My Mothers are MILFs!

Brandon shrugged as she walked down the stairs. "It was school," he said with a crooked smile. "What have you been up to today? Where's Mother Maureen?"

"She's meeting with a client," she replied. She made a face. "Potential client, at least. I think that after you leave for college, she's going to try to get some larger customers. The people she has pays the bills, with a little left over," she commented, looking around at the large, comfortable house. "With some help from me. But there's no reason why she shouldn't try to expand a bit. She's damn smart, Brandon. I hope you appreciate what she's done for you."

"I do."

"I know you do." She wrapped her arms around him in a hug, savoring the strength of his warm male body, so different from her wife's. She looked up at him teasingly. "And you better not be one of those kids who never comes back home once they leave for college, unless they're out of clean clothes and need someone to do the laundry. I love Maureen, Brandon, but I'm not sure about the two of us kicking around here all by ourselves."

"You're only thirty-nine," he said, his breath ruffling her hair. "Maybe you two could adopt. Or...or one of those other things. In vitro, or whatever. I wouldn't mind a little brother. Or sister."

She snorted, and pulled away slightly. "I like the things which lead to getting children. But I'm not sure how good a mom I would be, kiddo."

He frowned down at her. "You did all right with me."

"Yeah. But you were three. Can you imagine me trying to potty-train a toddler? I don't have the patience. I'd go nuts."

He folded her back in with a low laugh, and she bit back a sigh of pleasure. It was only with the greatest difficulty that she kept herself from reaching down to fondle his cock. She could sense it, deep inside his jeans. Not hard, not yet. But close. It would take only a push to nudge him over the edge.

But how to get him there, damnit? She had worn this outfit solely for the purpose of getting him excited. Her top was low-cut and didn't even reach to her waist. An old shirt which she had kept through many years, it was thin enough that it was practically see-through. And her skirt barely reached the middle of her thighs.

Come on, Brandon. Make a move. I'm right here. Her body was hot and flushed, blood pounding at his nearness.

Her phone chirped, making them both jump. Brandon moved away, his face betraying a hint of guilt as she walked to the counter. "Well." She peered at the screen. "It looks like Maureen is going to be a while longer. The interview went well, and she's looking over the books now." She smiled as her eyes scanned the irate message. "But they seem to be in a hell of a mess. Mo says we shouldn't wait on her for dinner. She might not be home until later.

"So what do you want to eat?" she asked. She struck a pose. "The chef is ready to make anything your teenage heart desires."

He lifted his eyebrows at her. "You don't look much like a chef."

"Oh ye of little faith," she teased. "I made my own meals before I met your mother, you know."

"Maureen says the first time she looked in your freezer, the only things you had were pot pies and those horrible microwave meals."

"Maureen," she sniffed, "should keep her big mouth shut. And I'm older now. Many moons older. Now I can cook frozen pizza, too. And tater tots." She opened up the freezer and peered inside, bending over so her skirt hiked up high on her thighs. "What sounds best? Waffles? Or pop tarts?"

In the end, despite her half-serious threats, she was able to put together a meal that was more than edible, despite Brandon's teasing and her own limitations. Truth be told, she was never going to be the 50s version of little Nancy Homemaker, able to serve a five-course meal, dressed in pearls and a cocktail dress, at the drop of a hat. When she and Mo had first moved in together, her lack of domestic skills had been the despair of her girlfriend, who couldn't believe that a woman could be so utterly incapable of cleaning or cooking or simply keeping a tidy house. Her skills lay elsewhere -- in a finely-tuned bullshit detector which helped her root out corporate inefficiency, in her ability to put the most opaque and convoluted policies in clear, concise language, and in a personality which, when described, ranged the gamut from 'strong' to 'ball-busting bitch,' depending on whose opinion was being asked.

But eventually they sat down to a season-appropriate meal of potato soup, salad, and hot crescent rolls. Brandon teased her for making soup that came out of a package and salad from a bag, but she loftily ignored him, remarking only that he didn't seem to mind the taste too much, and that if he didn't like it, he was more than welcome to start making his own meals.

"That reminds me," she continued, pointing her salad fork at him. "I'm going to get you a couple of cookbooks for when you go away to college. Eventually you're going to have to start learning to do things for yourself." She smirked. "Laundry. Cooking. Dishes. Dusting." She shuddered theatrically. "Windows."

"I can already do laundry," he said defensively.

"Yeah? What about that time you put your soccer uniform in with your underwear? Red uniform and tighty-whities? Everything came out pink. I though Mo was going to have a heart attack, she was laughing so hard."

"Oh, come on!" he retorted, his eyes flashing. "I was eleven. I'm smarter than that now. How hard can it be?" He counted off on his fingers. "Whites. Colors. Not-colors. Jeans. Four categories. I bet even the football players can handle that."

"And your delicates," she pointed out. "Like dress shirts. And your sheets. And blankets. And curtains. Don't forget about those. And eventually you're going to have to learn to do your girlfriend's things, too." She grinned at him. "You definitely don't want to put Diane's panties with your t-shirts, my boy."

He muttered something incomprehensible and looked down at the table, and she thought again about how strange it was that the tall young man across from her had somehow wormed his way into her heart. Janice had never wanted a child. In fact, when she and Maureen had first started dating, she had mocked the very idea. She was more than happy with a lifetime of consequence-free sex, thank you very much. She certainly didn't want to curtail her freedom for something as messy and inconvenient as a baby.

But somehow, between the visits with Bryce and Kathleen and little Brandon, which Maureen seemed to need almost as much as she needed air and water, and the hammer-blow of their deaths, she had found herself becoming a parent, almost by default. No one, she swore, would let Brandon be taken away from Maureen. And, by the same measure, from herself. No one would be able to claim they were unfit to raise him, merely because of an accident of sexual orientation. So one day became two, became a week, a month, a year, and then one day she realized she would no more give Brandon up than she would shave her skull bald.

"What?" She blinked, coming back to herself.

"I was asking if you had any new job leads," Brandon repeated.

She let her lips curl up as she finished her soup. "What's the matter? Getting tired of having me around the house? Worried that we won't be able to afford a graduation present for you?"

Brandon stood abruptly. "Never mind," he said as he pushed back his chair. It scraped across the hardwood floor with a squeal. "Forget I asked. You make everything into a joke anyway." Picking up his dishes, he stalked out of the room and into the kitchen. A few seconds later, she heard the slam of the dishwasher door.

Her jaw fell open as she stared after him. Abruptly, she got to her feet and stormed int the kitchen. "What the hell has gotten into you?" she demanded, hands on her hips.

"Nothing," he muttered. He turned his back on her, pouring leftover soup into a plastic container.

"It sure as hell doesn't seem like nothing to me," she shot back. Gripping his arm, she pulled him around. "What bug just crawled up your ass? And what makes you think you can use that tone with me?"

Brandon threw the spoon into the sink with a clatter. "What makes you think you can walk around the house dressed like a damn...like a damn hooker?" he snarled. "Do you know how it makes me feel when Diane comes over and you're wearing practically nothing?"

Janice's own temper flared, remembering hundreds of smirking, condescending men who insisted that the way women were treated were their own fault. "How I dress is none of your damn business." She leaned over and stabbed him in the chest with one rigid finger. "It's mine."

"It's my business when I live here," he snapped. Somehow his hands were on her waist, his grip strong. "Diane was making jokes about how she was worried you and Mo were going to catch pneumonia. And this!" He glanced down at her chest. "Maybe you might want to think about putting a bra on," he said with heavy sarcasm.

"Listen, mister." Her voice went low and angry. "In my house, I will wear what I want, when I want. If I want to not wear a bra, or go commando, there's not a damn thing you can do about it. And no one, not even you, will tell me what is appropriate, and what is not. Furthermore..."

And then she felt it. Slight, hesitant, but undeniable.

Brandon's hands moved. Not hard, not angry, despite his tense, frustrated face.

Up.

Towards her breasts.

Fuck! He's actually trying to feel me up! In the middle of a damn argument! She didn't know whether to be pissed or amused by his daring.

Their eyes locked, blue meeting brown. She lifted her chin, forcing calm upon herself, despite the sudden spasm of hope that blazed through her mind.

His hands moved higher, his fingers burning her skin like a brand.

Careful. You have to be very careful.

When he was mere inches away from her breasts, she forced out the one word she did not want to say.

"Brandon," she said, looking down at his hands. "Stop."

Horror and guilt rushed through his face, and he jerked away like a child who had scalded himself on a stove. "Oh, God. Mom, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Please, don't tell anyone, I'll never-"

She stopped his babble with a finger across his lips. Smiling, she unbuttoned her thin blouse, spreading it wide. Brandon's eyes nearly popped out of his head as he took in her breasts, freed from their cloth prison. She smiled as she glanced down at them. They had always been her best feature. Her face was too strong to be conventionally attractive. But her legs were nice, her waist narrow, and her tits were spectacular -- large and firm with puffy brown nipples.

"There," she said cheerfully. "That's better."

She took his hand and placed it firmly on her left breast. Instinctively, his fingers curled around it, and she closed her eyes with a whimper of pleasure. Did he realize what he was doing? More importantly, did she care if he knew? The opportunity was there, a perfect moment, golden and glistening. If she didn't take advantage it might be lost forever.

"Mom..." It was almost a groan.

"No. Janice," she said. "My name is Janice. Not Mom. Not tonight."

And she pushed him against the wall and pulled his head down and kissed him with all the pent-up passion of the past three weeks. Brandon's mouth opened. And whether it was in astonishment or desire, she didn't care, as she let her tongue dart out and taste him for the first time. His lips were soft and sweet, but he gave a hungry little growl as she nipped his lips that reverberated in her chest, making her body burn.

God, yes. He's a man.

Their kiss went on, their tongues twining, first in his mouth, then in hers. As they did, she explored his body with her hands, her fingers feeling his impressive chest and strong arms, then curling around to squeeze the tight, taut muscles of his ass.

When she finally pulled away from him, she was almost panting with the force of her lust. It had been years since she had been so turned on, and she smiled as she traced the swollen outline of Brandon's cock through his jeans. Even through the denim, she thought she could sense the pounding pulse of his heartbeat.

"Jesus Christ, you make me wet," she groaned. Taking his hand, she placed it at her center, watching his eyes widen as he realized she wasn't wearing panties. "Feel it?"

He nodded, face stunned. Slowly, in response to her encouraging moans, he began to trace the outlines of her lips. The feel of his strong fingers on her petals made her knees weak and her pussy flood with moisture.

"I've wanted you for a long time, baby," she murmured. "But I finally got brave enough. Because I love you. But I want more. This isn't enough. I want you inside me.

"Will you come upstairs with me? Will you make love with me?"

She watched his face, hoping beyond hope she would see an answering desire there. When it came, her heart sang inside her chest.

"Yes, Janice," Brandon said. His eyes were deep and fathomless, filled with an emotion she could not name.

"I will."

She peeled her clothes off in the bedroom, her fingers flying as she flung the old blouse into the hamper and shoved her skirt down her legs. Looking up, she saw that Brandon's face was disappointed. "What?"

He made an aborted gesture at her body. "I was hoping..."

"To what?"

"To undress you myself."

She cocked her head. "Why?"

Her son shrugged. "I don't know. I just like undressing women, I guess." His lips quirked up in their familiar smile. "It's like opening up the world's sexiest Christmas present."

"Well, Christmas isn't for a few months yet. And your birthday was weeks ago. But next time, I promise." She tugged his shirt out of his jeans. "Arms up," she commanded as she lifted it up and over his head. Her breath caught as she eyed the hard, clean planes of his chest. Not bulky, like a weight-lifter, but sculpted, like an athlete.

"Damn." She ran her fingertips across his hot skin. He didn't have much hair, which was just the way she liked it. Just a pair of haloes around his pink, nubbly nipples, and a thick trail leading from his navel to his groin. "I didn't know soccer players looked so good," she teased.

"Coach makes us lift," he said, closing his eyes. She watched, fascinated, as gooseflesh broke out on his arms. "Says it will help us in long games."

"Well, I approve. Very much." She leaned forward, laving kisses on his skin, letting her hands fall to his belt. A few tugs, and his jeans were wide open, and she could reach in and fish out the throbbing hardness of his cock. "Oh, that's nice," she said. Her heart beat faster in anticipation. In seconds, she had his jeans and boxers pushed down so she could see it in all of its steely, tumescent glory. Large, thick, and straight, she could only imagine the way it would feel inside her. "You have a gorgeous penis, baby."

To her amusement, her son blushed. And then blushed harder as his voice cracked. "Really?" He stammered. "I mean, Diane says so. But, you know..."

"You thought she might just be trying to make you feel good? No way." She curled her fingers around it, giving him an experimental pump. "You're thicker than some and longer than most. Which is just the way I like it."

Just the way her wife liked it, too, but she very carefully kept her lips closed on that observation. Let Maureen tell Brandon herself, if she decided to screw up her courage and take Brandon to bed.

In the meantime, however...she licked the underside of Brandon's phallus, smiling as he jumped. A pearly bead of pre-cum formed at the top of his slit, and she lapped it off, closing her eyes as his taste exploded across her tastebuds.

Too long. It's been too long since I've been with a man. She was naked, Brandon nearly so. With a sigh of regret, she let his manhood slip out of her mouth and backed up onto the bed. She held out her hand for Brandon. For a moment, he hesitated, and she hid a smile. He looked so cute, with his jeans around his ankles and his cock pointing up in the air. But she couldn't risk having him think she was laughing at him. Men were so...sensitive...in the bedroom. In more ways than one.

After a moment's hesitation, he joined her. "What do you..." His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "What do you want?"

"You, of course." She trailed a hand from his shoulder to his waist.

Brandon flushed. "You know what I mean." He gestured. "What do you like to do? In bed?"

She grinned. "Everything."

He snorted. "Be serious."

"I am serious." She leaned back on her nest of pillows, her hand never leaving his skin. "I like pretty much everything one person can do with another in bed. Or anything one person can do with two other people," she added as Brandon's eyes widened. "I like giving oral to a woman and I love getting it. I like giving blow jobs and I love it when I can make a guy shoot inside my mouth. When I'm with a guy, I don't care what position I'm in. Missionary or doggie or cowgirl or spooning or anything else. And regardless of who I'm with, I love to touch them and have them play with my breasts and my butt and my legs.

"It's all about feeling good, Brandon. That's what sex really is, when you strip it down to the floorboards. No matter how much glitter you put on it, in the end it's really all about making the other person feel good."

"Hmmm." He leaned close, sweeping his hand up and down the flat curve of her belly. "What about love then?" His breath stirred the hair near her ear.

"Love just makes it better. So much better." Janice turned onto her side, so she could pull him close. His rod was a jittering bar of heat against her thigh, and she pressed it against him, smiling as his breath hitched. "Sex is kind of like ice cream, baby. Even when it's plain vanilla, it's pretty damn good. But when you add love, well, then it's like a double-decker ice-cream sundae with whip cream and maraschino cherries and gooey fudge dripping down the sides. It takes what's already one of the best things in the world and makes it fucking fantastic.

"I love Maureen. Sex with her is great. And I love you. And I know that sex with you is going to be awesome.

"So how about we quit talking about it and start doing it?"

She pushed at Brandon's shoulder, rolling him onto his back. Before he could do more than utter a muffled protest, she was on top of him, kissing him urgently. One hand busied itself with his cute little nipples, while the other grasped his dick, pumping him slowly. Without looking down, she spread his pre-cum over the head of his prick, savoring the sweet moan she brought from him.

Meanwhile, Brandon began to prove that the sounds she had heard coming from his bedroom when Diane was visiting weren't caused by her imagination. He cupped her breasts, his hands and fingers hefting them experimentally, then stroking them, seemingly bent on mapping them from touch alone.

It had been a long, long while since anyone had ever brought this combination of desire and fascination to her bed. The last one...she smiled as she kissed Brandon again, her lips sliding over his sensuously, her chest rubbing on his, her rear canted high into the air, avoiding the stiff rod that hung poised between them. The last one, honestly, had been Maureen. Her wife had been no innocent when they became lovers, thank God. But there had still been that almost childlike sense of wonder when she had finally thrown off the last pieces of her hesitancy and had screwed her for the first time. Which was a good thing, because the thought of getting the tall, black-haired woman in her bed had been driving her absolutely crazy.

Now, the child of that same woman's brother lifted his head, his tongue flicking out to dart over her nipples. First one, back and forth, until her nips were drawn up into throbbing nubs and shining wetly. Growling deep in her throat, she caught the back of his head in one hand, holding him fast.