In the car with her son beside her, she kept her eyes averted from the obvious swell inside his pants. That was another thing her son didn't conceal; when he had a hard-on, he allowed it to thrust and strain out until he finally went off to jack it frantically. Every time Sharon noticed his cock was hard, she fought to keep her eyes away, pretending she wasn't aware of it. Now, beneath the wheel of the car, her skirt crept a few inches past her knees. With a blush on her pretty face, she left it there.

She had never before allowed her skirt to hike up. This time, she made a special, very difficult, effort to leave it alone.

As soon as they were inside the house, Bobby took off for the bathroom. But this time there was a difference; Bobby was opening his pants as he almost ran.

Sharon paced about the floor, going from the living room to the kitchen, and back again. Knowing her son was in the bathroom jacking off disturbed her greatly. The palms of her hands itched, and the throb of her clit was pronounced more than ever before. She could feel the lips of her cunt swelling up, and the crotch of her panties was drenched with the slippery juices oozing from her pussy. She tried to visualize her son there, sitting perhaps on the toilet, his legs wide, his precious cock standing straight up, his fist wrapped about it, squeezing, pumping and pounding, his lovely balls jiggling.

She stood in the middle of the living room, pressing the heel of one hand into her crotch, the cheeks of her ass tightening. She closed her eyes, lifting her head upward, moaning softly. She twisted her hips, then made humping motions, jerking her ass back and forth slowly.

The orgasm was mild, whetting her hunger for more, stronger orgasms.

If only she could be bold, fuck her son. If only she could do something with him, anything to cool the overheated bubbling of her cunt. She could satisfy herself and her son at the same time. This way was nothing but pure torture, she tried to tell herself.