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by Veronica Sloan
Published by Veronica Sloan at Lot’s Cave
Cougar Party, © 2017, by Veronica Sloan
All Rights Reserved
Cover by Veronica Sloan
All Characters In This Book Are Age 18 Or Older
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the Lot’s Cave website and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Lot’s Cave Novel
How is a mother supposed to feel when she catches her son in bed with a girl for the first time? Embarrassed? Amused? Politely ambivalent? It's one of those things no one can tell you about being a parent. But people generally agree you're not supposed to feel jealous.
If that shocks you, I understand. It shocked me, too.
Until that moment, I'd never thought of my son as a man. I mean, yes, I'm a mom and that's what we all say, but for the previous 18 years I'd walked in on Jason doing all manner of boyish things. When he was nine he duct taped cardboard wings to his arms so he could fly to the house next door. Even then he was crazy for girls, and he was convinced that Amanda's daughter, Stephanie, was a princess in need of rescuing. I managed to grab Jason just before he jumped out the window, and his furious little face told me I was interrupting “groundbreaking scientific progress.”
Thankfully, that scientific progress, like so many of his hobbies, was soon scuttled for his next passion: Football. My scrawny little scientist grew up to be a quarterback, and he rode that passion all the way to a full scholarship at O'Reilly University. I was relieved, but even then I thought of him as my little boy. He was big and muscled like a Dothraki warrior, but he was still girl crazy, and still convinced I wanted to pluck his cardboard wings.
That resentment hurt. We'd been so close when he was young. After Jason's father walked out, I relied on my boy to be strong and he relied on me to provide. I hadn't planned on getting married so young, but neither had I planned on getting pregnant in my early twenties. And though I was willing to sacrifice my career to stay home, for Bill it was too soon to stop partying (I used to wonder if maybe my husband had his own pair of wings and I was just too slow to catch him). I suddenly had to recorrect my course correction and find both a job and a way to raise Jason on my own.
I used to tell men that I only had room for one man in my life, and Jason was that little man. But while I worked to build my own business, Jason wasted no time growing up.
The first few times I caught him with a girl were relatively innocent. Shy kisses on our front porch, notes I found slipped into his backpack. As he grew older, he grew bolder. There was the time I parked in the driveway after a grueling 14-hour workday and found Jason sitting on the front porch in nothing but his boxer shorts. He'd jogged home after some bizarre romantic mishap I never got the full story on. Another time I was woken up at my desk by a girl that was much too old for high school, but she had his key and was wondering if Jason would be home soon.
These episodes were ridiculous, but he never hurt anybody, and I usually came away from them more perplexed than pissed off. Other kids were drinking and driving, doing drugs, sometimes calling their parents to put up bail. Jason never shamed me that way. He loved the fame of the field too much to jeopardize his future. He loved the attention, and the girls. I wasn't naive enough to think he was just kissing these girls after so many winning touchdowns, but the full picture never clicked for me. When does your son become a man? At what age?
It was an uncomfortable thought. So much time had slipped through my fingers in the 18 years since he was born. And it wasn't until that eighteenth year, after he'd graduated high school and joined the Lambda Omega Epsilons, that I finally saw him as a man.
It had been another late night for me. I'd had nothing but late nights for the last three years. It was a hell of my own making. I took a small subsidiary of my company fully independent, and just about broke my back to make it profitable. Jason's last year in high school was the first year we kept the company above the red, and the reason I was seldom home to make dinner. Jason said he didn't mind - he usually went out with his team anyway - but it broke my heart. The job, the money, it was all to take care of him and his future, but I never got to see him. I was happy when he decided to live at home for his first year at university, until I discovered how much time he'd dedicate to his frat, his team, and his studies. There was no remainder for our relationship.
On this particular night, I arrived home only slightly earlier than usual. It was nearly eleven o'clock. I cast off my heels in the hall. I groaned a little on the slow, aching walk up the stairs. I was prepared to turn off the landing to my room and sleep as long as my schedule allowed. Then I heard the sound. It was like something falling off the roof.
When I reached Jason's room, I realized it was a ladder hitting the side of our house.
His door was open but the lights were off. It didn't matter. The streetlights from outside poured through the window, illuminating their bodies and their frantic lovemaking. Jason was on his knees, the girl beneath him, and he was mounting her like a stallion.
I froze in his doorway, unable to speak. I was shocked to find him like that, but even greater than my shock was my sudden resentment for the girl he was fucking. She had her ass up, her face down, her body at his mercy. She was a skinny thing, and framed against his hulking physique she looked so small and helpless. Most girls did, compared to my son.
The streetlight rippled over his monstrous back. It was like watching a Renaissance painting come to life. His lats, his trapezius, his lower back, their bulging muscles rolled through the shadows like coiled snakes. His thrusts were athletic and controlled, and though they couldn't have been at it for long I knew this savage act would last as long as my son felt the desire. The girl, I realized, was Stephanie, one year older than my son and the object of his juvenile affection. It seems he didn't need the wings; she'd come to him wet and willing.
She panted into his sheets and mumbled quick, breathless responses to his low commands. He spanked her ass (what little of it there was), and told her what a dirty girl she was. She assented to everything that he said.
“You needed this dick, didn't you, Steph?”
“Yes!” she groaned.
“Where does daddy think you are?”
“At Michael's house!”
“But Michael doesn't give you the D like I do.”
“No!” she moaned, loud as life.
“Shhhh! Didn't you hear the garage? My mom's probably trying to sleep.”
“I...I can't, baby. Not when you touch me like that.”
His hand, I now saw, was wrapped around her little waist. He had his finger on her clit and her pleasure totally in his palm.
They must have skipped the foreplay. She must have stripped so fast. I'd heard the ladder hit the wall and found them like this. They couldn't have spoken much. Their phones were glowing on the ground, so perhaps they'd already said all they needed to say. Perhaps she was as wet for him as she needed to be, no further teasing necessary. It was evident in her posture - from the way her back arched and she invited him to pull her hair - she needed my son immediately.
It was indecent. If Amanda knew her daughter was here - and apparently cheating on whoever Michael was! - she'd be mortified. And yet, watching my son slake this girl's indecent desire sent tingles down to the parts of me that hadn't been played with in months. No, in full honesty, I hadn't been taken the way Jason took that girl in years. Bill had been a passionate lover - though it turned out that was all he was good for.
Maybe Bill was the universe's way of telling me that a man's age has nothing to do with his masculinity. What separated a “boy” from a “man” was vague. And yet, watching my son in his bed, and listening to the rising moans of the woman he pleasured, I lost all sense of the boy my son had been. He was a man doing what men did, and the shock of my jealousy temporarily froze me in my tracks.
“What the fuck?!”
When Jason pulled her hair back, Stephanie's gaze fell on me. She screamed loud enough that Jason's fingers released. She fell forward, bounced off the mattress, and rolled on the floor. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!” she cried, and immediately fled out the window.
“Oh!” I cried. I didn't want the girl to hurt herself! “Jason, I'm sorry! You can tell her to come back. I'll...”
My stutters meant nothing to him. He remained on his bed, knees dug into the mattress, head bowed in disappointment. He rested his palms on his svelte thighs and softly laughed. Laughed!
He hadn't moved an inch from where he'd started and Stephanie was already sprinting across her lawn. After she jumped from the ladder I heard her bare feet tear through the pile of leaves between our houses and slap the driveway with her toes. I hoped the girl had some way to get in her house. I hated to think of her stranded - naked! - in the dark.
It didn't seem to bother Jason. He just went on staring at the opposite wall, breathing hard, his big shoulders rolling like a sweaty boulder.
A silly analogy, but an appropriate one. I knew my son was big and I knew my son was strong, but until that moment I'd never seen him so...nude! I'd seen him stripped to the waist, I'd seen him in his track shorts, but I'd never seen all of him, all at once. And the way he sat there on his bed, motionless, eyes squinting at the wall, he really did look like he was carved from stone. Only the panting gave him away.
Once again I marveled at the muscles in his neck. They descended like wings across his shoulder blades and turned his arms into dangerous-looking machines. Even his buttocks, half-buried in the sheets, were toned and firm. I wondered if there was an ounce of fat on him. It was like a Greek god had claimed my son's bed and now I was trapped in the house with him. Those gods were always getting up to naughty mischief, and I'd just witnessed the proof. Glistening with sweat, stinking of sex and that girl's cheap perfume, Jason seemed so far removed from the little boy I'd raised that I was no longer sure it was him. Except...