knew where I was looking. Is something wrong? Was he fucking with me?
"I want more legroom," I said. "Lana can sit in the back." I look at my son's cock again, not saying anything about his hard-on, and when I look back into his eyes, knowing that he knew where I had been looking, a tremor ran through my shoulders. "Your sister can't sit in your lap with . . . with how she's feeling."
"She won't mind," Colt said.
I glared at my son.
"Okay," Colt said, and maybe I saw a smile crept onto his lips. It was hard to say. My son always had this happy-go-lucky air about him and a wicked sense of humor.
He didn't get out of the car. Instead, he lifted his feet, thrust them between the two front seats, and pulled himself over the center console with an athlete's ease and sense of body control. He settled in the passenger seat—which Lana had already pushed as far back as it could go—and said, "Climb aboard, Mom."
I looked over the Porsche's roof, giving the attendant a quick look as he cleaned the rear windshield, then I turned forward, lowered my butt, which caused my gown's hem to rise, and I slid into the car—right atop my son's cock with my skirt around the middle of my ass.
"Uhhh," I moaned as his knob pressed between my cheeks, tickling my asshole before slipping forward and grinding into the lace of my panties right where my pussyhole lay. I had needed to release that moan.
"Mmm," Colt moan-grunted, keeping his lips closed, the sound coming from his throat. His hands found my hips as I pulled the door shut.
"Just need to get comfortable," I said, moving my panty-clad pussy against my son's rigid cock.
"Sounds—mmm—good," Colt whispered.
What was I doing? I was supposed to be putting an end to this.
"When your—mmm—father gets back," I huffed, "we'll have to have to have—oh—found our spots."
"I know," Colt moaned. "I know, Mom, trust me—I, uh—I know." She thrust hard against me. "I'm just looking for your spot right now."
My cheeks reddened.
Together, my son and I moved my little butt and wet cunny over his glans, making sure to keep the head of his prick pressed against the warm folds of my maternal pillow. The attendant came around the front and started cleaning the windshield. I didn't care, not even when he looked in and saw my nun's gown around my waist, exposing my stockings and garter belt's suspenders, and the black, lacy silk cupping the triangle of my mound. But, after half a minute of staring between my legs, I dipped my head low and glared at him, and he started cleaning the windshield once again.
"Colt, we have to stop," I said when I felt his fingers slip below the hem of my gown.
"Soon, Mom," Colt said, breathing into my neck through my nun's veil.
I shivered, then my eyes widened as my son pushed my panties down my thighs. Lucky for him, I had put them on over my suspenders because I was in a hurry to leave this afternoon. I tried to spread my legs open, whispering, "No, Colt, no," but he let me sink between his thighs, and he used his legs to close my legs. My cheeks burned red as my panties passed my knees and fell to my feet—I hadn't put up much of a fight against my son's demanding strength. With a helpless sigh, I kicked my panties off my feet, then used my heels to push them under our seat.
I had no panties on . . . my son had his hands on my waist, touching my garter belt and my hot skin, and he was pulling and pushing me across his cotton-covered cock, and I wasn't stopping him.
"You're not wearing your boxers, are you?" I panted as a buzzing sensation warmed my cunny and clitty and suffused my core with the growing heat of orgasmic ecstasy.
"No," Colt sighed.
"You can't—mmm—drink before these trips again," I said, wondering what Lana would have done if she had known her brother wasn't wearing his boxers while she sat on his lap.
"Okay," was all my pussy-pleasing son said.
I shook my head, first left, then right, and that's when I saw Dex and Lana standing outside the gas station's front doors. Dex had my blanket in his hands, tearing the plastic packaging open and pulling out the cheap cloth before he tossed the plastic into a red-painted garbage can.
"Stop, Colt, stop," I whimpered just as his cotton-covered knob split my pussy lips apart, allowing his spongy tip to rub the entrance of my pink hole. "Your father"—oh, it felt so good—"and sister are coming."
Colt grunted, but he stopped using me as his personal knob polisher. Watching my husband and daughter, I fixed my nun's gown, pulling it under my ass. Seeing my daughter coming toward us, I lowered the window a couple of inches and said, "You're in back now."
Lana gave me a surprised look, but then she walked around the car, opened the rear door, and got in. She closed the door, leaned against it, and closed her eyes; poor girl but lucky me.
Dex opened his door, saying, "Here you go, Mother Theresa," as he handed the blanket to me and got into the car. "And here's your water, Colt; don't spill it."
Colt put the water in the center console's cupholder, and it was big enough to cause some viewing problems if my husband looked down at our laps.
But . . . my husband didn't look in my direction until he finished moving his seat forward—he didn't say anything about Colt and me having moved upfront—and he only looked in our direction to check the angle of his side-view mirror.
I unfolded the blanket and placed it over my body from my stomach down, and Dex never questioned how this would make me feel less naked in my son's lap. Instead, my husband had put the car into drive, keeping his foot on the break as he checked the mirrors and planned his path back to the highway through his windshield.
"And here we go," Dex said, hitting the gas and taking off as fast as safely possible.
"Dex," I said, feeling my son's cock pressing into my naked butt, "those storm clouds are getting closer, drive fast, but don't kill us."
"Can I cut out another ten minutes?" Dex asked himself. After a second, my husband pulled his right hand from the steering wheel and gave me the thumbs-up signal, never once taking his eyes off the road. . . .
Oh, that engine made my pussy purr over my son's cock. Cotton-covered or not, I felt that head digging into the bare lips of my twat. Thank God for my son's shorts. I looked down at my nun's habit—thank God indeed.
My son had started moving his hands the moment I had covered us with the blanket. I didn't know what he intended, not with his father right next to us, but his father had his eyes on the road, hidden behind his sunglasses, and they only faced forward.
Colt, I thought when his fingers slid to the sides of my thighs and began edging my gown up my body, knock it off.
I wasn't telepathic, and if he was, he wasn't listening. I tried to stay still as my hem crawled over my skin, but when my hem reached my butt, my son gave it a hard tug. He didn't move much, but he didn't have to, mostly using his right hand that was hidden from his father's inattentive gaze.
I dug my right elbow into my son's ribs, but he only tugged harder while slipping his left hand beneath my hem. My son waited for my husband to switch to the left lane again, then he gave my hem another hard tug, baring my ass and pussy once again.