All Characters In This Story Are 18+ Years Old
*****
Francesca Taylor slid behind the wheel of her silver 2010 Mercedes C300 and settled her bottom on the soft gray leather seat as she strapped her shoulder harness across her L'il Sicily uniform shirt. She shimmied her 39DD bust until her tits were comfortably divided by the safety belt, then turned over the engine, shifted the 4Matic and moved out of the restaurant's parking lot. She had a lot to do in the next four hours.
The car was Francesca's 35th Birthday present from Johnny. Or, so she had thought at the time, which was why she had condescended to let him fuck her in the ass that night, after the kids had gone to bed. The following week she learned his waitress, Janet Rossi, was 4 months pregnant. Francesca guessed then the car was actually a confession. That fall, when she saw a photo of the one-month old infant in his christening dress and noted his distinctive widow's peak, her 'guess' was upgraded to a reasonable suspicion. Then, after hearing that Janet had named the baby "Jack," Francesca did the math. The L'il Sicily 2009 Staff Christmas Party was perfectly aligned with little Jack's August 23rd birth. Still, Francesca loved the 'Silver Bullet', as she referred to her little car, and was truly grateful to the girls at the restaurant, whether Janet, or Rhonda, or this new tart, Tammy. Let them distract Johnny. So much the better for her.
A blue Ford cut in front of the Mercedes with no signal and little room. Francesca braked suddenly, raised her right hand in a spread five-finger salute and shouted "Vaffanculo, bastardo!" The driver of the Ford promptly turned into a gas station. "PFFT!" Francesca mocked with dry spit, as she continued on in traffic. "Idiots!" Thirty minutes later, after a quick stop at the butcher for 2 pounds of cubed fresh veal, she parked the C300 in her garage bay, next to Megan's Honda, and walked into the Taylor house to start cooking. She had just enough time if she got started and there were no interruptions.
Francesca quickly set about her work, expertly chopping the carrots, celery, onion and garlic while her cast iron skillet heated on the range. When she finished she put a chunk of butter in, skating it as it melted, threw in the veal, veggies and her seasonings and left it to cook over medium low heat while she wilted her spinach in another skillet on higher heat.
Francesca stirred the veal, moved the spinach to a sieve to cool and started her besciamella. She loved cooking and mved confidently at speed through the recipe she knew so well. When the sauce was smooth she set it aside and began making the pasta. Her timing was impeccable. The veal mixture was in a bowl cooling, the pasta was resting, the sauce was waiting with the spinach and she had a half an hour to shower and get herself ready before the next steps. She looked at the kitchen clock, saw it was 4:35 and smiled. "Perfetto!" She proclaimed, grabbing a bottle of 2001 Tedeschi Soave Classico Monte Tenda from the wine rack and placing it in the refrigerator. Francesca loaded the last of the prep dishes and pans into the dishwasher, swiped a cloth over the granite counters and hurried to the master bath, pulling her green polo shirt over her head as she went.
*
Scrubbed, powdered and perfumed, Francesca sat on a straight chair in the master bedroom, smoothing her nude taupe nylons and snapping their dark tops onto her garters. She stood and made final adjustments to her suspender belt, overlaying the skimpy midnight blue string bikini panties Randy had given her for Mardi Gras, after they had decided to give up fucking for Lent. She traced her finger along her cunny's crease and smiled, fondly recalling that Tuesday when she skipped her bridge club for their tryst at the Hyatt Regency. She had worn the 'pussy pouch,' as Randy had described it, for all of ten minutes during their six hour fuckfest. Two weeks later, her 20-something stud took a full-time job, as a tennis and ski instructor, in Stowe, VT, and she had not worn the G-string since. She hoped it would inspire Wally this evening.
Stepping to her closet, Francesca selected her long, powder blue, spaghetti-strap satin negligee and pulled it over her head. It draped close to every curve, including her admittedly plump tummy. She knew she was a thick stemmed goblet, but, none of her lovers had ever complained about her 34" waist, or how she moved her 41" hips, when they were drilling her. The bias cut nightie molded itself to her butt and thighs before falling straight to the floor. Her navel was a soft indented dish in the iridescent cloth. She bobbled her breasts into the sheer lace pockets above the gown's empire waist. They sagged slightly until she firmed up the slides on the straps in back. Now, when she bounced them, her boobs' dark circles stared straight back at her in the mirror. She brushed her front and was pleased that her nipples popped up and pressed out against the lace. From another hanger Francesca retrieved a pale blue belted silk charmeuse robe with white faux-fur trim on its shawl collar and slash pockets. She slipped into two inch high heeled open-toed white mules then turned a slow circle in her mirror. The kitchen timer interrupted her inspection.
Francesca pulled a long apron from the pantry and set about rolling, cutting and filling her cannelloni. She hummed happily as she prepared the baking dish with a layer of besciamella and parmesan before carefully laying the pasta, seam side down, and finishing it with the remainder of the sauce and cheese. She turned the oven on, preheating it to 375 degrees, sighed a little sigh, pulled the Soave out of the fridge and completed the kitchen clean up. At ten past six the table was set. Home-baked ciabatta was in a basket with a dish of olive oil for her and butter for her son, who never adapted to the Italian style of eating bread. She poured herself a thimbleful of Strega, walked into the living room, and sat, satisfied, on the sofa, waiting for her 21-year old son to come home from L'il Sicily.
The "Thieving Magpie Overture" was playing on the stereo when she heard the Nissan Frontier's motor over Rossini's snare drums. Francesca stood, smoothing her robe, and walked deliberately to the foyer. Wally was closing the front door behind him when she clicked across the flagstone floor and wrapped her arms around his chest. "MMmmmm," she murmured, nuzzling the back of his neck. "I've been busy... are you hungry?" She asked, scratching her fingernails across his ribcage through his polo shirt.
"Uh, yeah, Mom," Wally answered, side-stepping from her embrace. "The house smells wonderful... and, uh, so do you!" Her fragrance suddenly dominated his senses as Francesca closed the distance between them and again hugged her son. "Do I have time to shower and change before dinner?" He asked, kissing her lightly on the mouth.
"Of course," Francesca replied. "I waited until you were here. I'll go put the cannelloni in the oven. But hurry, OK?" She pushed herself away and watched Wally head to his room.
Wally stood, in a quandary, lathering his pits under the shower spray. His mother was hot. Even in the shower his pecs still itched from where her tits had seared him through her robe and his shirt. His dick was half-hard and he had not even touched it. He had been looking forward to tonight ever since Thursday dinner when Megan and John discussed going to the cabin. Now, he did not know how to act. Or, what to wear to the table. "Shit!" He exclaimed, "Why is this so fucking complicated?"
He stepped out of the stall and decided, as he toweled off, he would wear his Colorado Buffaloes black fleece sweatpants and gold T-shirt. The university had pretty much sucked at Pac-12 football last year, but he had believed the hype for the coming 2016 season and bought the gear. "Might as well be casual" he thought to himself, "and they're brand new." Back in his room he pulled the school-branded clothes out of his dresser, cut the tags off and pulled them on, sans underwear. He pushed his bare feet into his worn leather mocs and patted his package. "Be patient, pal," he said aloud for his own benefit. "Don't rush, We've got all weekend... PACE yourself!" Wally took a deep breath and walked out to the living room.
