Mom and I Watch a Family-and Bond

I was in the parking lot behind the office, unhooking the trailer, when my phone went off. I tapped the Bluetooth earpiece. "Harris Trucking, how may I help you?"

"My driver just walked out on me, and I have to get this truck back to my studio."

I hadn't heard from my mother in over two months. She's a sculptor, and a successful one, whose creations adorn the public squares of over ten cities and twelve entertainment venues. She lives in seclusion two states away, in the northern plains, to inspire her art. Proud and self-reliant, she never calls asking for help. Never say never, I suppose, but I knew right away she was in a tight corner.

"What do you need me to do, Mom?"

There was a pause in the connection. "' Mother,' not 'Mom,' remember? I need you to drive this truck back to the studio. It's been loaded by the team, and it's in a fenced lot, but I have no driver, and I'm not taking a chance on a new one. When can you be here?"

I shook my head. That was my mother. She sort of raised my twin sister and me alone; she never shared the identity of my father. To put it diplomatically, she would never be featured as a character in a Hallmark movie. A driven artist on her way up in an impossible industry, she'd never been warm and loving. That's not to say she'd been cruel. There'd been love there; it had just been very reserved.

"Text me a pin."

I didn't bother trying to reason with her because I already knew how it would end. She was Marcy McBride, renowned sculptor; she was also my mother. I couldn't tell you which of those two details made her feel more entitled to my unquestioning acquiescence, but it was surely both, and she surely did.

My phone pinged with her text on her location. I checked my maps.

Wow, not a drivable distance

.

"Okay, I'll book a flight and text you my arrival time."

***

My wife, Barb, laughed and said, "Of course you can go; nobody says no to Marcy McBride."

She was standing in our large bathroom, naked, just out of the shower. She's petite, with long, red hair and brown, nearly black eyes. Her breasts, though not large, are perfectly shaped, and her nipples, right then, were long and hard. She caught me looking.

"You may be away a few days. When's your flight?"

"Not till four."

Barb pressed her body against mine. "Take a shower; I'll get the room ready."

I washed in record time, dried off quickly, and stepped into our bedroom. The sun poured through the large windows, bathing the room in midday light. Barb was on the bed, on her back, naked, with her perfect round ass up on two pillows and a towel under her. She was sliding a large dildo in and out of her trimmed pussy. When you marry a redhead, pussy shaving is forbidden.

The video of our last get-together with Jack and Alyssa played on the sixty-inch flat screen. My penis, already half-hard from thinking about fucking my wife, sprang up as I watched Barb masturbate on our bed, and, on the screen, I watched myself fucking Alyssa while Barb lay under us, licking Alyssa's pussy and my cock while Jack fucked her. Barb nudged me with her foot as she tossed the dildo on the floor. "Let's go, Bob."

I crawled up between her legs and filled my nose with her lusty scent. "I love you so fucking much, Barb."

She held my head in her hands. "I know, baby, but show me. Eat me; fuck me."

I pushed my tongue deep inside Barb's vagina. Her fingers clenched my scalp. Barb isn't vocal -- more visceral. She growled and yelped when I sucked on her extended clit. The video of the four of us ran in the background. Just hearing it allowed me to visualize the action.

Barb exhaled deeply as she climaxed in my mouth. She lifted my head. "Fuck me, baby. I need you in me."

I moved up and over her. Barb pointed to the TV. "Oh, this is where Jack fucked me in the ass." Her eyes came back to me as I pushed my cock into her wetness. "Oh, fucking yes. So good."

I had to make a flight, so I couldn't enjoy marathon sex with my wife. Barb slipped her hand between us and rubbed her clit. "Go for it. I'll meet you there."

Barb and I are gym enthusiasts, and she has mastered control of her Kegels, a skill she called upon to help me get off quickly. It worked. In five minutes, I felt the tide of my climax cresting, and with a satisfied grunt, I orgasmed as Barb shook under me, her finger and my cock bringing her climax.

I leaned back and gazed at my wife. She lay watching me watch her. Her vagina was still open, a trail of our mixed love running out and down to the towel under her. She ran her finger up through her lips and then to her mouth, sucking it loudly. My penis twitched.

She pointed at my cock. "You've always had a quick reload."

I looked down. "Yeah, I guess I'm just lucky."

"Not as lucky as I am. Go wash before I put that in my mouth; you need to get to the airport."

Barb glanced at the TV where the four of us were in our huge shower. "Now that's the way to bathe."

***

The Uber dropped me off at the open gate of a large truck storage yard in Sioux City, Iowa. Mom was standing in front of an eighteen-foot yellow box truck, arms crossed, looking at her watch. She was in her usual outfit: worn-out baggy Carhartt pants and an oversized, tired, chambray shirt, topped off with a faded Caterpillar baseball cap -- a gift from me. I picked up my small duffle and walked over.

"Was the plane delayed?" she asked.

I replied as I walked around the truck. "Mother, I know you refuse to fly, and your impatience always thinks it goes faster than it does. It was not."

"Can we get going?"

I unlatched the doors to the cargo box. "I also know your show schedule, Mother; I looked it up. You do not have a show for another three months. I've been driving and owning trucks since I was eighteen. I always check the load."

"I've been watching this truck for a day. I'm exhausted and want to return to my studio."

I closed, latched, and locked the cargo box. Mom stood at the back corner of the truck. It was July in Iowa, and Mom's shirt was dark in the areas where her perspiration had soaked through. Her rich chestnut hair, which fell halfway down her back, had acquired a streak of grey. I thought it looked good, but kept it to myself. I walked past her and opened the cab.

"Let's go. It'll take about nine hours to get you back to Montana. We'll go as far as we can tonight and finish up tomorrow -- unless you want me to pull out my transmogrifier and get us there now, but you know what that does to our continuum."

Mom climbed into the other side. "Funny, son. I always wonder at your sense of humor."

I started the truck, and cool air filled the cab. The reason my mother 'wondered' was because she had no sense of humor herself, and had not known my father long enough to know if he did. At least, that had always been my impression, since she'd never shared that information with me.

It shouldn't come as a surprise when I say that my mother and I do not call and regale each other with the events of our lives. In theory, being stuck in a rental truck on the interstate was an opportunity to catch up. It was not. As I left the yard, my mother balled up a towel, leaned her head against the door, and fell asleep.

As I drove, I'd glance at her. Memories of my childhood came back to me. My sister and I were raised as part of our Uncle Charley and Aunt Sara's family. Parenting was not on my mother's list of life skills. We spent the weekends with Mom; she was more like that crazy Aunt than our mother, and we were okay with that.

Her life had revolved around her work, and still did. She'd never made mention of, nor had I ever seen any evidence of, any men or women sharing her space -- not that I'd ever cared with whom she might share a romantic relationship. I don't think she was celibate, just discreet.

***

Around four o'clock, near Kimball, South Dakota, the engine started losing power. I tried to nurse it to an exit, but it sputtered and died.

"Well, fuck," my mother said.

I looked at her. "Wow."

My mother glowered at me. "Just because I don't employ the coarse language you prefer does not mean I don't know the words. For this situation, there is simply no substitute. What is your plan?"

"My plan? You rented this truck and dragooned me into driving. I'm just the help." I got out and opened the hood.

"Do you know what's wrong?" she asked.

"Hell, no. You need a fucking degree to fix these things. I opened the hood as a universal sign of distress."

My mother was going through her phone. "Why else would somebody stop?"

"Well, mother, in my experience, it's usually because somebody has to pee."

Mom looked up. "On the side of an interstate highway?

I shrugged. "See it all the time. Are you calling the rental company?"

"How crude," she mumbled. "Yes, I'm calling them now."

As my mother was engaged in a heated conversation with the rental truck people — liberally salted with words she 'never' used, but with which she was apparently fluent — a white Cadillac Escalade pulled off the highway in front of the truck.

The doors opened, and four people got out. The driver was a man around forty, tanned, about six feet tall, and in excellent shape; his front-seat passenger was a woman about his age, tall and lean, with an above-average set of tits, and long, sun-bleached blonde hair. The back seat yielded a boy and a girl, somewhere in their late teens or early twenties, carbon copies of their parents. They all wore faded jeans, T-shirts, cowboy hats, and sunglasses.

I walked to them and extended my hand. "Thanks for stopping. I'm Bob."

"No problem, we do this all the time." The man took my hand; well, 'enveloped' would be a better word. "I'm Hank Conners. This is my wife, Melody, Hank Junior, and Anna. We have a little place up the road. Getting stuck out here can be dangerous. Um, your wife having a problem with the rental company?"

My mother had been young when I'd been born. "She's my mother, Marcy, and based on her language, I assume so."

Hank laughed and said, "Uh, referring to the rental truck guy as 'the soulless spawn of Satan's rectum' may not get you the help you need."

I sighed. "I agree, but you would have to know my mother."

My mother ended her call and, noticing our guests, walked over. "Hello, I'm Marcy, and this is my son, Bob. Thank you for stopping," She paused and looked at me. "The rental company will only get us a new truck."

Hank's brow furrowed. "That's what you need, right?"

My mother sighed. I knew the sign. She was not interested in explaining. I jumped in. "My mother is a sculptor, and the truck has her work in it. Experts loaded it."

Hank nodded. "Oh, I get it. May I call the rental folks?"

Mom shrugged and showed Hank her phone. "I have nothing to lose. Thank you."

***

Two hours later, we were in the lush leather seats of the Escalade, following our rental truck, which was being towed into Kimball City, South Dakota. Hank was my new best friend. He had negotiated with the rental company to have the truck repaired without having to unload it.

An hour later, things went from better to worse. The engine needed parts that were not available anywhere near the middle of nowhere we were currently in.

"Stay with us," Melody said.

My mother shook her head. "No. You have been amazing, and we have taken up enough of your time."

Hank Jr. spoke up. "You gotta stay with us. Nobody will speak to us if we let you stay in that ratbag motel. Out here on the prairie, we take care of each other. It's expected."

My mother and I shared a look. I shrugged, and she did, too. She looked at Melody. "Well, if you have room, that would be nice."

We left town. Hank drove at eighty miles per hour past an endless field of something green. He waved his arm. "This is our farm."

We kept driving; I saw no break in the field. "Did we miss the driveway?" I asked.

Anna snorted, and Hank Jr. jabbed her in the ribs as he replied, "No, our place is after the farm."

It was another two minutes until, off to our left, I saw a wide entrance. Hank turned in, taking the right when the driveway -- as wide as a two-lane highway -- forked. "The farm is ten thousand acres," he explained. "Been in the family for over a hundred years. We have a guy who manages it. We run a small horse-breeding ranch. We're here."

I smiled at Hank's description:

"a little place down the road."

The house was huge— two stories, white, wings, dormers, front porch, landscaped. My mother's polite

"if you have room"

comment amused me. Behind the house, I saw a large stable and the usual white board-fenced corral with two horses standing in it.

A half hour later, Melody was pouring lemonade on their enclosed porch. Mom and I were set up in the guest wing overlooking the large swimming pool. Melody apologized that there was only one double bed, as the mate to it had broken the previous week. I pondered the circumstances that would cause a bed to break and chastised myself for thinking that way.

Dinner consisted of fried chicken, a salad, and plenty of family joking. We were not allowed to help with the cleanup. Hank and Melody gave us a tour of the ranch, and my mother talked about her work, brushing off or ignoring all questions of a more personal nature.

Between the Conners stopping to help us, all the work getting the truck into the garage, dinner, and the tour, it was past ten. Mom and I thanked the Conners again and went to our suite.

My mother closed the door. "If you don't mind, I'll shower first." She looked at the bed. "This will be interesting."

"We'll be fine. I'll take the left side. It's only for one, maybe two nights."

My mother went to her bag, pulled out a kit and some clothes, and walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

That innocuous act ended the normal part of our trip -- and our relationship.

Mom came back out wearing a long T-shirt. I'd never seen her at bedtime without some kind of robe. She's not skinny, but trim, I guess? I'd only seen her in baggy clothing; I had no idea she had a figure, and a nice one at that. Her breasts weren't big, so they didn't need a bra, and her nipples, stiff from the shower, made two points in the shirt.

Mom quickly braided her hair as I got out my shorts, a tee shirt, and my kit. She stood in front of a full-length mirror. I slowed my actions to watch. Something about watching the act intrigued me; Barb keeps her shorter, so I'd never had the opportunity at home. Mom, well-practiced in the art, wove two hanks of hair behind her back, the single band of gray highlighting one of them. She reached the bottom and held the braid as she bent over her bag to retrieve an elastic.

She had nothing on under that T-shirt. The hem moved up and over her curvy ass -- which I'd also never known she had -- and revealed her unshaven pussy. My mother was hot. She stood, and I saw her face in the mirror, looking at me. Feeling the heat of embarrassment on mine, I mumbled, "Excuse me" as I moved behind her and entered the bathroom.

A black lace thong and matching bra hung off a towel rack in the bathroom. I stared. They were the antithesis of my vision of my mother. On the outside, no care for her looks; inside, high-quality panties and bras.

I touched the garments, picturing her wearing just them. I'd never thought about that; it just wasn't her. I wondered what else I didn't know about her.

As I stepped in front of the sink, I saw my mother's cosmetic bag. A medium-sized, pink, suction-cup dildo lay in there, half-hidden by another expensive thong. I touched it; it was still wet from being washed. My mother does have sexual thoughts, and now I had them about her.

I showered with an erection. I didn't masturbate, aware that my mother was in the next room and remembering being teased by her once about taking a

"'long shower.'"

I turned the water cold at the end to calm my confused dick.

I stepped back into the room. The light was off, but the room glowed with the bluish hue of moonlight. The AC temperature was set a little high, and Mom lay under just the sheet. I got on my side, rolled to my right, facing the wall, and settled on the edge of the mattress.

On the cusp of unconsciousness, I heard splashing outside and felt Mom get up. I slowly rolled to my back and slit an eye.

Mom stood at the window. Somebody was in the pool. As she watched, I saw her right hand move in front of her, and the hem of that T-shirt shifted.

I rustled the sheets. Mom's hand snapped back to her side. Curious, I got up and approached her, standing to her left.

Melody and Hank Jr. were in the pool, bathed in the copious moonlight. I was guessing it was around eleven -- an odd time to be in the pool, naked, with your son sitting on the pool edge while you suck his nice-sized cock. To say I was surprised would be an understatement. Intrigued would be the correct word.

Mom did not acknowledge my presence. I glanced and saw that her nipples were two rigid points in her shirt, and I thought I caught the scent of female excitement. She didn't look away; she didn't voice any disgust or displeasure; she just watched.

In the pool, Melody's skill at fellatio yielded its reward as Hank Jr. pulled his mother's head against his hips and, ass flexing, climaxed into her willing mouth. She released him and pulled her head back. They talked and switched places. Melody, feet flat at the edge of the pool, leaned back on a folded towel and pinched and pulled her nipples as her son pressed his face against her pussy.

My rigid cock made an obscene tent in my loose cotton shorts -- the only clothing I had on. Mom's fingers toyed with the edge of her T-shirt over her pussy, and her nipples looked painfully hard.

The whole situation was nothing short of bizarre. I was standing next to my mother, whom I knew so little about, watching sex- not just sex, but incest- and neither of us was leaving or talking.

Melody had a beautiful set of tits. From the way they moved as her son ate her, they were original equipment. Her pussy was completely natural, just shaved at the edges. She had dark eyebrows, and, true to that trait, her pubic hair was also dark brown. Junior loved it. His hand slipped between his mother's legs and she grabbed his head. I knew what he'd done. He had his mouth on her clit while his finger went in deep and rubbed her G spot. Her hips undulated as she climaxed on her son's face.

My mother whispered, "That's wrong," in a non-committal tone.

"They would disagree," I whispered.

Mom looked over at me, her eyes focusing on my barely covered erection. "As would you, apparently."

I blushed and marveled that I had done so. I guess I had a splinter of shame, though I don't know why.

Melody stood as Hank Jr launched himself out of the pool. They grabbed towels. Assuming the show was over, I returned to my side of the bed. Mom kept her eyes on me and my cloth-covered erection until I got into bed, then went to the bathroom. If she masturbated, I didn't hear it. I was out in seconds.

***

At five-forty-five, I woke up. Knowing my mother preferred to sleep late, I slipped out of bed and the room.

As with everything in that house, the kitchen was expansive. As I entered, I caught the scent of coffee, saw the machine with mugs clustered next to it, and poured myself a cup. I assumed the machine was on a timer.

I heard motion and looked up as Melody walked in. She wore a long cotton robe and was barefoot. Her nipples made two tempting points in the light fabric, and my mind flashed back to the night before.

"Good morning, Bob," she said as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

"You're an early riser, like me," I replied.