Mardis Gras Mom

By Misty Chikan.


Logan was still, his balls resting against my ass. I held him, felt life seep back into my body, muttered “Ohh wow,” reached down, squeezed his ass, thought about all the diapers I’d wrapped around that perfect tush.

I stroked his face, kissed him. “I can’t believe we just did that. It was wonderful.”

He kissed me back. We kissed some more, then some more.

Logan, holding me to him, rolled onto his back. I sat atop him. He said, “I want to watch you.”

I placed his cock-head to my vagina and slid down, slowly, until I was impaled on his oversized shaft. I folded my knees and legs under me, sat upright, groaned in delight; I was filled with my son’s hard meat. I arched my back, cupped my breasts, moved up and down. Logan pulled me forward and licked and sucked on the same nipples he fed on as a child. He reached behind me, stroked, squeezed my ass; I glided up and down his stiff prick, filling myself with his erection. Waves of intense erotic sensations rippled through me. My son’s hands explored the hard body he’d helped create; it was the kind of body designed to absorb an intense fuck from a powerfully gifted lover.

At the end of each stroke, I ground my clit on his shaft, An orgasm, violent and strong, was building inside me. As my cunt adjusted to his massive prick we fucked harder and faster, primal groans mixed with gasps and whines. We were uninhibited, wild animals, celebrating the prescribed pleasure spilling from our melded bodies.

“God, your cunt is great, tight hot wet, better than I dreamed.”

My ears directed the words straight to my cunt, which flared with each syllable. All my life I’d been a good girl, I’d never cheated on my husband. But now it was Mardi Gras and I had a bad girl bod and wore bad girl clothes and I loved it. I was the ultimate cougar, fucking a stud half my age; like Mardi Gras, I was wicked and depraved; I was fucking my son!

“Do you like my big hard dick up your cougar cunt, cause I’m gonna pound your slick slut hole and make you come and come and come.”

His words fed the fantasy I’d lived all day long; I was a beautiful hard-bodied cock-hungry older woman ready to be power-fucked by her young big-dicked stud of a lover. What would a good cougar say?

I dug my nails into my breasts and moaned, “Mmmmmm oh please yes baby, fuck me with your big fat cock. Ohhhhhhhh fuckkkkkkkk, soooooooooo fuckkkiiiinnnggggg goooooooodddddddd, I love your cock. I love your big cock stretching me; stuff every inch of your monster dick into me. Oh yes baby, mmmmm, ooooooooohhhhhhhh yessssssss, spilt me open with your giant cock. Teach this cougar a lesson, fuck her til she can’t stand, let’s find out if I’m ready for your beautiful fucking cock.”

“I’m gonna make you come until you can’t walk you sweet sexy bitch.”

“YES, I WANT IT! I want to come all over your fucking cock. Yeahhhhh, fuck me, fuck fuck fuck. I want your big cock in my tight cunt-hole.”

“You tight-cunted cock-hungry fuck-machine. I love dicking you.”

“Dick me, dick me, dick me, dick me.”

I came first, groaning loudly, urging my son to fuck me harder. He did so, driving deep into me with powerful thrusts that lifted me from the bed; my breasts bounced before me. We fucked harder faster, each thrust shaking my body. I howled and Logan’s jaw locked down; he grunted from deep within his belly, a sound I felt as much as I heard, then erupted inside me, filling me with torrents of his sweet cum. I ground my hips, rode his cock, fondled his testicles, felt another orgasm burrowing out from the depths of my soul. I let go of his balls, reached for my clit, diddled it against my body. My son took hold of my tits, rolled the nipples between his fingers; it bordered on painful, it was delightful.

I came, shouting, “OH FUCK,” then came again, jerking hard on my son, shrieking in feral febrile heat. I rode out the waves of my climax as they catapulted through my body and then, suddenly, I was spent, exhausted; I felt battered. I’d scaled the mountain; I could go no higher. I fell forward, my body molded itself to his, then rolled off him. I tried reaching for his dick, but co-ordination had deserted me, my hand flopped helplessly on his thigh.

My son, nuzzled against me, took hold of my hand, placed it on his semi-hard, wet cock. I dragged my finger along its length, then cupped his balls. They were covered in girl-cum. I reached for my own sex; our intermingled juices, his cum, my cream, dripped from me.

Feeling boneless, all tension gone, I rested my head on his shoulder. My throat was dry, my fingers tingled. There were tears in my eyes. I placed a hand on my son’s chest. His heart, like mine, was pounding. I kissed his neck and face, savoring the afterglow; we embraced, Logan caressed my breasts.

“Wow Mom, that was better than I dreamed. You’re sexy and wonderful and the most incredible lover, I came so hard.”

“Oh son, it’s never been that good.”


When I woke there was a note on his pillow: “Out for a run, be back soon. Love you. You’re amazing.”

I got in the shower. My pussy lips were sore. I hadn’t been fucked like that in, well, ever. I was drying myself off, trying to make sense out of, what to say about last night, when the hotel room door opened and Logan shouted, “I’m back.” I could smell the coffee he’d picked up. I put on a robe and stepped out of the bathroom.

With a big happy grin on his face, he leaned in, kissed me, said, “Good morning,” and handed me a cup of coffee.

I sat down, pulled off the lid, took a deep whiff, brought it to my lips. I was still unsure of what to say. The consternation must have been evident on my face, for Logan sat next to me, put his big hand on my shoulder. “Trying to make sense of last night?”


He took my hand in his. “Me too.”

He looked at me, waiting for me to say something. It had been forbidden, but it didn’t feel wrong. It had felt wonderful; my body still felt good. I didn’t know what to say.

He waited, just the right amount of time, then asked, “Mind if I go first?”

I nodded no.

“I guess you know this, but I love you. And over the last year, well, I’ve never felt closer to anyone. We’ve become friends, albeit one who I can’t help but notice is a complete fricking fox. When I was out running I kept thinking about last night, trying to figure out what to do, what to say, what it meant, but I don’t know. Finally, I figured this: we got one more day down here, why ruin it? Let’s enjoy the day, we can thrash this all out when we get home.”

I leaned against him, took his hand in mine, played with his fingers. The opportunity not to decide was too tempting to pass up. “Okay.”

Logan smiled, stood. “I’m going to take a shower, then we can go see Zulu. But,” grabbing the blow dryer,”let’s do your hair.”

He did, then went into the bathroom. In the closet there was that tight halter-top gold dress; it would barely hold my breasts in place, barely cover my ass. Was it really the right thing after last night? I stared at it. Oh, what the fuck, I’d look spectacular, had no plan B, and Logan was right, we had one more day in the freedom in New Orleans, why ruin it. I had just squiggled into the dress when my freshly showered son shouted, “All clear,” and stepped from the bathroom, a towel around his waist.

He stopped, studied me, said, “Man, do you look good,” pulled a blue polo shirt and a pair of red shorts from his suitcase, said, “No peeking.”

I turned my back to him, glancing in the mirror as he dressed. He was gorgeous. I returned to the bathroom and fixed my hair; Logan stood behind me and combed his. When done we put on sunglasses, he took my hand in his, we headed out the door.

We caught Zulu and most of Rex on St. Charles Avenue, then spent the day in the French Quarter, experiencing the improbable: a mind-boggling array of outlandish costumes, drinking Hand Grenades with the Krewe of Elvis (yeah, everyone dresses like Elvis), listening to Pete Fountain, attending the Drag Queen Costume Contest. Through it all I clung tightly to my son; the crowd was dense. After last night I’d wondered whether Logan and I would be comfortable with each other, but that was not a problem and I found myself drifting back into the role Logan I’d played the day before: a cougar enjoying the anarchy of Mardi Gras with her hunky young man. I enjoyed the eyes on me, enjoyed advertising my physique. I pressed my body to Logan; it felt comfortable and natural when his arm snaked around me.

I also came to another realization. I knew my near non-existent sex life with my husband was unsatisfactory, but had blurred the memory of how good sex could be. Last night had been a revelation. Sex was terrific. My new body was more responsive, enjoyed sex more than ever. I’d noticed all those young hunks at the gym looking at me; had deflected they’re flirting. Now I knew those boys could be tremendous lovers. I had never cheated on my husband, but was I willing to return to a sexless existence, a life devoted to a man who was a friend and roommate, but no longer a lover? I held Logan’s hand even tighter in mine.

I also was greeted with, “SHOW YOUR TITS,” most everyplace we went, but kept the girls in place, waiting for the crowd’s attention to be diverted by another lady willing to share the goods.


It was after sundown when we headed back to the hotel, my son plowing through the crowd, I riding in his wake. I’d worn heels again – I looked so good in them – and my feet ached. Two blocks from the hotel a bunch of guys stepped aside, creating an open space around the two of us, and chanted, “SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS.”

This might be my last chance to play the cougar for an audience. I looked at my son, smiled, asking permission with my eyes. He nodded and reached behind my neck, unfastened the halter. I lowered it, showed the girls; the crowd roared and I loved it; I was a hot older chick, uninhibited, celebrating her body, her looks, her sexuality. I’d been on slow burn much of the day and the heat between my legs grew brighter. I pulled the top back over my breasts and Logan re-fastened the halter. Someone handed me a beer. I took a quick swig, turned to my son, hugged him. The crowd screamed its approval.


In the hotel room, I took off my shoes, laid down for my foot rub. The noise from the street was intense; the crowd sounded like it was were standing on our balcony. As Logan worked my feet and calves I kept glancing outside. Logan noticed.

“Wanna go out on the balcony? Last chance.”

I did; I nodded my head yes

My shoes off we ventured outside. Logan stood behind me, wrapping his arms around my body. We watched, anonymously, for several minutes before some people pointed at me and started shouting, “SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS.” I leaned back into Logan and he undid my halter. I took hold of the straps, lowered them, exposing my chest. The crowd cheered. My nipples hardened. I covered my breasts and turned my head towards my son. He kissed me, a peck on the lips.

The crowd continued, “SHOW YOUR TITS, SHOW YOUR TITS.” I dropped my top again, basking in the attention, feeling it between my legs. I threw my arms in the air and leaned back, letting Logan support my weight. Logan shielded my breasts with his hands, the mob booed lustily.


My fingers intertwined with Logan’s and I drew both our hands to my breasts; Logan, ever so slightly, squeezed them. It felt so good. I pulled my hands, and his, from my breasts; a roar of approval rose from the street.


I ran my hands down the sides of my son’s body to his legs. He covered my breasts to loud jeers, then openly squeezed them; the crowd screamed. He showed them, once again covered them, this time dipping his index fingers behind his hands to stroke my erect nipples.

I was on fire; I was carnality incarnate, on display, unconstrained by any rules, a sexual sacrifice for an entire city. Logan took his hands from my breasts and, encouraged by the resulting screams of approval. I pressed my body against him; his cock was hard. My knees wobbling, gasping in delight, I shimmied my ass on his dick, turned my head, kissed him, worked my lips vigorously against his before thousands of wildly screaming witnesses.

We turned back to the crowd. People were hollering, pointing at us. I took Logan’s hands in mine, brought them to my breasts. He covered them, squeezed and kneaded them. I slid my hands down the sides of his body, reached between us, fondled his enormous erection.

The blonde we’d seen yesterday stepped out on her balcony, waved to us, waved to the crowd, raised her tee-shirt. The crowd cheered, then turned back to me.


Logan took his hands away. I pushed my hand into his shorts, grabbed his dick; it was huge hard perfect. Logan pointed to the other balcony. The blonde was watching. She gave the thumbs up, pivoted towards she street, flashed her breasts.

I turned around, melted into Logan’s arms, kissed him, our tongues wrestled each other. Logan picked me up, I wrapped my legs around his waist. With the crowd’s raucous approval he carried me into the room, kicking the door shut with his foot. The crowd kept cheering, imagining our naked bodies slamming into each other, him filling me with cum.

Logan tossed me onto the bed, pounced on me, sucked my breast, lashed the nipple with his tongue; waves of delight washed over me; my cunt throbbed.

Moving to the side he cupped my sex, pushed two fingers into the wet sodden flesh, swirled them around inside. I pulled aside the waistband of his shorts and took hold of his thick hard cock.

He kissed me, I opened my lips, his tongue was inside my mouth. I licked and sucked on his tongue, then thrust my tongue into his mouth.

He squeezed my breasts, teased, pulled on my nipples; three fingers were inside my pussy.

“I love you, Mom.”

I kissed him, stroked his shaft, kissed him more passionately than I’d ever kissed anyone. Our tongues dueled and played. Logan got off the bed, stood, yanked off his shorts, took off his shirt, flung it away. My eyes fixed on the perfection of his body, I shimmied out of my dress and panties. I was naked.

“You’re so beautiful, Mom!”

I spread my legs and shuffled to the head of the bed.

“Please, honey. Fuck me. Fuck your mother.”

Logan got on the bed, walked forward on his knees. I sat up, took hold of his cock, pressed it’s crown to my vagina; it throbbed on my pulsating flesh.

“I love you, son. Fuck me!”

My son pushed forward, drove several inches of hard thick dick into me.

I screamed, “OH GOD, HELL YESSSS!” and my son filled my incestuous cunt with cock-meat. There had never been anything that had, could, equal this, the sensation of having Logan’s fat penis in my belly. It was glorious, it was erotic, it was right.

Logan placed his hands beside my head and moved forward until his pubic hairs brushed against my bare mound and the head of his cock nestled at the entrance to my cervix. I pressed my knees to his side, dug my heels into his ass, opened my mouth, wanting to tell him how much I loved him and his wonderful cock. What came out was a wail of animal pleasure.

Logan lowered his body, kissed me, his muscular chest pressed to my heavy breasts. I flung my arms around his neck, stared into his eyes, and, wanting him deeper inside me, shoved my pelvis upwards. My flesh was ultra-sensitive; his touch, both inside and out, made me quiver and shake with pleasure.

And then my son began to fuck me.

Yesterday, when he’d first entered me, he was careful and patient, taking his time, letting my body adjust, slowly drawing me to the edge, gently pushing me over. Today was different. Although my pussy was still sore from last night, he assaulted me, taking me like the hungry bitch in heat I was. Growling, “I love you, Mom! I love your tight, hot cunt,” plunged in and out of me. I kissed his face and tightened my cunt muscles, trying to trap his cock-meat inside me, but he was a runaway unstoppable freight train; each of his thrusts took me a little closer to heaven. We were slick with sweat and we fucked and Logan kissed me, then he ducked his head and nibbled on my breasts: I squirmed with delight.

We fucked and fucked; pussy cream trickled down to my asshole, a puddle of juice formed on the sheets. Logan picked up power and speed with each thrust; with each delightful stroke of his thick cock, I grunted, marveling at how something so long and thick could fit inside my hard tight body. But he was born of my flesh, he was only bringing home what had been within me before. His cock had been formed for my cunt, my cunt for his cock.

The bed creaked and shook as we rocked into each other in our rhythmic incestuous dance. It was incest made it dirtier hotter sexier; I reveled in the raw carnality. Logan had long been the center of my life and now he, my most wonderful son, was satisfying my most basic need, fucking me with a cock specially designed for my pussy.

Our movements became ever more urgent. I thrust my hips into him; Logan fucked me as if this was the last fuck of his life. My cries of pleasure grew louder, more intense. I could feel it, an incipient orgasm, centered on my pussy, growing, threatening to overwhelm me. He shoved hard into me, rolled his pubic bone over my clit. Grabbing his ass I howled; my world exploded; ecstasy filled me, flooded every fiber of my being with depths of pleasure without a bottom. I writhed, luxuriating in his relentless pounding, the kind of confident fuck I’d have thought no eighteen years old could deliver.

The Logan groaned, moaned, “Mom, I love you. I’m going to come,” and his cock swelled and flooded my pussy with hot sperm. My orgasm intensified, grew, expanded; I bucked violently against him, driving deeper into my womb. Our bodies slammed together, our orgasms became one. Then my son’s hands were on my ass cheeks and he stood, effortlessly lifting me, holding me in his arms, thrusting upwards, driving deeper into me. Gravity served its purpose; I twisted down on his erection as he plunged ever deeper into my cunt. Another orgasm filled me; I wrapped my arms and legs around my boy, happily impaled on his throbbing member. My senses, one by one, shut down; I could not see, I could not hear the crowd. I was aware only of Logan’s skin on mine, his hairs scraping deliciously against my hard nipples, his throbbing cock feeding me his steaming hot cum, the overwhelming joy that occupied my body.

Eventually, my vision cleared. I was in Logan’s arms, his cock in my pussy, my cunt muscles clasping him tightly, milking any remaining semen. I shivered and whimpered, “Oh honey, I love you so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you! You’ll never know how much your mother needed this!” I kissed him.

I love you, Mom.”

“You’re an incredible lover,” adding, with no thought to discretion, “Where did you learn to fuck like his? Who have you been with?”

He smiled, kissed me. “I’m glad you like, but a gentleman never tells.”

It was early. I would find my son had amazing recuperative powers. Soon I had him in my mouth, then he re-filled my pussy, firing blast after blast of cum into his cock-hungry mother.


We slept late, had not packed, and hurriedly, barely, made our flight. My son had the window seat, I sat on the aisle. I pulled a blanket over the two of us and held his hand.

“Logan, it’s been a wonderful few days, a fairy tale. I can’t remember a better time. It’s a shame we have to return to reality.”

He squeezed my hand. “It seemed pretty real to me.”

“You know what I mean, we can’t go home and,” instinctively I dropped my voice to a near whisper, “be lovers.”

In a tone whose confidence surprised me, he said, “Mom, I’m in love with you and I’m pretty sure you’re in love with me. If you want to lay off the,” and here, in imitation of me, he lowered his voice to a whisper, “S-E-X, I’ll respect your wishes. But I don’t think we can put this one back in the bottle.”

Over the next few weeks, he was true to his word. There were no attempts to seduce me, no caresses when there shouldn’t have been, no secret kisses, no overt efforts to arouse me. We resumed our life, but it was the life we’d built during the past year. We’d go to the gym, cook and eat together, watch a movie, go listen to music. We were best friends. When I dressed I wore what I thought he’d like; I looked forward to his conversation; I wanted his approval.

As to my husband, I tried turning to him for sex. Usually, he’d beg off: “too tired,” “not in the mood,” “too much to drink.” A few times, with all the lights off, I used my hand on him, then, if he didn’t fall asleep, he’d finger me, sometimes to a wholly unsatisfactory climax, usually to nothing at all. What Logan had said in New Orleans was correct; Logan was the core of my life, my husband was my roommate.

The End


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