Unknown - Mom_s hot lips

Vera stood in the doorway. She watched the trooper get into the squad car and drive away. She hugged her shoulders with her hands, feeling chilled in the warm night-totally numb.

Paul was dead. She could say the words in her mind, but she couldn't comprehend them. His car had ma off the Overseas Highway linking the Florida Keys together. It had plunged into Indian Key Channel and become wedged between two submerged pilings. They had spent hours cutting him out of the car.

"God," she whispered softly. She pictured the bridge in her mind, small, high-humped, spanning the channel. She pictured Paul's car under the oily, night-dark surface of the water. She pictured him in it, stuck behind the wheel, his hair waving in the strong tide flowing through the channel between the Atlantic and the Gulf.

"Oh, my God!" she half screamed into the dark, warm, balmy night.

Roger's hands were on her shoulders. He pulled her back into the house and closed the door. He turned her around and looked at her. Then he hugged her tightly, seeming possessed of infinite comfort and sudden maturity.

"It'll be all right, Mom," he said quietly. "You'll see, it'll be all right with just the two of us. It's the way it should be."

She pulled back and looked at him with disbelief. His expression was a total shock, to her. There seemed half a smile on his face, a look of satisfaction.

"You don't care," she whispered, squinting at him, through him. "You're glad he's dead. Damn you, Roger-Goddamn you!"

She swung wildly at him, letting the hysteria come over her. He caught her wrist and held it tightly, almost painfully.

"Don't hate me Mom." he said quietly. "I can't help what I feel. He's off my back; now. I don't ever have to listen to him rid me and ride me again. I don't have to hear how Thorne Bundt is the shining example of the son he wanted, instead of the wayward, irresponsible, bratty kid he's got." "Roger!" she cried.

"You know it's true! You know he was playing me off against Bundt for running the motel chain after he retired. I'm eighteen, Mom. Thorne Bundt is thirty-six, nearly your age. How could I be expected to measure up to him? Like everything else the old bastard did, it just wasn't fair of him!"

"Damn you, Roger-shut up!" Vera screamed. "God, he's dead! He's dead!" Tern burst from her eyes as realization finally hit her, and her knees seemed to give way.

Roger clasped her body to his and held her tightly again, and his voice was soothing in her ear. "I'll take care of us, Mom. I'll run the damn motels. I'll show him and Bundt both I can do it. You'll see, you'll see."

Vera clung to him. He was all she had left. She needed him more than ever now. Not as a baby to cuddle and protect. Not as a slightly wild son to defend against Paul's wrath and take sides with all the time. She needed him to cuddle and protect her, now.

Roger bent and lifted her from the floor. He carried her in his arms towards her bedroom. She sobbed openly against his chest and didn't care. After tonight There were no secrets anyway, nothing to hide, no reason not to cry.

He laid her on her bed; The top of the robe slipped from her tit, exposing it. He bent and put his lips tenderly to the tip of it, then lifted his head to her face.

She looked at him through tear-blurred eyes. She stopped crying. She sucked in her breath and felt her heart pound. It was different now-all different. Awareness of that fact struck them both at the same time, and she was aghast with what she felt.

"Roger…" she whispered, wanting him to leave her now, before the insane night became monstrous with madness,

"I need you, Mom," he said softly. "You need me. Nothing's really different. It's always been the two of us in spirit. Now it can be that way for real. That's the only difference, Mom."

"Roger, no…" she gasped, watching his hand lift, watching it come to her cheek and smooth away a tear there.

His hand left her cheek and traveled down her throat. It paused at the lapel of her robe. He pushed it gently aside, exposing her other tit. He gazed at her breasts lovingly, and then his head dipped slowly. His lips were warm against her nipple. He suckled it in a way she remembered from long, long ago.

"Oh, my God…" she whispered softly, staring at the ceiling, not stopping him.

"Mom, I didn't want him dead," Roger said, his voice muffled by the softness of her jug. She felt a quick, hot wetness against her chest. "I didn't want him dead, Mom!" Roger sobbed. "I just wanted him off my back!"

Emotion swept her, and she clasped his head to her naked tits and rocked back and forth, crooning comfortingly while he cried.

She felt very strange. She felt three people at once-the widow in grief, the comforting mother, the woman so young she could have been Paul's daughter, needing comfort herself.

She held her son a long time. Then she didn't stop him when he gained control of himself and slipped her robe and panties from her body and undressed himself and slipped into the bed beside her.

He put his arms around her and turned her boobs into his chest. His hands cupped her butt, and she felt his prick against her cunt mound. He tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder, and she nuzzled it there and crawled against him and let the feeling of security wrap her in its blanket.

There was nothing wrong with it. They were alone now. They needed each other. How could needing each other be wrong?

"Oh, Roger," she said finally, whispering against his neck.

"My pretty lady," he said, kissing her lips gently. They pulled back and looked at each other. Then they came together with a fierceness Vera couldn't explain and didn't even want to try.

"Roger, no…" she gasped, her emotions swimming. She clung to him tightly, turning her protest to a lie.

"Yes, Mom," he said, running his hand up and dawn her back, feeling the dips and hollows, exploring the curves and swells of her hips and firm buttcheeks.

"Roger, why did you bring those terrible people into our house tonight? Why did you want him to flick me?"

"I wanted Dad to come home and catch us. I wanted him to throw us out so that we could both be free of him. I wanted you to be young again, Mom."

"You're a bastard, Roger."

"I know, Mom. He told me that every morning-with his eyes."

"Oh, darling, I'm sorry! I didn't mean that!"

She cupped his head in her hands and kissed his mouth fiercely. It had been a gesture of apology. It turned smeary and hot, with tongues twining and twirling together.

He puffed through his nostrils against her cheek. He rolled her onto her back and covered her, his chest flattening her sharp, firm boobs.

"Darling-no!" she cried softly.

He didn't respond. His hand found her tit and massaged it softly. His knees worked her thighs apart, until there was no resistance left in them.

His prick stiffened against the bottom of her crotch, and she felt the fullness, the warmth, the throbbing of its youth and vigor against her pussy flesh.

He didn't have Paul's weight. His bones didn't creak silently the way Paul's had. Mounting her did not leave him breathless. His prick was smooth and soft and strong, not wrinkled and half-limp with age.

The feel of him against her was thrilling. He was not a big ape like Dalton nor an old man like Paul. He was just right. He was what she needed. He was youth.

"Ohhhhh, my God…" she cried softly.

His prickhead throbbed at the mouth of her pussy. She felt her twat throb and pulse shamelessly. She felt the warm, slippery flow of her cunt's fluids.

His prickhead entered her pussylips. They sucked and fluttered shamelessly around the spongy velvet of his cocktip. He came forward slowly and surely, and his prick entered her body-fucking back into the bole from which he had come.