This story is a sequel to Jason and Mrs. Johnson. I have received requests to provide a sequel to this story, but not until the suggestions of A_Satori, did I feel that I could. A_Satori and I in fact worked on this sequel together, and he deserves considerable credit as a co-author and should be recognized as such (unless you don't like the story). Please note, some material is repeated from the two prior chapters, yet it still would be very worthwhile to first read "Jason and the Johnsons" and "Jason and Mrs. Johnson," as the rationale and foundation for what happens in this story will be inadequate without an appreciation of what has already occurred. As was true in the prior two stories, all of the characters are at least eighteen years old.
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Madeline Johnson, out of grave concern that her daughter, Bridget, maintain her chastity until her wedding night, had continued her periodic sessions with Jason, Bridget's boyfriend. It was really quite understandable. Jason was such a virile young man and no mother could really expect him not to be stricken with lustful urges in the presence of the sweetly delectable vision that was her daughter, Bridget. Mrs. Johnson had in fact even considered suggesting to Bridget that she dress-down a bit, as her tight sweaters and short skirts must be very difficult for the young man. But, as a mother, she knew that any such suggestion would only be met with indignant protestation and perhaps even rebellion. She therefore did what any mother would probably do: throw herself on the young man's sword for the sake, the safety, the purity, of her daughter.
It was, indeed, quite a sacrifice on Madeline's part. Not too many mothers would do what she felt should be done. But, Madeline was not an ordinary mother married to an ordinary husband. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Johnson approved of premarital sex. Actually, it was much worse than that. They fully disapproved of premarital sex. They had avoided any such dalliances themselves when they were Bridget's age and they fully expected their daughters to follow suit. Certainly Bridget's older sister had been chaste. Bridget was a Johnson girl, and Johnson girls were good girls.
Mr. Johnson even assumed that once his daughter was married she wouldn't partake in deviant, paraphilic acts, such as oral sex. These were things that good girls just didn't do, and never would do. Only the whores, the porn stars, the sluts, would do such things. As Mr. Johnson would say, oral sex bore no relationship with the real purpose of sex: creating offspring.
He would never put his lips on a woman's vagina. Just the thought of doing something like that seemed one step removed from homosexuality (although he never really explained why). Even if he could not defend the logic of his position, the act was repugnant simply because it was placing the lips which kissed your children on the lips through which your spouse expelled waste material. What is loving about that? Is not such an act inherently disgusting, a degradation?
Mr. Johnson, of course, was no hypocrite. If he wouldn't do it for a woman, he certainly wouldn't demean this woman in the same manner by expressing or even asking that she perform such an act on him. And, so, the sexual activities of Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were rather constrained, to say the least. In fact, they hadn't had sexual intercourse since Bridget's birth.
This had become rather difficult for Madeline. Actually, quite frustrating. She became terribly stricken by dreams, many of which shaded into nightmares. There was, for instance, the dream in which she was tied up by a group of young men. Her top was pulled down so that they could see her bosoms, and they were masturbating, right in front of her. She was trying to tell them in her most commanding, authoritative, maternal voice to untie her, to cover her breasts, to stop playing with themselves, warning them that their mothers would be so upset if she saw what they were doing. She kept explaining that she was as old as their mothers, that she was really no different from their mothers. But, no matter what she said they just wouldn't listen. She tried to squirm out of the ropes, but that only made her naked breasts bounce and wiggle, much to the young men's obvious pleasure.
The scene then suddenly changed. She was on her knees while they smacked her face with their throbbing, yearning, hard cocks. And, then, they were no longer there, or at least their bodies were almost entirely gone. All that was left were their hard, erect, stiff dicks, poking and squirming in the air. The air all around her was filled with naked stiff, hard penises. Some were small, some were large, some were straight, some were curved. There were just so many of them, and they were poking her all over her face, crowding and pushing each other to try to get to her, like the air was filled with swimming, swarming penis snakes. Some of them were even trying to get into her mouth! A particularly small but very stiff one was having some success squeezing past her lips. It had lodged its head against her lips and was now pumping, thrusting, and forcing its way in deeper, and then suddenly the head popped in. She squeezed tight with her lips to prevent the rest of it from getting through and, for some reason, she began to lick and lap away at the soft round crown. Perhaps she was trying to give it what it wanted so that it would keep still. She didn't know. All that she knew in her dream was that she was in fact licking the knob of a hard, stiff penis. Then, she saw that one of them, a really, really big one, was beginning to pulse and throb right in front of her eyes, yet she couldn't turn away. She was transfixed by the sight. The bulbous head seemed to swell and expand to three times its size: so shiny, so purple, so swollen. It suddenly exploded and she felt her face become awash with huge splats of cum. She woke up, her face soaked. She wiped some of the moisture from her brow. She was so relieved that it was her own perspiration and not actual male ejaculation. Although, she looked over at her sleeping husband; wondering; wondering what it would be like if he squirted his stuff all over her face, and then she felt so terribly, terribly guilty over having such a horribly repugnant thought, and dream.
She had wondered if perhaps she should see a therapist. She was having some pretty disturbing dreams (see "Jason and Mrs. Johnson"). She thought, 'I mean, my goodness: dismembered erect penises'? And, those feelings, those terribly disturbing feelings she would have when she awoke. It was really not just between her legs, but deeper inside, like a hunger that desperately needed to be fed. She would at times get out of bed, go downstairs, and have cold ice cream to try to cool off the heat between her thighs, feeding herself in at least one way, but never really satisfying the hunger.
At first she tried to alleviate the burning yearning by going to an all women's health club (Mr. Johnson wouldn't have allowed her to go to a uni-sex gym) and exercising for a couple hours five days a week. The physical workouts didn't really drive the hunger away. Cold showers after a workout sometimes helped, but not for long. In fact, the workouts might have even been oddly problematic, making matters worse in one particular regard.
The severe regimen of workouts had the benefit of helping her develop a rather strikingly firm, trim, slender, and youthful body. She was a very attractive woman and had been a very pretty girl. She had long wavy blonde hair, pretty green eyes, rosy cheeks, sweet red lips, long shapely legs, and very, very full breasts. However, as a girl and as a woman her breasts had typically been kept hidden by her matronly dresses, loose sweaters, and aprons. As a girl, and a young lady, she was often quite embarrassed at how large they were, and typically wore clothes that would minimize, if not hide, their prominence, their fullness, their appeal.
But, now, as a middle-aged woman who has developed through a considerable amount of dedicated hard-work, a youthful, firm, and healthy body, she began to appreciate and value her physical fitness, her appeal. She particularly admired how firm and fit her bottom had become, which she at times would study, in the privacy of her bedroom, looking over her shoulder after she came out of her morning bath, feeling really quite proud to see no cellulite, giggling as she squeezed her cheeks, her bottom becoming even tauter.
