We stayed home in our own Private Eden. Mother prepared an early supper, so we wouldn't be too full or bloated for the pleasurable activities we planned to indulge in at the stroke of midnight. She made us a stir-fry of Cornish game hen breasts, ginger and chilli peppers. And a cucumber, almonds, cherry tomato, cruton salad with a dressing laced with cinnamon. Dessert was heated chocolate syrup and marshmallow balls over heated bananas. All of these ingredients shrewdly calculated to open the blood vessels and increase the blood flow, particularly to the cheeks, lips, and erogenous zones (discrete for cock and cunt).

After supper, we retired to the living room with our cognacs, where mother donned the pair of red cowgirl boots I gave her for Christmas, then proceeded to strut her stuff in front of me, as I slouched in the sofa, like I was the goddamned Sultan of Brunei. I opened my robe and took matters in hand, and, with casual entitlement,  languidly jerked to my Mom as she swirled and swung, taunted and teased, and bumped to both the original Nancy Sinatra version of "These Boots Are Made For Walkin", and the Jessica Simpson rendition. God, how she loves that song, the vengeance of it, and how simply extra stirring was her sing-along, pitch-purrfect sexy voice.

By the time Dorothy was pared down to just her bad boots and bristling with attitude, my prodigal penis was primed for some of that ever-luscious body jiggling right in front of me. Whereupon she straddled her flushed-hot-pink self over my legs and settled onto the one remaining, still-standing family totem pole.

Her hands were in her hair, all dramatic, mine digging firmly into the soft flesh of her grinding wide hips as she tossed me a lap dance that the mere simulation of which would get her arrested even in Las Vegas' most liberal private club. Then Ca-blooey! All over us. Then, do it some more. And some more.

Eventually, we got to the bedroom to listen on the radio to the countdown from San Franciso. My darling mother under me, as we smooched and uttered sweet-nothings. And we ground and locked our hot 'n horny pelvises tight and secure as the U.S. Mint, and began the easy, righteous, sensuous strokes that bind as the clock struck midnight.    

BL