Needs and Weeds

This is a follow-up to Are You Serious?, published in the incest/taboo section on 7/19/17. Reading that one first is not necessary to enjoy the follow-up. Some readers might wish to in order to gain a better frame of reference.

*****

Marty Gayle came away from his talk with Jim Sanborn a torn man—torn between respecting their close, long-time friendship and doing something that would tear that friendship to pieces. Jim had entrusted Marty with the knowledge that he had engaged in an incestuous relationship with Frances Sanborn, Jim's sexy mom. Jim's story about how Frances seduced him turbo-charged Marty's already raging libido. Marty's had his eyes on Frances for years. From his bedroom window, he loved watching her do lawn work in skimpy outfits. And from the way she smiled when she caught him looking, Marty deduced that Frances enjoyed being watched. His question: Would she enjoy getting intimate with Marty, her young, hormone-raging neighbor and her son's best friend?

Marty knew that fantasy was normally a one-way street: the admired is seldom on the same page as the admirer. Just because Frances enjoyed Marty's lustful attention, didn't mean she wanted something more from him. Marty's and Jim's close friendship (they are also teammates on their college baseball team) muddied Marty's sexual ambitions even more. Jim had made it clear to Marty that he was to keep his erotic designs on Frances in the realm of fantasy, a demand that Marty had every intention of honoring.

Marty knew well the shopworn proverb about good intentions paving the road to hell. He also knew what every erotically charged human being knows—that sexual passion often trumps common sense. So he wasn't surprised to find himself crossing onto the Sanborn's three-quarter acre property on a warm Saturday in May after ogling Frances pulling weeds. He took note of her attire, a low-cut, short denim work dress and flip-flops. Her wavy brown hair was slightly longer than when Marty and Jim had their talk last month. It now dropped to her shoulders, curled at the ends and held together with a white ribbon. Jim's car wasn't parked in its usual spot, so Marty assumed he wasn't home.

Frances, stooped down while doing her work, stood up to greet him. "Hi Marty, Jim's not home."

Marty tugged at the waistband of his green sport shorts. "So I figured. I just wanted to know if you could use some help."

Frances slipped off her rubber work gloves and brushed beads of perspiration from her forehead. "Sure, if you don't mind using your hands. This is my only weed puller."

I don't mind," he said, his eyes darting from the metal tool in her hand to her legs. Long and shapely, her sexy limbs showed the faint beginnings of a golden tan. "Where do I start?"

"Right where you're standing."

Marty stooped beside her, pulling up weeds with his bare hands. Only feet apart from her, he did his best to be discreet, stealing glimpses of her bare thighs and cleavage while they worked. "It looks like you enjoy doing lawn work," he said. "Some folks around here hire lawn services."

"Right. Well, Mr. Sanborn was our lawn service when we were together. Other than Jim's occasional help, I now do it all, pulling weeds, mowing grass, spreading mulch. It's a good form of exercise for those, like me, that don't exercise regularly."

Marty nodded, thinking how great she looked for someone without a structured exercise regimen. He thought back to what Jim told him, about how great she smelled, and he wanted nothing better than to get closer to see for himself without making it obvious. But there was his friendship with Jim to consider and besides, she thus far had not done or said anything to show that the attraction was mutual. That is, not until Marty looked once too often and once too long up her dress, and she said, "There are no weeds up there, Marty, I can assure you."

Embarrassed, Marty quickly looked away. He groped for something to say, something glib—no mean feat, not with Frances stooping right in front of him, her dress bunched halfway up her thighs, giving him a front row seat to her yellow panties.

She smiled warmly, approvingly. "I didn't mean you shouldn't look. After all, having caught you staring at me from your bedroom window all those times, I'm used to it, flattered, actually." She opened her legs a few inches. "Hmm, you like that, huh?"

Marty swallowed hard. "Can't deny it."

She chuckled. "Not to frustrate you, but when it gets really hot out, I do lawn work without underwear." She let that sink in, her mouth open, her tongue wagging seductively across her mouth.

"Too bad it's only May and not one of those sweltering days in July. Maybe you could..." He shook his head.

"Maybe I could...what?"

"Nothing, it's not appropriate."

She stood up and pulled her dress down. "Oh, come on. This whole conversation, starting from the first moment your gorgeous baby blues beamed in on my crotch, isn't exactly appropriate either. So let's hear it."

After pondering for a few seconds, he stood up. Shyly, almost sheepishly, he said, "Okay, well, in keeping with what you just revealed, maybe you could pretend it is one of those sweltering days."

She threw her head back and roared. "Cute line, Marty, I like that." She laughed some more, then said, "Maybe I could, and in some ways I want to. But certain lines shouldn't be crossed, should stay inviolate. Don't you think?"

"Sure, of course." His sardonic chuckle rippled the air between them. Apparently, this woman didn't think her incestuous relationship with Jim fit the inviolate category. Smirking, he could barely contain himself from revealing what he knew.

Cocking her head to the side, she said, "From that shit eating grin, something tells me you might not agree."

He laughed nervously and stepped back. "No, you're right. But I do have a question." She nodded. "Does Jim know you're out here without panties in July?"

"He, um, not that I know of. Why would you ask that?"

"Just curious. I mean, since you and Mr. Sanborn split, it's just you two living here."

She stared at him for a few seconds, the way people do when they suspect someone is hiding something, when they know more than they're telling. "Marty, did Jim say something to that effect, that he saw me without panties? I know that best friends sometimes reveal intimate details about their lives, telling each other things they wouldn't tell anyone else."

Aware that he had said too much already, Marty wracked his brain, struggling for a way out. He stammered his way through a denial that he realized too late would make Frances even more suspicious. She confirmed as much when she said, "Jim said something, didn't he?"

Marty felt squeezed between the proverbial rock and a hard place. He could tell the truth and thereby betray his friend's trust; or, he could lie unconvincingly to the point of looking like an idiot. Then a third option popped into his brain, the old dodge and weave. "Jim didn't say a word about catching you outdoors without underwear." His right arm shot up. "I swear."

Frances gave Marty a long stare, as if waiting for him to crack, to laugh or do something that would make him look like a liar. Marty simply stood there, straight-faced. Finally, she said, "Okay, I believe you." After slipping her work gloves back on, she said, "Now, I've got a question for YOU."

"Sure."

"How would you feel if you caught me working like this without underwear? I don't mean from your bedroom window, I mean working next to me like you've been doing."

Always the athlete, Marty became aware of his pulse, which suddenly started to race. "Geez, well, I don't know, Mrs. Sanborn. Am I about to find out?"

She pursed his lips and grabbed the hem of her dress. "Maybe. Would you like that?"

Either she aimed to tease or aimed to please, he wasn't sure which. He could only hope it was the latter. The anticipation of being privy to her private anatomy got his pulse to quicken and his cock to throb. Damn right, he'd like that! Tentatively, he nodded in the affirmative, thinking this could be no more than an act, a Big Tease. "Are you serious?"

Without saying a word, she ducked behind a tree, emerging seconds later, yellow panties in hand. After stuffing them in a side pocket of her dress, she said, "Let's resume work, shall we?"

"You must be kidding," Marty groaned only seconds after stooping down next to her. "You can't really expect me to pull weeds while you're doing that." By "that" he meant Frances' brazen spread shots that allowed Marty to see what she obviously wanted him to see.

She giggled. "If it's too distracting I can always put them back on. But do you really want me to do that?"

A rhetorical question if he'd ever heard one. "Um, not really."

"I didn't think so."

She resumed working, pulling weeds while giving Marty unobstructed views via her purposeful spread shots. Periodically, she'd rub her pussy, then smile in satisfaction at the lust in her helper's bulging blue eyes.

His eyes weren't the only thing that bulged. Much more of this and he'd have a nasty case of blue balls. He'd have no trouble jumping her bones on the grass amid the weeds and tulips and chirping robins. In his mind, her body language alone cried out for such action, action that he knew his sense of propriety would never allow. "Where are you going with this?" was all he could manage to say.

She stopped working, reached out and took his hand. "Well, I can think of several places." Pause. "And I'd bet you can too."

"What about Jim?"

"What about him?"

"He might come home."

"Jim's with his dad. I don't expect him home for several hours."

So now he had it—or would very shortly. Only it wasn't that simple, not with his tangle of emotions standing in the way of consummating his fantasies with this incredibly erotic older woman. The rub: she wasn't just any erotic woman but his best friend's mom who had engaged in sex with her own son, Marty's best friend.

"My honey pot awaits you," she said, leaving him little time or energy for quiet introspection. "Here, I'll show you." She took his hand and guided it up her dress. "Wet enough for you?"

That did it. His remaining ethical/moral qualms crumbled like stale bread, and he followed her into her house like an obedient puppy dog. "I feel like putty in your hands," he admitted when they entered the kitchen.

She giggled, then reached down to his crotch. "Well, what you have here is definitely harder than putty."

As many times as Marty had been over the Sanborn's house through the years, he couldn't recall ever being in the master bedroom, the one Frances had shared with Jim's dad before their divorce. Now he found himself not only inside, but watching Frances slip off her remaining clothing, her dress and bra. He blinked at her naked form, as lovely as he had heretofore imagined, what with her taught waist, those long legs that he could almost feel wrapped around him and breasts remarkably perky for a Gen-X woman. She was damn cute, too, despite the shallow wrinkles that creased her forehead and bracketed her small, heart shaped mouth, in addition to the few freckles dotting her cheeks and nose. A nagging angst, though, tempered his excitement. "Are you sure Jim won't be home soon?"

"Yes, I'm sure," she said, her tone on the edge of annoyed. "Now get naked."

Marty did, letting his clothing drop to the plush white carpet. Frances drew the blinds, leaving the room in a gray, semi-darkness. She then pulled down the blanket and sheets and sat on the edge of her king-sized bed. Reaching up, she gave his hard cock a few strokes, then motioned for him to sit beside her. "I guess you might be wondering why I invited you up here," she said, throwing an arm around his wide shoulders.

"Kind of." For the first time, he was getting a whiff of the marvelous scent that Jim had mentioned—a mild dash of some scent she wore mixed with her natural body odors. "But you know the expression. Never look a—"

"Gift horse in the mouth, I know." She rolled her eyes. "Corny clichés aside, I find young athletic men like you very attractive to the point of irresistible. It might have something to do with the breakup of my marriage and then getting a second sexual wind in my forties. It seems that half my waking hours are devoted to wiping my pussy, whether its urine when I pee or juices from being horny. My girlfriends laugh knowing I sometimes need to change panties twice a day. You're a baseball player, I know, but I'm partial to young soccer players, perhaps because I played soccer in high school. Ooo, they make me so wet!" She paused to run a finger over her slit. "Unwittingly, I've become your stereotypical cougar, I suppose. Even my own son...well, I won't go there."

Marty wondered if she was trying to confess the way Jim had. "What about Jim?"

"Nothing. Just that if he wasn't my son...but of course he is so I couldn't."

'Except you have,' Jim thought, not daring to go there either. "Right. Of course not."

"Anyway, I have no such qualms about sleeping with my hunky young neighbor. And it might sound silly after what I just said about my raging middle-age libido, but I've always liked you. You're a good kid, helpful and polite, not like some of the rude, spoiled, self-absorbed kids around here."

Marty no longer thought of himself as a kid, though he realized he was from Frances' Gen-X perspective. Jokingly, he said, "Nice to know you like me for more than just my body."

She hugged him in a loose embrace, her arms resting on his shoulders, her hands hanging over his back, planting small kisses on his mouth. "Yes, and I hope your affection for me runs deeper than my pussy, which at this moment is hot and wet and aching for your strong teen appendage."

He nodded, not knowing quite how to answer. He always liked her, as in liked her as a person. There was never a reason not to, for she had always treated him with kindness and respect. Then, when his hormones kicked in, he also began liking her in a different way, lustfully, carnally, devoid of the sort of emotion he associated with loving a girl more his age.

She seemed to understand. Not waiting for an answer, she fully embraced him and kissed him again, deep and passionate this time. He gave as good as he got and she said as much. "Actions speak louder than words, Marty, and that kiss spoke loud and clear. Wonderful."

She then dived back into it and he followed, doing his best to drop the nagging guilt he felt from doing this with his best friend's mom. It didn't work, not completely. It lingered on his moral being like a stain on clothing, faint enough to overlook but not forget, though inconsequential compared to the thrill of embracing the erotically charged, middle-aged Frances Sanborn. 'Little wonder Jim couldn't help himself,' he thought, not with a mom like this, beautiful and sensual, with a great sense of how to please.

Please she did, working his cock with her quick tongue and soft lips. 'Pure velvet,' he thought, lying flat on his back while she did this, her legs tucked under her. "I'd love for you to eat my pussy," she said, "but it's your dick I want the most." With that, she squatted over him, her feet planted firmly on the mattress, straddling his body. She eased herself down before getting up to "speed." "Oh, Jim, oh my, you're a marvel to behold."

He waited for her to correct herself, but no correction came. Either the faux pas escaped her or she was too embarrassed to admit it. Not daring to risk spoiling the moment, he thought it best to let it go. "You're very beautiful, Frances," he said, aware it was the first time he called her that. In light of what they were doing, Mrs. Sanborn didn't seem right, didn't fit.

She bent over, kissed him and then rolled over for him to take top. "I prefer to come this way," she said. "It won't be long, just to let you know. You can come whenever you're ready."

He didn't have long to go either, though he stayed determined to hold out. "Ladies first," he quipped.

"My chivalrous teen lover here," she said, barely getting the words out through her moaning and heavy breathing.

Before today, Marty's metaphorical notch on his gun handle came to exactly one. Still, he knew enough to know what a woman's climax felt and sounded like, and when Frances gave him the obvious signs, he followed her into those brief but precious seconds of orgasmic bliss.

They held each other awhile before she rolled over and kissed him with even more intensity than before. "Oh Jim—I mean Marty—that was incredible." She followed her correction with an apology and then more superlatives.

This time he didn't let it go. "Do you realize you called me Jim before?"

"What?! Before when?"

"When you were bouncing up and down on my pole. 'Oh Jim, you're a marvel to behold,' you said." She shook her head in mild horror. "Hey, don't worry about it," he assured her, "I'm not offended."

She forced a smile. "Well, like I said, if Jim weren't my son, this cougar might go after him as well." Pause. "That's between you and me, of course."

"Of course." He chuckled inside. "But I wonder what Jim's reaction might be if you told him." She looked away and began to laugh, and he knew why. Yet he played along. "Did I miss something? You're laughing."

She sat up, leaned against the dark wood headboard and wrapped her arms around her bent legs. "Yes, well, I'm not sure how he'd react. Jim does find me attractive. I've caught him looking at me in various stages of undress, once even when I was on the toilet using my dildo. Not that I'm inclined to find out, to approach him. I mean, I am his mom."

Marty nodded, still determined not to violate Jim's confidence. Even so, he could feel himself slipping, struggling not to look "guilty."

A smile, coyly suspicious, creased her lips. "Pardon me for being redundant, but are you sure that Jim didn't say something to you?"

"Say something about what?" Playing dumb was never Marty's forte.

She stood up and began to slip back into her dress, not bothering with her underwear. "You're a fine lover, Martin Gayle, but a lousy actor."

Marty simply shrugged, for he knew that pressing Frances to acknowledge her own deception would turn the spotlight back on what Jim might or might not have told him.

She saw him to the door. "You're hereby hired for my own private lawn service," she said. "My garden needs constant weeding." She winked.

He wasn't but seconds out the door when he saw Jim's car cruising up the street and then into the driveway. His first instinct was to run. But Jim saw him too, and that would only arouse suspicion. He was just relieved that Jim hadn't returned home minutes earlier.

Jim parked up to the garage door, then alighted from his aging black Olds. "Hey buddy, what's up? Mom must have told you I was with dad."

"Um, yeah, she did."

Jim wore new jeans, a blue v-neck pullover and black gym shoes. He looked at Marty curiously. "Why didn't you call first like you normally do? My cell's always on me." He held it up.

Marty began to sweat. Prone to becoming tongue-tied under stress, he said, "Um, well, I actually came over to help your mom with her needs—I mean weeds." He glanced skyward and shook his head.

Jim narrowed his eyes. "You okay, man? You look a little pale."

'I just fucked your mom,' he thought, laughing to himself. 'What do you expect?' "I'm fine. Really."

They both turned at the sound of the front door opening. "Jim, I didn't expect you home so soon," Francis said. She stood behind the iron railing on her brick porch, moving her arms nervously through the air. "Your friend here was a big help to me today." When she glanced at Marty, he looked sideways.

"So he told me," Jim said, his expression mildly skeptical. "Something about needs and weeds."