And it was called for now, she felt.

The boys would never make a pass unless she let them know she was willing.

Eric was not home, but Marty was.

So her youngest son was selected first.

"Marty," she called from the kitchen, "please come and give me a hand, honey."

He came in, and she told him to brace the high stool as she wiped the top of the cupboard down. When her son was holding the stool, Joan climbed up, making sure her dress came up to reveal her creamy thighs. Standing on the very top of the stool she went up on tiptoe, pretending to wipe at the shelves. Her skirt moved past her knees, and she glanced down to see if her son was peeking.

He was.

Oh, how he was, she thought with a rush of pleasure.

Marty's head came to the bottom of his mother's skirt, and he was looking up underneath it. Joan saw the hot gleam in his dark eyes and recognized the desire there.

Marty was looking hotly under his mother's dress, seeing her long, tantalizing thighs, her lacy panties. The panties were bikini, sheer with frilly lace all about them. The dark shadow of her cunt hair could be seen easily past the sheer material. The sight was giving Marty a powerful hard-on.

"Oh, hold my legs, honey!" Joan said, pretending to shake. "Don't let me fall."

His hands gripped his mother's knees, and he kept his gaze turned up under her dress. Joan lifted a foot, bending at the knee and pretending to reach higher. She swung her uplifted foot wide, and Marty stared directly into the lovely crotch of his mother.

That was enough to excite him, she thought. Placing her foot back on the stool, she said, softly, "Help me down, baby, don't let me fall."