Mardis Gras Mom

By Misty Chikan.


“Hey man, it’s Mardi Gras, time to share.”

“Maybe later guys, maybe later.”

In the few remaining blocks on the way to the hotel, I was, on several more occasions, the subject of the same attention and same chant. My son would hold me, claim possession, give the happily drunk chanters the same response. I felt safe.


Back in the room I slumped onto a chair, pulled my heels from my very sore feet.

Logan sat on the bed. “Time for your foot rub?”

“That would be great. Do you think I should switch to more practical shoes?”

“Your call Mom, but you look great in those things and we’ll do less walking tomorrow. There are a bunch of bands playing on the levee. We’ll hang there most of the day.”

Logan motioned me over. I thought about changing out of my micro-dress, but the lure of the foot rub was too powerful to ignore. I lay on my stomach; my dress crept up my butt, I reached down and with limited success tried pulling it back over my rump.

He started on my feet.

“Thanks for protecting me from those boys.”

“You’re welcome, but they were harmless. Flashing your breasts at Mardi Gras is a local custom and heck, I can understand why they wanted to see yours, they’re magnificent.”

His hands felt good on my feet.

“Thank you, I think.” Then added, half in jest, “By dressing like this do you think I’m inviting people to notice, to chant?”

“Well, that’s too profound a question for me, but I do know if I was in their position I’d be checking you out, envying the man you’re with.”

“Really son, jealous of a young guy like you hanging out with an old lady like me.”

Logan laughed, a short laugh, then said no more.

I bit. “What’s so funny?”

“You don’t know, do you?”

His hands felt good on my feet.

“No. Why don’t you tell me.”

Logan took a second, organizing his thoughts, wondering how far he should go.

“Well, Mom, guys my age are looking for someone exactly like you, a sexy older woman. Think about it, a girl my age may be pretty, but you’re frickin’ gorgeous, steaming hot, and girls our age well, they’re amateurs in bed, a woman like you, to put it bluntly, well guys think you know the secrets of seduction, know what you want, know what we want, know how to make sure we both get it. We figure you’re experienced, experimental, unembarrassed. You’re not using sex to get something else, you just like sex. The dating scene at high school, it’s pretty shallow and manipulative. An older woman is going to be confident, genuine, have depth and maturity, have lots to say, have experiences we don’t, will be more interesting, are emotionally stable. We figure you know what you want, what you don’t; we’re not getting a girl who had a breakdown when Kristin Stewart cheated on Rob.”

I rolled onto my shoulder, looked at my son.

“Should I be worried that you’ve given this so much thought? Who have you been sleeping with?”

“A gentlemen never tells.”

I rolled back on my stomach. “Well, I’m not some cougar, I’m your mother.”

He went back to working my feet.

“That’s the great thing about being here, though. We can pretend, be uninhibited, be whatever we want to be. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”


I took a shower, considered masturbating, but I my son was in the next room, too close. While he took his shower I picked out a gown. While not risque, it was lighter and smaller than what I wore last night. He came out the bathroom wearing gym shorts and I watched him put on a tank top, his tight clothes emphasizing the perfection of his body.

We got into bed, goofed on our computers for a bit, I turned off my light. He did the same.

“Logan, last night I woke up in the middle of the night; you’d rolled over and were holding me in your arms.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to …”

“No, no, you didn’t wake me. It felt nice.”

I got on my side, facing away from him. He moved over, lay an arm across my chest.

“You going to the gym in the morning?”

“Yeah, thought I’d swim, then work on the weights.”

“Good, no sneaking out this time. Wake me when you get up, we’ll go together.”

I covered his hand with mine and nestled my back on his chest. It had been a long day; we were soon asleep.


My workout the following morning was tough, Logan’s near brutal. People didn’t come to Mardi Gras to push themselves this hard, but Logan wanted the state wrestling championship and the tournament was only a month away.

Back at the hotel I decided to wear the short electric-blue off-the-shoulder dress, clinched with a chunky white belt. I tried on a bra, decided it didn’t work, laid it aside. Based on Logan’s assurance that walking would be minimal, I wore some killer white heels. I swept my brunette hair up into a quiff and put on some gaudy costume jewelry, including hoop earrings, finishing with large sunglasses that worked as well as a mask. It was a look designed to draw attention; if the world was going to see me as an oversexed cougar, who was I to disappoint? When my son saw the results I got an appreciative whistle. And although we were not going to run into anyone we knew I made sure Logan wore sunglasses and covered his magnificent body with some loose fitting clothes. Just in case, best to play it safe.

With two chairs and a blanket, we staked out a place on the river. Bands played all day long: Rockin’ Dopsie Jr. & the Zydeco Twisters, Amanda Shaw & The Cute Guys, the Rebirth Brass Band, Dwayne Dopsie & the Zydeco Hellraisers, the Ed Perkins Band. We danced, ate (not as healthy as we should), basked in the sun (we brought sun block), and I slipped into the role Logan had outlined for me the night before: hard-bodied cougar hanging with her young stud at Mardi Gras. I cuddled up to my boy; kissed him on the cheek, lay on the ground with my head on his leg. He undid my quiff and ran his hand through my hair. Occasionally, I’d take a walk, strut my stuff, feel the eyes on me: the lustful stares of men, the catty glances of women. I was turned-on and when I saw two college-aged boys staring at my chest my braless nipples hardened until clearly outlined in my dress.

After dark, we wandered up Canal Street to watch Orpheus. One of the floats stopped in front of us and the riders started chanting, “SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS.” The crowd joined in. I looked at my son, smiled, my eyes asking permission. He looked around, made sure he could keep me safe, nodded yes. I pulled down my top, exposed my breasts, felt an unexpected and powerful shot of adrenaline. My breasts flushed red, undetectable in the dark; my nipples swelled and hardened.

The crowd went crazy. A guy on the float tossed me a teddy bear.

After the parade passed I locked my arm in my son’s and we worked our way through the crowd, so thick that at times I had trouble breathing. Whenever we hit an open spot some guys would start with, “SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS.” Then, a block from the hotel, a college fraternity lined both sides of the street, creating a gauntlet between them. They pointed and soon they’re, “SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS,” was picked up by the entire crowd. I looked to my son, he nodded yes. Feeling the same rush of arousal I had earlier, I pulled the top of my dress down to unanimous cheers, beads landing at my feet. I smiled, curtsied, covered up, locked my arm in Logan’s, and we plowed ahead, stumbling into the hotel lobby with, amazingly, the teddy bear in one piece. Winded and tired, I turned to my son, threw my arms around him, said, “My hero,” and gave him a giant kiss on the lips.

We rode the elevator to our room; we could hear the crowd roaring outside. We stepped out on the balcony; the people on the street were looking to the left, where two balconies down a lovely young blonde woman, clearly drunk, was flashing her chest as her boyfriend corralled the beads hurled by the crowd.

The mob turned to me. “SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS.” I nodded yes and my son stepped behind me, undid the straps holding my top in place, letting it fall away; we were blitzed with beads. Logan shielded my breasts with his hands to a chorus of boos, then pulled his hands away to boisterous cheers. Laughing, we retreated into the room, Logan closing the door with his foot.

I turned to face my son, my breasts exposed, kissed him, and went to fit the straps of my dress in place. Logan said, “Don’t, they’re beautiful.”

I stopped, suddenly a little shy.

“You think so? Not old lady boobs?”

“They’re wonderful, you heard the frat boys cheer.”

“They’d had a lot to drink.”

He smiled, said, “I haven’t,” took a step towards me, held out his hand. “You’ve been showing them off all day. Do you mind?”

I looked down, didn’t say yes, didn’t say no, which was close enough to permission. He reached out, placed two fingers, just the fingertips, on the top curve of my breast. My eyes had followed Logan’s hand, now they returned to his face. I sucked my lower lip into my mouth; my breasts flushed, my nipples grew hard, my breathing deepened. He stepped closer.

I put my hand on his hip, let out a long breath.

He dragged his fingers over the swell of my breasts, stopping beside my nipple. My sharp exhalation of air left no question how it felt; it felt wonderful.

“Does that feel good?” he asked.


He cupped the breast, squeezed gently. Who would have thought my big burly son had such a sensitive sweet touch?

His hands left my breast.

“Time for your foot rub.”

Somewhat disoriented, missing his hand on my chest, it took a long second for me to focus on my feet. They were not as sore as yesterday, but still, I’d been walking in heels.

“I’d like that.”

He stepped aside, directing me to the bed. When I started to pull the straps of my dress back over my shoulders he said, “No, if you don’t mind, I like seeing them.”

I looked at him, at those sincere blue eyes. In a quiet voice, I said, “Okay.”

I lay on my back and with baby oil, he retrieved from the bathroom he worked my feet, moved up my calves, returned to my feet. His hands were powerful and his touch firm and knowing; I could get used to this. When he finished he capped the baby oil, set it on the table by the bed, lay next to me; held himself up on his elbow. A single slippery finger traced a path across my breasts, avoided my areolas. His touch was light. My nipples jumped to life.

He said, “I know I’m not supposed to do this.”

He took a breast in his hand, kneaded the flesh, moved to the other.

“On the other hand, it’s Mardi Gras, a time when you’re supposed to do what you’re not supposed to do.”

Taking his time, openly relishing my body, his fingertips made trails across my breasts. Electricity flowed through my body.

“And you and I are the only ones who will ever know.”

Up til now, he’d avoided my nipples, but now he captured one between his fingers, rolled it back and forth.

“And we won’t tell anyone, will we mother.”

I looked at him, his eyes a perfect blue.


“So no one will know how naughty we were.”

Now both his hands were on my breasts, expertly inflaming the firm flesh. I closed my eyes, immersed in erotic sensations. My legs drifted apart, further exposing myself, and in a motion slight but constant and unmistakably sexual, I rocked my hips. Keeping his hands on my chest, Logan moved into the lotus position and said, “Undo your belt.”

I reached for it, did so. It fell free, exposing my panties, the tiniest of triangles. They barely covered my sex.

“I like it that you shave.”

I rolled my head towards him and, eyes half-open and dilated, looked at him. My tongue drifted across my lips.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said.

I reached for him, touched his knee. “Thank you.”

His hand slid under my panties, a finger wormed its way inside my wet sex, then jiggled and jounced. I moaned and squirmed as he patiently, carefully, taking his time, worked my breasts and sex, exploring, cataloging every gasp, groan, and shudder. Two fingers were inside me, he worked my sex with the heel of his hand. The fingers found my g-spot; I bucked, grunting from my solar plexus.

He moved the heel of his hand to my clit, rolling it on my body. He continued playing with me; he was careful, deliberate, attentive, constantly adjusting the pressure and motion to my needs. With his other hand, he captured a nipple, rolled it between his fingers, then kneaded my full warm breasts.

“You’re incredibly sexy, women.”

I lay a hand on his thigh; squeezed the hard muscular flesh.

“Everyman’s fantasy.”

The fire in my loins intensified; I grabbed the bedspread, twisted it in my hand.

He kept going; the pleasure kept building, lapping against the dam, my orgasm approaching with the certainty of a flood. Despite the extraordinary day, despite the crowd roaring outside, all I could think about was my son’s hands, the joy filling my body. Logan rolled my clit against my body; his fingers slid over my g-spot; I spasmed in delight. The flood was implacable, closing in; it spilled over the dam. A sheen of sweat covered my body. Breathing hard, sucking in air, I looked at my son through lidded eyes; he was so sexy, so beautiful; the pressure on my clit and cunt was constant, unremitting.

I started gasping, over and over, “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.”

He kept it up, incrementally increasing the pace, driving me forward, the pressure building in my groin, the dam cracking. I rolled my hips, moving in time with his hand.

Uunhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh, uunhhh.”

My leg muscles tensed; I jerked my hips, but no matter which way I lunged his hand held me in place. His fingers were deep inside me, the pressure on my clit indefatigable firm unstoppable.

“Uuunhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh, uuunhhhhhhh.”

“You’re hot and sexy.”


“You’re a walking wet dream.”


“You’re a goddess, a divine sexy piece of ass.”


“Right now, all over the city, men are fucking their wives and girlfriends, wishing it was you.”

My mind unhinged; I saw sheets of vibrant colors, reds and greens and rainbows. The dam’s foundation collapsed and the orgasm, born between my legs, surged through me like a tsunami, bulldozed everything before it, then plowed back and laid waste to the rubble. I writhed, twisted, and turned, but Logan held me in place, continued to work my sex, the orgasm echoed and rebounded through me, back and forth, until I lay there, inert, covered in sweat, panting, slowly drifting back to reality, the hotel room walls crawling back into focus, the crowd roaring outside seeping back into my consciousness.

Logan took his hand from my sex. Weakly, I turned my head. “Ohmigod, that was fantastic.”

He spun around, ending up between my legs, removed my panties, said, “We’re just getting started,” and licked the length of my pussy, starting at the bottom, ending at the top, slow and firm and hard; my god, even his tongue was strong.

I placed a hand atop his head. “Ohhhh yessss.”

He ate me. His tongue and lips explored my pussy, every crevice, every fold, every corner, somehow re-igniting the fire in my sodden loins. His face pressed to me, he drank deeply, savored the smell; what started as a pilot light became a simmer, then a mild heat, a tight blue flame, a bonfire, a forest fire, a runaway nuclear furnace. I held his head to me, squealed and jibbered, shivered and shook. He reached for my breasts, covered them with his hands, squeezed and kneaded, then tweaked, pulled, and twisted my nipples. I humped his face, rolling my hips, directing him to the next place I wanted him to go. It was wonderful; he was wonderful. Gasping and quivering, I was on the verge of another powerful orgasm when he stopped. I looked up. He was standing at the foot of the bed, his face covered with pussy juice. He dropped his shorts, his cock swayed in front of him.

It had been years since I’d seen it. My husband had a perfectly satisfactory penis; my sons were extraordinary, maybe seven inches of thick pulsating man meat, erect, standing tall and hard against his flat muscular stomach. Bright blue veins ran up its side; the brown head was swollen and dripped pre-cum. I couldn’t stop looking at it.

He sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand up my leg; his middle finger slipped between my pussy lips, toyed with my vulva, stroked my swollen clit. My mouth fell open in a silent breathless moan. He got on all fours, moved forward, teased my nipples with his cock, coated them with pre-cum, then slid his dick between my breasts and pressed them together so they encased his shaft. I covered his hands with my own and his beautiful muscles rippling, he fucked my tits in long slow strokes. When the tip of his cock approached my mouth I lifted my head and licked it. He tasted good. He moved down my body. I gazed at his cock with a dreamy stare, knowing, accepting, craving what was about to happen.

Logan, his eyes on mine, gripped his shaft, pumped it slowly. Drops of juice leaked out. I ran my tongue along my lips and reached down to finger my horny clit. He smiled, rubbed the cock head on my clit, then slid the crown down the length of my wet puffy vulva, moved it back up, drew circles around my clit. If his plan was to make me so hot I could deny him nothing: mission accomplished. Every part of me craved his sex.

“Fuck me.”

Logan pushed the swollen cock-head inside my pussy, then paused, teasing me with the promise of more. I looked into his eyes, arched my back, flashed my most inviting smile, spread my legs wider.

He eased a few inches in, paused, pulled back. The next stroke drove deeper, more of his cock pulsed inside me. I gasped in pleasure and then, with a final thrust, he was all the way inside me.

My husband and I hadn’t had sex in, well, it’s been awhile, and Logan’s was the biggest thing I’d ever had inside me. His thick staff filled me completely. I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his neck, moaning in delight, relishing the forbidden sensation, asking him to go slow. For a few moments he was still, then in a gentle rocking motion he moved his cock inside me, rotating his hips in a corkscrew motion, an inch or so at a time, sliding around more than moving in and out. His cock grazed my g-spot, which crackled in delight. My clit was trapped between our pubic bones; he rolled over it each time he rocked back and forth.

His mouth on my cunt had left me wildly aroused and while that peak had flattened out as I’d contemplated, readied myself, to take him inside my body, Logan’s expert fucking was driving me back up that mountain top. He kept moving against me, patiently, carefully, carrying me forward. My loins heated up, but it was not a fiery furnace, more of a gentle warmth that infiltrated every part of my body and lay claim to my soul.

Both of us covered in a thin layer of sweat, I wrapped my arms around his back, my legs around his waist, held him tight to me, jammed my hips into him each time he rocked forward, doubling the impact on my clit. The pressure was building; I needed, coveted the release. I dug my fingers into his muscular back. He was so beautiful, his cock was inside me. He was fucking his mother, I was fucking my son.

I dragged my fingers down his back. The pressure in my belly grew and grew and then a wave crested, flowed through me; my muscles clenched, every joint stiffened; I was coming, but it was not an explosion; instead my body was suffused with a serene perfect joy. I whimpered and sighed; I had come, come for him, come for my son. Juice leaked from me, seeped between our conjoined bodies. His dick was coated with my hot sweet cream. I held him to me; I couldn’t breathe, think, or speak. I couldn’t see. I just existed, floating in a peaceful black abyss with my perfect lover-son.


Continued on the next page (link below).

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