I'm the luckiest guy on earth." Maybe you are, Davie, maybe you are," she panted as she pushed down on me to begin twisting back and forth on my cock,...her head thrown back, moaning in pleasure."Mmm, umm, get me off, little bro, get me off, yeah, yeah, here I go, I'm cumm ... oh, OH, UH, UH, oh, oh," she cried out as she thrust up and down over me as fast as she could, then dropped down, kissing me over and over."Oh, David, that was good, really good. Oh, if Mom only knew how good your hard cock. ‘Ow, baby,’ he protests, his voice muffled, ‘that hurts.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ she tells him, as she loosens her grip on his head. ‘But, Doug, I want you so much!’ ‘I want you too, E, but you don’t need to beat me up to get me turned on. And if you’re into S&M or something, we’re gonna have to talk about that,’ he jokes, which makes her giggle. Then they both fall silent at the near gravity of the situation: it’s the last day of their long and supremely pleasurable weekend together, which neither wants. ’ ‘I knew I didn’t want to wear plaid.’ ‘Young man, if you start with me now you are going to bed with a red behind.’ ‘Dad, what did I say wrong now? Mommy asked me a question, and I told her the truth. How can I get in trouble by telling the truth?’ ‘It’s very simple my son. Your mother is a woman. We are lowly men. Whatever your mother says is the law. Whatever we respond to her questions is automatically wrong. It doesn’t matter if it’s the truth, or a lie, we are always wrong. You are. Her wardrobe was mainly vintage, remarkably unique and intensely erotic. She had any vintage outfit you could think of: flapper dresses, polka dot halter dresses, taffeta dresses, corseted tulle dresses, floral silk dresses, pencil skirts, wiggle skirts, satin blouses, garters, corsets, and bustiers. Anything vintage 1940’s-1950’s style, you named it, she had it, and made it entirely fresh and completely her own for every season. I swear, my mother looked so stylish, independent, and smart in.