You've seen this general storyline before and for that I apologize. However, this story derives from an IM session I had with a thirty-something MILF with an abnormally filthy mind. She inspires my fantasies.
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When Dan first entered the world of gainful employment, his first job had him posted at a client's corporate headquarters in Raleigh, North Carolina for a few months. The assignment wasn't so bad, insofar as two of his friends were still attending North Carolina State, located in Raleigh. Dan worked, they studied and, more often than not, they met at various bars around campus for drinks later in the evening.
This story goes back to that time.
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He wasn't that surprised to see her hanging around the corner of the bar, near the dance floor. He'd seen her in this place before; many times, in fact. For the longest time, her patronage had perplexed him.
It wasn't so much that she seemed above it, or too good for it, but this particular bar simply wasn't frequented by people her age, situated as it was so near to North Carolina State's campus in Raleigh. Not that she looked old, or even out of place, really.
On second thought, perhaps she was somewhat out of place, given that most of the patrons of the bar were in their late teens and early twenties. To Dan's now-practiced eye, she was clearly in her thirties, and probably on the downward slide toward forty.
Of course, "downward slide" is probably the wrong phrase. It implies old . . . frumpy . . . boring. And very clearly, she was none of these things.
At least based upon Dan's observations thus far. That he had seen her at the bar on a number of occasions proved Forest Gump's adage: life is like a box of chocolates -- you never know what you'll get.
On some nights, she really did look out of place. Low heels. A pair of khaki pants. A form-fitting yet still very respectable white oxford buttoned just above the swell of her cleavage, the starched collar flipped up. Her French-manicured nails and engagement ring were evident when she lifted a Cosmopolitan, the rose-tinted liquid dribbling into her mouth over the soft, muted red of her full lips.
And then there were other nights. Nights like this one. Nights when she made an effort -- for whatever reason -- to fit into the demographics of the bar. To be sure, an up-close-and-personal examination may have revealed very faint crows' feet at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. But that's all that gave away her true age, or at least an approximation of it.
It certainly wasn't her attire on these nights. There was only one way to describe her manner of dress: age-inappropriate. Not the moo-moos of certain grandparents, either. The other way, towards the clothes favored by girls Dan's age. Girls in their late teens and early twenties. Heels. Skirts that showed soft knees and tanned thighs. Super-snug Baby Gap tee-shirts or tank tops.
To look at Kristen Vickers tonight, one would never guess that she recently celebrated thirty-eight years on this earth. The open-toed, four-inch heels revealing bright red toe nails certainly didn't give it away. Neither did the silk skirt, the bottom hem of which brushed lightly against her taut thighs. And as she sauntered toward the bar earlier in the evening, the white, ribbed tank top that clung to her torso screamed "teeny bopper."
Actually, it didn't. Because her breasts were nearly bursting from the neckline as they wobbled with each step, it actually screamed "store bought." And because emblazoned across her chest -- distorted of course over the massive bolt-ons -- were the words "Boys Make Good Pets," the tank top also screamed "Cougar."
And gone was the muted lipstick. Tonight, her lips shone brightly. Red. Wet. Soft. But most of all, hungry. Also gone was the conservative, suburban-housewife manicure. More red. Fire engine red. Long nails.
From the other end of the bar, Dan watched her raise a dirty Martini to her lush lips. His cock stirred in his pants as he waited for the bartender to bring his drink. It stirred at the thought of her glossy lips stretched around his thickness. It lengthened at the sight of her engagement ring and wedding band flashing in the haze of the smoke-filled college bar. It lurched as he imagined her skirt bunched up around her waist, her bald, wet vagina being split apart by his cock, the thick head shoving her slick labia aside, stretching the silky inner walls of her cunt. Her long, manicured nails digging into his firm ass cheeks, willing him deeper, harder.
Her soft lips at his ear, hot breath tickling him. 'Fuck me, young man,' he imagined her whispering. 'Pound me. Stretch me. Abuse me.'
"That's six bucks, Dan."
The bartender, returning with a drink, startled him, and his daydream was brought to an abrupt and wholly unsatisfying end. His fat cock had slid down his thigh, hot, searing almost, and he felt pre-cum leak from its head.
"Thanks, Tony." Dan slid a ten-dollar bill across the bar and told him to keep the change. He nodded his head toward the woman, who was now leaning on the bar with her back to it, her eyes locked on the dance floor. "Who's that?" he asked the bartender. "I think I've seen her in here before."
"You have." Tony looked down the bar toward Kristen, then back at Dan, and raised an eyebrow. "Almost every Thursday night. More often, if her husband's traveling."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. And she's friendly." He paused a moment. "If you understand what I'm saying."
Dan nodded. He understood. He was no stranger to the Hunt. The Cougar Hunt. It had become, over the previous few years, more than a pastime. More than a hobby. He lived for it.
Tony continued on. "But you gotta play it right with her."
"Yeah? How's that?"
"Come on strong. Real strong." He paused to pour a Bud draft for a kid in cargo shorts and a tee-shirt displaying his fraternity letters, then returned to the conversation. "Play the cocky college kid. Big man on campus. All that bullshit."
"Hm."
"Yeah. But she'll shoot you down, dude. Harshly, too. She can be a real bitch. I mean, just look at her. She knows she's got it. Jams it in your face. Almost invites you to play with her. And then, WHAM!"
Dan raised his eyebrows as Tony moved off to pour a few drinks for some sorority girls waving to him from the other end of the bar.
Dan thought he knew where this was headed. There are patterns to these types of women. Modus operandi, if you will, that they follow. But each Hunt is different because, alas, each woman is different, with her own method.
"But don't get discouraged," Tony continued. "Walk away. Take it like a man. Move on to the next girl."
Dan smiled. He definitely knew where this was going now.
