7 More MILF Stories (10 page)

Soft Cock City

Frank Henderson, 25 years
old, currently having the worst night of his life.

Every man knows that the day his dick
goes limp when fully and deeply in the wetness of a gorgeous
woman's pussy is the day that his life has officially turned to
crap.

The gentle rolling shift of her trim
hips are both arousing and soothing. There's the faintest swish of
the naughty little red and black patterned skirt that she hasn't
bothered to take off in our haste to get to the fun part. It licks
over the skin of my thighs each time her hips roll forward towards
my navel.

Up top, things are bouncing in a
delightful fashion. Her breasts are not small by anyone's measure
of the word and the faintest hint of sex sweat is pungent in the
air as a drop or two of clear liquid dribbles lazily down between
her breasts to cross the trimness of her flat stomach to join the
moisture at her crotch on this midsummer evening's night in my
apartment in Florida's south.

This gorgeous young woman of no less
than 25 years of age – only a month younger than myself – is my
girlfriend Gemma and, my-my-my, is she one hell of a
hotty.

I mean, five-two, light brown eyes the
color of cream-brown shoe polish, perfect white teeth and the
genetics to be a super model (if a somewhat short one). She's
everything a guy my age would and could want.

Sad thing is:
I don't want her.

Not like she wants me to
anyway.

Her rocking slows and my double bed's
creaking ceases for a fraction of a second. The faintest crinkle of
her brown-blond tinted eyebrows signal that the game is
up.

I quickly bring my hands up to try and
appease things by circling the finger tips of my middle and index
fingers in long gentle strokes over her little
button-rounds.

For such big breasts, she sure does
have tiny nipples. I push them slightly inwards, maybe a few
millimeters or so, and those brown questing eyes of hers go to the
white plastered roof – all sign of that considering frown gone –
and a low restrained cry slips from between her red flushed
lips.

If only she wasn't who she
is and was...

I stifle the thought with rough
efficiency. No point pining over something I can't have – something
so forbidden, yet something I so desperately want, that even the
thought of it sends little butterflies of desire through my firm
lower stomach.

Unfortunately at this
point, down where it counts, I've finally crossed the point of no
return. My dick has lost so much firmness that it's becoming truly
obvious to all involved that I've successfully become a
limp dick loser
, as I'm
sure my friends will call me if they ever hear about
this.

I'd always imagined myself as having a
dick that was solid, strong, firm, upward pointing and masculine:
All the good things that a dick should be. Today it's not living up
to all that hype.

Deep within the cave of
Gemma's immaculate pussy, it is slowly receding in size like a
balding man's hairline post-40. Soon it will be relocating itself
among the tuft of trimmed pubic hair that cup the base of my shaft,
relaxed in its rest against skin that is always faintly scented
with a hint of good quality soap. This dick of mine is reliable –
scratch that
WAS
reliable – but lately things have changed. It's her
mo...

“
Are you getting
soft?”

My girl is on top. Her firm buttocks
pat down on my thick and muscular thighs with soft and comforting
slaps at a one-two count. Inside the warm and slippery nature of
her inner body is pulsing and tensing and contracting on the edge
of what I know is her first orgasm of the night.

Yet my hardness is lagging.

Disappearing.

You see, a hot woman like this can't
have an orgasm on a limp dick and, honestly, I'm already half
mast.

“
Ah...
damn
... it's the stress, baby.” The typical excuse of all limp
dicked men everywhere delivered in a stutter.

Gemma's eyebrows come together in that
cute way they do when she thinks I'm lying to her.

“
Stress?” There's a
telling pause. “... like what?”

An unfortunate shift of my hips has my
dick flop out with a unattractive squelch to lie wet and moist
against my hairless balls in a pose that I imagine is the fetal
position for dicks that have done their owner wrong.

My poor return is more question than
answer.

“
Ah, work...?”

For a time Gemma sits there atop of me
breathing slowly and staring directly down into my blue eyes with a
sharpness that makes my stomach queasy. As the silence stretches on
I wish she'd say something, but the young woman doesn't. Instead
she presses her hands down into the mattress and swings off to sit
with her back straight and facing away from me. If there were
prizes for stiff shoulders...

I stifle a groan.

“
Honey?” exits my lips in
a last attempt to save things.

No reply comes. Gemma stands, her
gorgeous ass popping right up in my face, and slips into the
bathroom. 2 minutes later the gentle hiss of the shower wafts out
the door. This is her way of telling me that I'm in deep
trouble.

Wrapping my thick arms around behind
my head on my pillow and fluffing a little of my dark hair, I stare
up at the ceiling above. Right now I'm wondering at how cruel the
world is for giving me this 'affliction',

You see, I'm hot
for
her mother
.
Not
Gemma.
Her mother.

It's a real problem for me and I'll
tell you that and there is no solution – no way, no how, no where.
Zero ways to fix this.

In a word: I'm screwed.

The Mischievous Mrs.
Johns

Mrs. Johns, 45 years old,
bored, horny and amused

This young man that Gemma
has been fooling around with certainly has a nice ass.

That's what I'm musing to myself as he
hoses down my bright yellow tulips with the long thick length of a
his hose drawn around from the side of my large and stately home to
the magnificent space of my backyard flower garden.

As I watch on, Mr. Cute Ass slowly
sways his hose left to right, making especially certain that every
part of the flower bed receives equal treatment, I can't help but
wish that he would come hose me down with the fat hose in his pants
while he's at it. It would certainly be refreshing.

The day is cloudless, blue and
temperate for summer in these parts. As always I am enjoying my
middle of the day martini, shaken with two olives and a tooth pick,
out in our large yard while browning my curvy body on a fold out
lawn chair.

A gentle wind from the south plays
through my long straight blond hair. It streams out to the side and
ruffles a few strands over the smooth surface of the large round
edge designer sunglasses.

I pay it little attention.

Instead, underneath those ultra dark
lenses, my brown eyes are locked on his wonderful
buttocks.

“
Such a fine ass,” I
murmur to myself.

My pink little tongue slides out from
my full lips briefly to wets them slow, soft and seductively until
slick and glistening. If I didn't know any better, from the way
that he's looking back quite regularly, during his pounding of my
tulips with their liquid nourishment from his long hose, I'd say
he's interested in me.

That, however, comes as no particular
surprise. I might be a mother of two but I know how to take care of
myself (like every woman of over or under 40 should). Many men have
felt the same way.

Unfortunately, just as the object of
my attention is about to bend down to pick up a gardening tool from
the pile on the ground at his feet, my concentration is temporarily
ruined by my no-good, useless son stomping his feet into the lawn
work with his usual dismal air of despair circulating freely like a
dark cloud of sad that sucks the fun out of everything it touches
from around the far corner of my stately home. He slides to a very
sorry halt at the door and starts working through his ripped black
jeans, which seem to always retain the must of wasted semen no
matter how many times I tell the maid to wash them twice, and comes
up with nothing.

“
Nice day,
darling?”

He mumbles something pointless about
bad grades, a need to study and how mean some professor or another
is being to him.

I sigh quietly in disgust and inform
him that the door is open and the cook left dinner in the fridge.
We are having packaged lasagna and vegetables again because I hate
the prudish woman and always send her home earlier.

The waste of a good pregnancy slops
off inside. The door clonks closed with finality and leaves me
shaking my head in disgust. That one couldn't get a date if his
life depended on it – much the same as his father at that age when
we met – and will most certainly make a fine provider to some
attractive, and devious, woman who knows the power of sex and how
best to use it.

Almost as soon as it closes the door
swings open once more. This time it is my other child Gemma. Now
this one might not be quite the beauty that I was at her age, but
the young woman has a lot going for her. Long sexy legs, a fine
tight little ass and a flat stomach but, sadly, not a devious bone
in her entire body.

My little princess stops beside me and
gives my choice of refreshment a single long disgusted look which I
believes is an attempt on her part to communicate to me that I
should be more motherly and less rich socialite (as I see it) in
the middle of the day..

I have come to understand that Gemma
has somehow grown into what most would consider a responsible young
woman. The rumor mill says this is due to her having such a
irresponsible mother, but I choose not to hear such words of
discontent from whores who could not have found more faithful
men.

I raise my glass and toast her as she
watches her young man at work.

It comes to me as I admire her that,
if I'm honest, Gemma, for all it is worth, is someone I could love
if she wasn't far too sweet for words and far too prudish for
comfort. It shames me to say it, but – clearly – none of my better
traits have passed on to my children. This is something that is
more saddening than I like to admit.

“
I'm going to
Kimberly's.”

I wave my martini at her, nearly
losing an olive.

“
Lovely, deary. Shall I
tell the young lad?”

My daughter's eyes crinkle around the
edges. Her lips then curl up and her nose rises an inch or two in
what I believe might well be a hateful glare.

Startled at this sudden change in
demeanor, I sit up a tad straighter and raise both eyebrows from
behind my black lenses.

My first thought:
Could there be trouble in paradise?

If her expression is anything to go
on, it seems so and, my-my, wouldn't it be interesting if there
was. So many opportunities would...

“
No,” she interrupts, her
voice crackling with annoyance. “Kim and I are going to have some
girl time.”

Oh. my-my-my! So
there
is
some
kind of trouble
. That's interesting. VERY
interesting...

“
Oh, I see. Well, have
fun, dear, and do say hello to Mrs. Hobbs for me. I know she's been
suffering since Luther left town.”

My little girl confirms that she will
and strolls off to the garage to collect her bicycle. As my eyes
follow her, I think to the aforementioned gentleman.

Luther was such an easy one to seduce.
Pity he was so moral. The man wanted to marry me. There being no
way I could I have that, I seduced his foolish fatso of a boss and
had him shuttled off to LA and out of my life.

Unfortunately – for him – the fool had
already told his wife he was leaving her and had departed the
family home in hopes of convincing me to do so also. That didn't
work out so well for poor little Luther. He wasn't much of a man in
the end. However, his credit account was very open minded. The gold
hoop I am wearing on my left middle toe is testament to it's large
limits.

“
Mrs. Johns.”

I blink. Oh, it's the boy. He's
standing there making eyes with my breasts like he wants to tear
the slim light blue fabric of my scandalously small bikini top from
my body. Probably some of the sweat on his brow is him holding back
from it.

“
You are sweaty,” I note
with a cat like purr entering my tone. “It must be hot working in
that t-shirt.”

His fingers briefly pluck it away from
his washboard abs. The fabric is sticking to his muscular frame in
a way that is positively revealing. I shuffle my thighs one over
another in appreciation and note quite offhandedly that his shorts
are peaked in similar enjoyment of my womanly curves.