Moving day unveils the startling truth of a life’s accumulated possessions. We gather so much, often without even realizing it. The chore of boxing everything up feels overwhelming. Each object holds a memory; some are simple to release, while others cling to us. Ultimately, it’s a bittersweet journey of letting go, creating space for whatever comes next.
With our youngest son, Ian, finally leaving for college, we were tackling two moves at once. My husband Mark and I were relocating to a condo just a few miles away, but our first task was the sixteen-hour drive to take Ian to his new college. Since we couldn’t get the keys to our new place for another three weeks and had to put everything in storage, we decided to extend the trip into a two-week road adventure after we dropped him off.
While we were loading the car with Ian’s gear and our suitcases for the nearly three‑week round‑trip, a major dilemma emerged. By the time we finished, only two seats remained free: the driver’s seat and the back seat directly behind it. Every other inch was jammed to the roof with Ian’s belongings and our luggage.
My husband tried to rearrange everything, but there was simply too much. I finally said, “Ian and I could squeeze back in there together.”
“For sixteen hours?” Mark asked. “You’ll end up driving each other crazy.”
“Then we’ll probably need more rest stops along the way,” I shrugged.
“Your bladder can’t keep up, so we’ll have to stop anyway,” Mark joked, forever irritated by my frequent bathroom breaks. He drives like a man who slams the accelerator and never eases off, while my bladder acts like a wanderer that insists on pausing to sniff the roses— even if there’s no proper spot, just to let the roses be smelled.
I glanced at Ian, his slender frame matching my own, and asked, “Can you endure sixteen hours squeezed next to your mother?”
He rolled his eyes and replied, “Only if I have to.” His sarcasm was unmistakable, but he knew the only other option meant leaving some of his belongings behind—a thought he would not accept.
“Watch that tone, kid,” I ribbed, laughing. “You’ll be stuck beside me for the whole trip, so you’d better make sure I’m in a good mood.”
It was a sweltering August afternoon, and I had chosen a light sundress to stay as cool as possible during the drive.
We all made one more bathroom stop, which I used as an excuse to stretch my legs. Then Ian and I slipped into the narrow seat that was meant for a single passenger.
Mark, with the same dry humor his son displayed, sneered, “Comfy, huh?”
With Ian’s right elbow pressing against my chest, I shot back, “It feels like a cow in a Pullman car.”
“Moo,” Ian answered, shifting his weight. The move forced his elbow harder into my left breast while a stack of boxes jammed against the opposite side of the seat, leaving me squeezed on both fronts.
Half an hour later, as we left the city behind, I muttered, “This isn’t working.”
“You don’t like being packed together like sardines?” Ian asked, setting aside the e‑book he was scrolling through on his iPad. I was doing the same with my Kindle, the only app I really needed.
“I’m not a fan,” I admitted, wriggling unsuccessfully. “Maybe I could sit on your lap for a while?”
He nodded, surprised to agree.
I climbed onto his lap and sighed, “Now that’s much better.”
“It is,” Ian said, adjusting his position.
“How heavy am I for you?” I asked, half‑joking. At forty‑six, I still kept a fit figure—slim with generous curves, firm hips, and toned legs. As a real‑estate agent, I knew my appearance helped close deals; a polished, stylish look often sold more than the property itself. My natural 38‑D breasts, usually highlighted in tailored suits or elegant dresses with heels, were part of that visual appeal.
“You’re fine,” he replied, shifting again to make room.
- My short, tight dress had been a terrible choice. Sitting on my son’s lap, the thin fabric barely covered me, leaving only a flimsy thong separating my most intimate parts from his body.
- His cock was hard—impossibly hard—and I could feel every throb of it pressing against me.
My son had always been a bookish kid, much like his father had been in high school. Academic excellence had earned him full-ride scholarships to multiple colleges, but it was his summer construction job that truly transformed him. Gone was the lanky boy I once knew; in his place stood a man—his arms thick with muscle, his shoulders broad. I had often praised his new physique, proud of how he’d grown.
But now, as the car bounced over the rough, unfinished road, I was painfully aware of just how much he’d changed. Each jolt pressed his erection harder against me, sending a traitorous spark of arousal through my body. I clenched my thighs, fighting the heat pooling between them, but the friction only made it worse.
I debated shifting my weight—maybe easing the pressure—but I didn’t want to humiliate him by acknowledging his obvious arousal. Instead, I braced my hands against the seat in front of me, trying to steady myself, to control the way my body rocked against his with every bump.
For nearly ten minutes, a stretch of time that seemed to last forever, my son’s erection, thankfully confined within his shorts, continuously pressed and rubbed against my sensitive, already moist vulva, pushing me to the brink of my composure.
At last, the road evened out, and with it, his erection settled. It was no longer jostling, but merely lay there, undeniably hard, a distinct pressure directly beneath the entrance to my vagina. My mind screamed at me to shift, even an inch to the side would offer relief, yet I remained rooted. A part of me feared the shame I might inflict upon him with any sudden movement, but another, darker part, a part I couldn’t deny, reveled in the illicit pleasure of the position. It felt so damn good.
For another twenty minutes, my vulva continued to rest directly upon the unyielding shape of his penis, which showed no sign of softening. I poured all my energy into conversation with my husband, Mark, clutching at every word, every topic, a desperate attempt to build a wall between myself and the impossible situation beneath me.
It was a small mercy when, finally, I spotted a rest stop sign in the distance and quickly suggested we pull over.
As Mark began to slow the car, I felt it. A sudden, insistent twitching from Ian’s penis. It pulsed three distinct times, each tremor pressing itself upwards, subtly but undeniably, against my sensitive labia.
A soft moan escaped me, completely unbidden.
“You okay, Sarah?” Mark asked, his voice laced with concern.
“I just need to stretch my legs,” I managed to reply, the heat of a blush spreading across my face, not from the confined space, but from the searing shame of my own body’s unwelcome arousal.
“I could grab a drink,” Mark nodded, pulling the car smoothly into a parking spot.
“Me too,” I agreed, the sudden dryness in my mouth feeling oddly appropriate.
Once the car was fully stopped, I forced a lighthearted tone, turning to Ian. “I imagine you’re dying for a break, too, honey?”
“No, I’ve been enjoying the ride,” Ian answered, his voice completely innocent, utterly devoid of any sexual undertone. And truth be told, a shiver ran through me, for despite the gnawing frustration and crushing guilt, a part of me, a deeply shameful part, had been enjoying it too. But to voice such a thought, to even hint at it, would instantly infuse my words with a dark, undeniable sexual charge. So I remained silent, the unspoken truth a heavy weight in the air between us.
My face was already burning, but it intensified, darkening instantly as I opened the door and stepped out. I honestly didn’t think I could blush harder. My son climbed out right behind me, and when he stood up, the truth struck me cold and hard. Two things were impossible to ignore: the outline of his stiffening erection pressed against his shorts, and the dark, wet stain decorating the fabric—a stain that had absolutely, shamefully come from me.
I spun away and fled toward the washroom, utterly mortified that my overflowing wetness had drenched my son’s shorts. Once inside, I yanked my panties down and stared, incredulous, at the sheer amount of slick fluid saturating the cotton.
I should mention that I have always gotten wet easily; when I finally came, I was a predictable flood. My sexual appetite was fierce, a relentless hunger my husband could rarely satisfy. Because of this, I armed myself with toys necessary to finish the job he usually left undone. I owned a We-Vibe, a couple of powerful vibrators, anal beads, a butterfly toy that I kept ready in my handbag, and my newest, literally orgasmic acquisition: a strong massage wand.
I couldn’t take it anymore—I was so turned on I could barely think straight. Ignoring any shame, I slipped into a bathroom stall, pressed against the wall, and touched myself. After half an hour of Ian’s teasing (my son, for God’s sake—I prayed it wasn’t on purpose, but I’d never dare ask), I was already close, and it didn’t take long to finish.
When I came, my arousal dripped down my thigh, forcing me to awkwardly clean up with toilet paper. After catching my breath, I squeezed my soaked panties inside more tissue, trying—and failing—to dry them. Slipping them back on only made me more aware of the dampness between my legs, a humiliating reminder of how his presence had wound me up.
I usually loved sex, loved how good it felt—but this wasn’t pleasure, just shame. I peeled the wet thong off again and stuffed it in my bag before heading to the sink.
Just my luck—a woman walked in with her kid. I scrubbed my hands hard, hoping the soap would drown out the scent clinging to me.
I left the cramped washroom certain: I could not sit on my son’s lap again. That tension had to stop. We would just have to manage, wedged in beside each other for the hours ahead. I stopped at the vending machine for a cold Coke and a small bag of chips, then walked toward the parking lot.
Jesus Christ, I thought, stepping clear of the rest stop’s covered patio. The heavy summer sun hammered down, turning the asphalt into a fucking sauna. The heat instantly made me feel sticky and miserable. I wanted desperately to pull a clean pair of knickers from my suitcase, but dismissed the idea immediately. How would I ever explain that? ‘Oh, I just needed a refresh’ sounded idiotic and would inevitably lead to questions. I didn’t need the scrutiny.
Mark and Ian were already leaning against the car, chatting.
“So, less than fourteen hours left,” Mark quipped, giving me one of his irritatingly cheerful smiles. “Piece of cake.”
Ian shrugged. “I don’t know about the cake, Dad. I think it’s going to be a tight ride.”
Maybe it was just my own guilty conscience twisting things, but he definitely drew out that last word. The sound of tight seemed to hang in the shimmering heat.
The moment the joke left my lips, I knew I’d made a mistake. If he was hinting at something, my words had only made it worse. “Yes,” I’d said, “it will probably mean some unavoidable bonding for mom and son.”
My husband chimed in from the driver’s seat. “Well, it’s just you two back there for the whole drive. There’s no way I can fit back there with anyone else.”
He was right. He was a big man, and the back seat was impossibly small. Neither my son nor I could have sat beside him or on his lap comfortably.
No, the reality was that I still had nearly fourteen hours to spend crammed in the back with my son. And now I wasn’t wearing any underwear.
Shit.
My son got into the car first and patted his thigh. “Come on, Mom.”
I had meant to get in first. A wave of nervousness hit me. “Shouldn’t we try to sit side by side again?” I suggested.
“It’s okay,” he said, his hand still resting on his leg. “Really.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. The situation felt dangerously intimate, knowing I was bare underneath my dress, still damp from my own body.
“Side by side is too tight,” he replied simply. “We already found that out the hard way.”
There was that word again. Tight. Was he doing that on purpose?
“I’ll crush you,” I insisted, the unwelcome memory of how much I’d enjoyed sitting on him before making my voice tight with a desperation I knew I shouldn’t feel.
He merely gave a dismissive shrug, a too-innocent smile playing at his lips. “Oh, Mom, you’re light as a feather.”
“Are you certain?” I pressed, my gaze falling to his lap. Despite myself, my eyes traced the faint, tell-tale shadow of moisture on his shorts, an unmistakable outline of his shaft beneath the fabric. It didn’t look fully erect now, at least.
“Mom, it’s not hard at all,” he replied, drawing out the last word, his tone almost a purr.
A sharp, wicked thought pricked at my mind: It will be, soon enough. But I shoved it down, the ‘good mother’ voice overriding the insidious whisper. “You’re sure I won’t smother you?”
He shrugged once more, his eyes holding mine. “I can handle anything you throw my way.”
The weight of his words, laden with a double meaning that settled uncomfortably in the air, pulled me back down. This time, I shifted, angling my body, trying to distribute my weight onto his thigh, well clear of the tempting mound between his legs.
I sat there, carefully balanced, for a good thirty minutes, trying to be respectable. But then his hands found my hips. “Mom,” he stated, his voice devoid of question, as he lifted me a fraction of an inch, “we need to change positions.”
As he lowered me back down, my pussy found its urgent seat once more upon his cock – a hard, demanding presence. A soft moan escaped me, a sound wrung forth as my naked flesh yielded to that insistent pressure. (I remembered my earlier, distant thought, where I’d coolly labeled it a ‘penis.’ But nothing so clinical could describe this raw, consuming heat. This wasn’t a penis; this was undeniably a damn cock.)
For the next half hour, every bump on the smooth road felt like an eternity as I couldn’t stop noticing Ian’s hard cock throbbing against me. It made my pussy clench and get soaking wet.
Mark called back to us, “comfortable back there?”
Ian mumbled, “It’s a tight squeeze, but it’s okay.”
As he said that, I felt his cock twitch three times. “You alright, Sarah?” Mark asked, noticing my sharp breath. “I’m fine,” I managed to say, even though I could feel the wetness spreading, soaking through my clothes.
I really wanted to shift away, but there was no room to move. I knew I had already left a wet patch on Ian’s shorts, and moving would just make it more obvious. I usually loved the feeling of multiple orgasms, each more intense than the last, but right now, it was driving me crazy. My body had other ideas, and it wasn’t listening to me.
Mark leaned over from the driver’s seat, his voice gentle as he told us, “The next stop is about an hour away.” Little did he know, I was sitting on something that made the drive feel a lot more interesting. As I shifted slightly, I could feel the hardness beneath me, and it sent shivers through me.
“Sounds good,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even and unburdened by the intensity of my thoughts. It was hard to seem casual when my son’s cock was throbbing against me.
Ian chipped in, “Yeah, but it’s getting hot back here.” His voice had a hint of mischief.
Mark assured us, “The air is on full blast.” And he was right; the air conditioner was working overtime, but heat wasn’t the only thing I was feeling. Down below, I was definitely warmed up.
Ian’s words were loaded with innuendo, and I could feel the double meaning in the way he spoke. “I think it’s Mom’s body sitting on mine that’s making everything hotter,” he said with a suggestive edge, flexing beneath me just enough for his intention to be clear.
His words had two meanings. To Mark, it was an innocent statement about shared body heat. But for me, it was a bold declaration, a seductive whisper conveyed through our intimate connection.
Ian, sitting in the backseat, looked at his dad’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Dad, can you turn up the radio?” he asked.
Mark, gripping the steering wheel, shook his head. “If I do that, I won’t be able to hear you. I can hardly make you out as it is.”
Ian smiled, relaxing against the seat. “That’s okay. You just focus on driving. I’ll keep Mom well entertained. She’ll be fine with your old tunes. Just crank it up and let the music take over.”
Mark chuckled, his lips curving into a familiar grin. “It’s the eye of the tiger,” he began to sing, turning up the radio as the classic “Eye of the Tiger” anthem from Survivor filled the car. The rhythm and lyrics from their era of music, charged the atmosphere, making everyone lose themselves in the melody.
I was in the midst of an intimate moment with my son when my phone abruptly rang out, vibrating in my Handbag on the floor. As I reached down to silence it, my body naturally ground against his rock-hard erection, an involuntary gesture born of my heightened arousal.
The message on the screen was from my unsuspecting son himself. My eyes widened in shock as I read his words, a jumble of curiosity and innocent inquiry. Why wasn’t I wearing panties? And why was my pussy so wet?
A wave of embarrassment washed over me, as if I’d been caught in a compromising position. But the music playing in the background drowned out any potential gasp or exclamation that might have betrayed my discomfort.
For a moment, I was at a loss for words, my mind reeling at the audacity of my son’s questions. He was talking so brazenly about my most private parts, my pussy, as if it were somehow his to comment on.
In the end, I had no idea how to respond, stuck between shock, embarrassment, and an unsettling sense of attraction to this bold young man who dared to probe such intimate matters with his mother.
Frozen by desire, I knew I should shut this down—end the texts, the temptation, everything. But my body didn’t care about being a wife or a mother. It only craved, burning with need.
I stared at my phone, torn between shame and hunger as my son’s words sent a thrill through me—until strong hands gripped my hips, lifting me effortlessly. Ian.
I shifted back against the driver’s seat, jostling Mark.
He glanced over, and I forced a shrug. “Just—adjusting,” I lied, my voice thin, my thoughts dissolving.
Mark frowned. “Sorry about all this.”
“It’s fine,” I murmured—just as Ian pulled me down, onto his lap, and—
Oh god.
His cock pressed against me, thick and insistent, and before I could react, he was inside. My pussy clenched around him, shock and pleasure colliding.
“Fuck—!” I gasped.
Mark turned down the radio. “You okay?”
“Y-yes,” I stammered, biting back a moan. “Just—something poked me.”
A weak excuse, but how could I think straight? My son’s hands held me firmly, his hips pressing up, filling me deeper than my husband ever had. Shame twisted with rapture, but I didn’t pull away.
“Okay,” he said, turning up the radio as Bryan Adams’ Summer of ’69 filled the space between us.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. My son was inside me—his cock buried deep, holding me in place like an anchor.
The shock still pulsed through me, but beneath it, something else stirred. A slow, relentless hunger. Every second he stayed there, the urge to move, to take more, grew sharper.
And all I could think was: What now? What was he going to do next?
I sat motionless, torn between fear and desire. A part of me wanted Ian to push further, to take what he clearly craved. But if he did—if he moved—I wasn’t sure I could hide the truth from my husband, sitting just inches away.
And yet… I didn’t stop it. Judge me if you want, but I liked it—the way his cock stretched me, every small shift sending sparks through my body. I bit my lip hard to stifle any sound, forcing myself to stay quiet even as my thighs trembled. This was wrong. I knew that. But God help me, I didn’t want it to end.
What I didn’t expect was him just… sitting there. Reading. Ignoring the fact that he was buried inside me like this was some casual afternoon. My skin burned with frustration. Did he really think he could start this and then just stop? Every throb between my legs begged for more. Move, I wanted to scream. Fuck me before I lose my damn mind.
For over thirty minutes, I simply sat there, a prisoner to the most exquisite torment. Every ounce of my will was focused on holding perfectly still, on not surrendering to the raw, desperate hunger that screamed for me to move. To bounce wildly on my son’s cock and finally take my pleasure.
The drive was its own special torture. Each jolt and bump of the car sent a shock through me, and when Mark hit the rumble strips, the vibration made my whole body tremble and my pussy clench. I had to bite my tongue to stop the moans. The worst part was the maddening, teasing presence of him inside me—just there, nestled deep, but doing nothing. It was a quiet, solid promise of pleasure that was driving me completely out of my mind.
I was lost in that aching frustration when Mark’s voice cut through the silence, startling me. “Twelve miles to the next stop.”
It was as if he’d given a signal. My son’s hands suddenly gripped my hips, and he began to move me. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted me up and then lowered me back down onto his cock.
“Ahh, you naughty… boy….” I whispered, the words catching in my throat as the feeling began to spread. A part of my mind reeled. This was my son. The child I had made. And now he was here, inside me, starting to fuck me with a slow, deliberate rhythm, and I was letting him.
I clamped my lips together, a war of feelings crashing over me.
There was a sharp thrill of excitement that he was finally taking control. A hot wave of humiliation that this excited me so much. A deep, radiating pleasure from the slow, exquisite slide of him filling me. And a desperate, clawing frustration because he wasn’t pounding into me like I craved, even though I knew, somewhere, that he shouldn’t.
Mark shouted out loud over the radio, “I can’t believe time flies. Now our boy is off to college.”
Ian kept a tight grip pumping me up and down as my tits bounced, “ahh he’s… all grown… up alright… ahh that’s for… for sure.”
“Yeah, college man,” Mark said, his voice laced with boisterous pride. “Soon he’ll be learning to do his own laundry, maybe find a nice girl to settle down with in a few years.”
The irony of the comment nearly broke me. A nice girl? Ian was currently driving his full, beautiful thickness into me his mother barely three feet from his father. With every lift and fall he guided, a silent, screaming litany echoed in my skull: More. Deeper. Harder.
“Ahhh… He’ll be fine,” I managed to say, my voice a strained, breathy thing that I barely recognized. I hoped Mark would mistake the catch in my throat for maternal emotion. “He’s… capable.”
“Capable, indeed,” Mark chuckled, turning the volume on the radio down slightly, leaning forward to adjust the air conditioning vent. “He takes after me.”
“Ahh no.. trust me he doesn’t,” I moaned accidentally.
Mark shouted, “What’s that love.”
“Nothing!” I gasped, hastily covering my blunder with a cough. My son’s hands tightened on my hips, and he slowed his movements—almost teasingly—as if daring me to slip up again.
Mark glanced over, his brow slightly furrowed. “You okay? You sound a little…”
“Flustered,” I finished for him, the word a ragged breath. “Ahh… It’s just… emotional. Our baby, leaving the nest.” I forced a watery smile, praying it looked convincing.
Mark seemed to accept it. He nodded slowly, his concern easing away as he returned his attention to the road. “Yeah, I get it. Just hit me hard, too. Feels like yesterday I was teaching him how to throw a spiral. Now he’s a man.” As Mark spoke, Ian didn’t just continue; he intensified his actions.
“Trust… trust me, it’s hitting me harder than you think,” Ian said between breaths, his movements becoming more forceful. “He knows how to… hit hard, don’t… you?”
The words hung in the air, unintended and loaded with a double meaning I could only pray Mark didn’t catch. My breath hitched, my body tensing in anticipation of his reaction. But he just chuckled, a warm, booming sound that filled the cab. “Smart kid. Always was. Knows how to tackle anything that comes his way.”
My gaze flickered to Ian, his eyes locked on the road ahead, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He was playing this with a chilling calmness, a mastery of the situation that both terrified and thrilled me. The rhythm of his thrusts picked up, a steady, powerful beat that echoed the pounding in my ears.
“Can you believe he’s already outgrown his jeans?” Mark mused, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Always was a big boy.”
The comment sent a fresh wave of heat through me. Big boy. He was certainly that. Ian shifted his hips, a subtle adjustment that sent a deeper, more intense sensation through me. My nails dug into my palms, a desperate attempt to anchor myself.
“He… he certainly grew,” I managed, my voice a rough whisper, my focus entirely on the exquisite torture of Ian’s control. Each deep, steady stroke was a question, an unspoken challenge.
Mark sighed, turning the radio back up as Bryan Adams’ raspy voice swelled again. “Those were the best days of my life—”
Not mine. Not yet. I looked over my shoulder at Ian with his eyes half shut with pleasure.
He began to whisper against my ear, his voice ragged as he grabbed one of my tits. “Look at him. He has no idea.”
I slapped his hand slightly, I quietly said, “Stop, he will see… we shouldn’t even… be ahhh fucking. He can only see the tops of us.”
The car started to slow down and pull over to the side on an old country lane. I quickly sat still as Mark sighed, “Shit, we ran out of petrol. Will you guys be ok here will I get the jerry can and find the nearest pumps.
“I’ll be back in forty, maybe an hour if the place is far,” Mark called out, his voice already receding as he walked off down the lane. As soon as he was out of site Ian meant business, his grip tightened and he pushed us both up off the seat. He leaned me forward as I gripped the front seats head rest and omg he started to pound me doggystle.
My hips rose and fell violently with the impact. My ass slapped against his strong, pounding hips with a wet, shocking sound that echoed.
Slap. Squelch. Thud. Slap. Thud.
The sudden, violent motion stole my breath.
Mark had only been gone ten seconds, but the car had transformed. It wasn’t a family vehicle anymore. It was a dark, private space filled only with the smell of old upholstery and the urgent, animal musk rising off our skin.
Ian’s hands dug into my waist. He didn’t ask, he simply took.
I was bent forward, my breasts pressed hard against the vinyl seats, my arms stretched out, gripping the headrest like a lifeline. He was behind me, towering, his body hot and rigid.
He slammed into me again. Slap. “Ahhh my pussy.”
My entire body jolted forward, a primal cry tearing itself from my throat. “Oh! Ahhh!” My fingers, already white-knuckled, dug deeper into the rough fabric of the headrest, clinging on as if my life depended on it. Ian was a force of nature behind me, his hips slamming into mine with a raw power that stole my breath and shook me to my core.
Slap. Squelch. Thud. Slap. Thud. The sounds were grotesque, magnificent, and utterly deafening in the close confines of the pickup cab. Each impact vibrated through the worn seats, through my bones, through every nerve ending. My ass cheeks flared, meeting his strong, pounding hips with a wet smack that seemed impossibly loud, a perverse rhythm for what should have been a quiet afternoon drive.
The family car. The thought flashed through my mind, incongruous and horrifying. This was where we’d done groceries, driven to soccer games, listened to Mark’s bad dad jokes. Now it was a sweat-soaked cage, filled with the urgent, animalistic scent of sex, of my son burying himself inside me. The vinyl of the headrest grated under my grip, but I couldn’t let go. I was suspended between shame and absolute, delirious pleasure.
“God, Ian,” I gasped, the words barely audible over the relentless thudding. My breasts were flattened against the seat, the vinyl cool against my heated skin, but it was just a fleeting sensation. Every other part of me was on fire. He was so deep, stretching me in ways Mark hadn’t in years, filling me with a desperate completeness I hadn’t known I craved.
He grunted behind me, a low, guttural sound that spoke of his own immense effort and pleasure. His hands were still clamped on my waist, not just guiding me, but anchoring me, making sure I couldn’t escape this glorious, terrible act even if I wanted to. And I didn’t. God help me, I didn’t.
“You like that, Mom?” he rasped against my ear, his breath hot and ragged. His voice was a raw, unfamiliar sound, laced with a predatory edge that sent a shiver down my spine. The question was a challenge, a confirmation, a cruel teasing that pushed me further into this forbidden space.
“Yes… too much,” I whimpered, trying to pull back, to create some distance, but his grip was unyielding. He just pushed harder, slamming into me even deeper. My hips arched involuntarily, meeting his thrusts, begging for more despite the burgeoning pain. It was a good pain, a pain that promised release.
The motion was relentless, a frantic, primal dance. He lifted me slightly with each new thrust, and then dropped me back down onto him, the impact jarring my teeth. My head lolled on my neck, my throat raw from gasps and stifled cries. I could feel the wetness coating us both, the slick, undeniable evidence of our transgression. It was everywhere – on the seats, on our skin, in the air.
“Mark… what if he sees?” I choked out, a final, desperate attempt at reason, but the words were weak, drowned out by the escalating intensity. It was a flimsy excuse, even to my own ears. He might be gone for an hour, but the risk felt immediate, pressing. Every car that passed, every distant sound, made my heart leap with panic, only to be overwhelmed by the next powerful thrust.
“He won’t,” Ian whispered, his voice thick with desire, dismissing my fear with a certainty that was both chilling and incredibly arousing. He pushed in, a long, drawn-out stroke that made me whimper. “Just you and me, Mom. Right now.”
And then he started to pick up the pace even more, a frantic, desperate rhythm. My ass rose and fell, smacking against his thighs, against the hard curve of his pelvis. My insides clenched with each withdrawal, and then stretched violently as he plunged back in, filling me completely. I was riding him, truly riding him now, a wild, untamed mare beneath her stallion.
My vision blurred, spots dancing before my eyes. All I could feel was the exquisite friction, the heat, the constant pressure of him inside me. My pussy screamed, pulled taut, rubbed raw in the most delicious way. It felt like an endless knot of pure sensation, tightening with every stroke, drawing me closer to the edge.
“Fuck… oh God… Ian!” I cried out, my voice breaking. I didn’t care anymore if I was loud. The world had shrunk to the space between our bodies, to the relentless pounding, to the rhythmic slap of skin on skin. Memories flashed of him as a child, small and innocent, and then the image morphed to this, this man, my son, powerful and dominant, taking me with a ferocity that was both terrifying and utterly captivating.
He changed the angle slightly, a subtle shift that hit a new nerve, sending a white-hot spear of pleasure through me. My legs started to shake uncontrollably, my knees threatening to buckle. I could feel myself teetering on the brink, my body on the verge of splintering into a million shimmering pieces.
“Come on, Mom,” he urged, his voice a low growl of encouragement, pushing me further. “Let go. For me.”
He was pushing me to surrender, to embrace this unspeakable act fully. And I was. My brain, the part that knew right from wrong, was shutting down, replaced by instinct, by raw, desperate need. My hips started to move on their own, finding a rhythm that matched his, grinding against him with a frantic zeal. I was no longer just being taken; I was taking too, demanding every inch, every ounce of pleasure he could give me.
My head fell back, hitting the headrest behind me with a soft thud. My mouth was open, gasping for air, trying to pull in enough oxygen to feed the raging fire in my core. My entire body was slick with sweat, my hair plastered to my forehead. The smell of us filled the small space, a potent cocktail of sex and desperation.
“Mmmmph… ahhh… yes… don’t stop,” I whimpered, my voice almost a sob. Each thrust was deeper, more forceful than the last. The world outside the car had ceased to exist. There was only the dizzying pleasure, the rhythmic slamming, the rising tide of sensation that threatened to consume me whole.
He leaned in again, his lips brushing my ear, his voice rough. “You feel so good, Mom. So tight. So wet.” His words were like gasoline on the fire, igniting a fresh wave of climax-inducing shivers. He knew exactly what he was doing, what he was saying, how to push me over the precipice.
My muscles spasmed, my pussy clenching around him with an almost violent intensity. A wave started deep within me, a build-up of exquisite pressure that demanded release. I could feel the tension mounting, coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust, each grind. My hips bucked, a desperate, involuntary movement.
“Oh… oh, my God, Ian!” My voice was a choked scream, a sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy and surrender. The pressure became unbearable, then shattered into a million glittering fragments of pure bliss. My body convulsed around him, a deep, shuddering orgasm rippling through me, leaving me breathless and weak. My nails dug into the headrest, tearing at the fabric as I rode the wave.
He groaned, a long, drawn-out sound that vibrated through my body as he drove in one last, powerful thrust, holding himself deep within me as my climax racked my body. I felt him pulse, a hot wave of his own release flooding into me, mingling with my own juices.
We stayed like that for a few precious seconds, connected, breathless, the silence in the car ringing with the echo of our frantic passion and the heavy thudding of our hearts. My body was still trembling, a deep, satisfying ache spreading through my limbs. I felt utterly drained, yet strangely invigorated.
Then, he slowly, reluctantly, began to pull out. The sensation was agonizing, the loss of him leaving a hollow, aching void. I whimpered softly, a sound of protest.
“We… we need to get ourselves together,” he whispered, his voice still hoarse, as he gently pulled me upright. My legs were like jelly, barely able to support me. I collapsed back into my seat, dazed, my clothes rumpled, my hair a mess. The front of my shirt was damp, and a sticky wetness clung to my thighs.
The car, once a discrete family space, now reeked undeniably of sex. The smell was thick, sweet, and metallic, a potent reminder of what had just transpired. My pussy throbbed, still sensitive, still buzzing from the aftershocks of climax. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I just stared straight ahead, my mind struggling to process, to reassemble the shattered pieces of my reality.
This was my son. And he had just fucked me, hard, in the back of the family car. And I had loved every single, shameful, exquisite second of it. Shit, Mark. He was coming back. We had to fix this. Now. I quickly reached for my handbag and took out some perfume and sprayed it all over, while Ian put his spent cock away. I quickly altered my dress and sat back on Ian’s lap. Fuck, what have we done.