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- Joined
- Sep 17, 2016
My eyes caught the blurb running across the bottom of the screen: “Governor Declares State of Emergency Due to Historic Lake-Effect Snowstorm.”
Shit.
I gulped, and warmth seemed to drain out of my chest in sympathy. Or defiance, given that my cock flexed a couple seconds later. Probability of getting back to sunny California today: 0. Probability of being invited to my high-school sweetheart’s house for the day: 1.
Yesterday, I would have jumped at another chance to catch up with her; today, I have to pray I make it through the night without being stomped by the giant elephant in the room: that you- known the neighborhood over as the diminutive, doting mother of the century- fucked me with such reckless abandon that the neighbors ended up calling the cops.
When I showed up on your doorstep last night with a bottle of wine and some cheeky “Long Time No See” gifts in tow, I was expecting to run into your daughter- but as the hours flitted away, it became pretty apparent that she was ditching your tongue-in-cheek Festivus celebration for her new boyfriend.
I’d heard about your messy divorce through the grapevine. I was glad your aptly-named husband Dick was no longer around to cheat on you, but I could tell the combination of an absent spouse and daughter for the first time in a long time was weighing you down, no matter how much you laughed at my asinine jokes as the night wore on.
Your fake smile reminded me of the one I wore when I arrived at this town years ago, a grubby foster kid who learned early on to walk on eggshells if I wanted to avoid a beating. Back then- when we were almost the same height- you were the first to show me the sort of kindness and compassion I’d been aching for. The woman who offered me a home away from home. So I resolved to hang around after the rest of the neighbors said their goodbyes and bowed out of the celebration, to keep you company while you were feeling low.
I never actually got the chance to lay any of that maudlin mumbling at your feet, though, because you somehow managed to lay me on mine in the middle of my slightly drunken rant. Between the deftness of your slender hand freeing my impossibly hard cock from the confines of my pants and the feeling of your tongue slipping against mine, all I had the presence of mind to do was flop once or twice, more fish than man. Eventually I watched from the floor as you lifted your lips from mine, an actual string of saliva connecting us.
I was totally planning to protest, if I could figure out how to do something other than stare back at you, slack jawed and already messy with precome. Then your freshly-shaven cunt was in my face, and I vaguely caught you saying something to the effect of “I bet you love it when girls gag on your cock.” This time, I actually responded, “Wait, stop!”- only I did it by clumsily grabbing your thighs as I pushed the tip of my tongue inside you. You “stopped” by burying your nose into my groin, sloppy glorks hanging in the air- and when I tried to pull my hips back to retract from your throat and give you room to breathe, you grabbed my legs and forced yourself deeper still.
Somewhere between my cock threatening to explode in your throat and your shrieking response to my sloppy alphabet work, I managed to regain the use of my muscles and lift you off of my body, torn between regret and resolution as I felt you quiver in my hands.
I was ninety percent of the way to attempting a mature explanation about how there was no way I could ethically take advantage of a grieving divorcee that I used to look up to as a surrogate mother when I saw how embarrassed your face looked, beet red, flecked with saliva, totally vulnerable…
...and then there were loud knocks on the door, your body totally still as you rode the last shots of my orgasm into your cunt, your breasts bouncing gently as you uselessly attempted to make your screams just a little less loud.
The aftermath- stupidly answering the door in hastily donned clothes, having to demonstrate that you actually weren’t being murdered with medieval torture devices, getting a wide range of looks from the neighbors and the police- ended up sticking in my head much more clearly than the actual throes of passion. Cue the endless apologies, pseudo-hug-handshake-see-ya-later, forgetting my goddamn backpack… and now, as the cherry on the fuckery cake, a chirpy, “Can’t wait to see you!” text from your daughter, confirming that her car is in fact at the terminal right now.
Shit.
Kinks: Normally demure housewives gone wild, embarrassment, commiseration, watching clear social relations melt into nothing right before our eyes.
Clarification: All lines prescribing your character’s actions/personality are for demonstration purposes; cross my heart and hope to be ruthlessly knocked off my socks by a spunky lady looking for late night spunk. Inside/around her person.
Shit.
I gulped, and warmth seemed to drain out of my chest in sympathy. Or defiance, given that my cock flexed a couple seconds later. Probability of getting back to sunny California today: 0. Probability of being invited to my high-school sweetheart’s house for the day: 1.
Yesterday, I would have jumped at another chance to catch up with her; today, I have to pray I make it through the night without being stomped by the giant elephant in the room: that you- known the neighborhood over as the diminutive, doting mother of the century- fucked me with such reckless abandon that the neighbors ended up calling the cops.
When I showed up on your doorstep last night with a bottle of wine and some cheeky “Long Time No See” gifts in tow, I was expecting to run into your daughter- but as the hours flitted away, it became pretty apparent that she was ditching your tongue-in-cheek Festivus celebration for her new boyfriend.
I’d heard about your messy divorce through the grapevine. I was glad your aptly-named husband Dick was no longer around to cheat on you, but I could tell the combination of an absent spouse and daughter for the first time in a long time was weighing you down, no matter how much you laughed at my asinine jokes as the night wore on.
Your fake smile reminded me of the one I wore when I arrived at this town years ago, a grubby foster kid who learned early on to walk on eggshells if I wanted to avoid a beating. Back then- when we were almost the same height- you were the first to show me the sort of kindness and compassion I’d been aching for. The woman who offered me a home away from home. So I resolved to hang around after the rest of the neighbors said their goodbyes and bowed out of the celebration, to keep you company while you were feeling low.
I never actually got the chance to lay any of that maudlin mumbling at your feet, though, because you somehow managed to lay me on mine in the middle of my slightly drunken rant. Between the deftness of your slender hand freeing my impossibly hard cock from the confines of my pants and the feeling of your tongue slipping against mine, all I had the presence of mind to do was flop once or twice, more fish than man. Eventually I watched from the floor as you lifted your lips from mine, an actual string of saliva connecting us.
I was totally planning to protest, if I could figure out how to do something other than stare back at you, slack jawed and already messy with precome. Then your freshly-shaven cunt was in my face, and I vaguely caught you saying something to the effect of “I bet you love it when girls gag on your cock.” This time, I actually responded, “Wait, stop!”- only I did it by clumsily grabbing your thighs as I pushed the tip of my tongue inside you. You “stopped” by burying your nose into my groin, sloppy glorks hanging in the air- and when I tried to pull my hips back to retract from your throat and give you room to breathe, you grabbed my legs and forced yourself deeper still.
Somewhere between my cock threatening to explode in your throat and your shrieking response to my sloppy alphabet work, I managed to regain the use of my muscles and lift you off of my body, torn between regret and resolution as I felt you quiver in my hands.
I was ninety percent of the way to attempting a mature explanation about how there was no way I could ethically take advantage of a grieving divorcee that I used to look up to as a surrogate mother when I saw how embarrassed your face looked, beet red, flecked with saliva, totally vulnerable…
...and then there were loud knocks on the door, your body totally still as you rode the last shots of my orgasm into your cunt, your breasts bouncing gently as you uselessly attempted to make your screams just a little less loud.
The aftermath- stupidly answering the door in hastily donned clothes, having to demonstrate that you actually weren’t being murdered with medieval torture devices, getting a wide range of looks from the neighbors and the police- ended up sticking in my head much more clearly than the actual throes of passion. Cue the endless apologies, pseudo-hug-handshake-see-ya-later, forgetting my goddamn backpack… and now, as the cherry on the fuckery cake, a chirpy, “Can’t wait to see you!” text from your daughter, confirming that her car is in fact at the terminal right now.
Shit.
Kinks: Normally demure housewives gone wild, embarrassment, commiseration, watching clear social relations melt into nothing right before our eyes.
Clarification: All lines prescribing your character’s actions/personality are for demonstration purposes; cross my heart and hope to be ruthlessly knocked off my socks by a spunky lady looking for late night spunk. Inside/around her person.