Mrs Mayweather

Mrs. Mayweather, accused of louche behavior and great sin, attended her church inquest dressed as a lady. She did not put up her hair but kept the rest in order. Heels, dark hose, knee-length skirt, blouse, jacket, broach shutting the collar. No skin.

The headmaster, the intractable Mother Manuel, sat behind her desk. She folded her hands and put on her desk lamp. Mrs. Mayweather, tenured religion teacher at a small religious college, sat in front. She shifted in her eat. It supported all the wrong places. Mother Manuel offered water.

"No, thank you."

"Let us pray."

They prayed and said amen. Mother Manuel proceeded.

"Rumors tell us that you, Mrs. Mayweather, have sinned against your husband, Mr. Mayweather, and taken a boy-student as your lover."

—

All the students told stories about that freshman James and his videos on the Internet. They knew about them because some of them saw the videos. James never confirmed it but everyone knew. No one else looked liked him. And after the day when one of the slutty girls pantsed him in the dorms, he didn't need to confirm it. The cock, its presentation, its size, it matched the Internet videos.

Then there was the day he texted a picture to another slutty girl. She saved it and passed it on. Last it got to Mrs. Mayweather, who saw the picture on the phone of a girl she caught texting in her Tuesday-Thursday religion class. School rules mandated the girl lose her phone for the day. During lunch Mrs. Mayweather poked around, found James' cock shot, took a picture of that picture with her phone, and saved the image for private use.

The picture didn't work long. Mrs. Mayweather, when Mr. Mayweather wasn't home, needed more. No Internet corner too dark. She found James after eavesdropping the website from girls in her class.

Mr. Mayweather was away. So were the kids with their after-school activities. A few clicks and Mrs. Mayweather's screen went full with a lithe well-cocked young man of maybe nineteen who also took her Tuesday-Thursday religion class that emphasized church history and God's immanence in our hearts.

Mrs. Mayweather spent the night doing unspeakable acts of sleight-of-hand between her thighs.

A schedule developed. She had favorite videos. She watched them start to end. She didn't fast forward, as she knew teenaged boys did, to the end when things got sticky. She did like that part. It was just better if she waited for it. She liked the reveals. When that thing, so potent and out of place on a boy his age and size, flopped from the pair of plastic-wrap tight boxer briefs, projecting firm and everlasting — a coital rocket with a mushroomed apogee — from the base of his blond garden.

Mrs. Mayweather loved to see the wet spot where the fabric cloistered the tip.

Most days Mrs. Mayweather came to class wet. She tried but couldn't slake herself enough in the corner stall of the girls' room on the top floor of her building. Soon the Internet failed her too.

—

No one at school saw her and James. They never fucked each other at school.

One time they went to corner stall of the girls' room on the top floor of Mrs. Mayweather's building where she liked to contort the fingers on the right hand below her. James jerked his dick for her there. It's where she first saw it in person. It emerged but didn't flop like it did sometimes in the online movies. James got too hard on the walk up. Mrs. Mayweather could see the outline through the navy blue pants of his school uniform. And then he jerked it. For her.

James' cock made wet smacking noises in his fist. It dripped before he came. It dripped after he came. When he came he shot in jets that splashed on impact. Splash the floor. Splash the bowl. Splash the seat. Splash her legs. He left the stall painted. Mrs. Mayweather got wetter knowing they didn't clean up. She hoped one of the girls found it. She hoped they could smell it because she could smell it.

Someone may have been outside. Once they thought they heard something but it was nothing.

Mrs. Mayweather sat on the tank and watched, flashing what he wanted to see and what she promised to show him back when they negotiated terms Thursday in the room where she taught religion.

It'd been easy. James would have gotten naked there if she let him. She mustered restraint.

Mrs. Mayweather started evasive. She mentioned rumors she heard from the girls in school. He asked what kind. She said inappropriate ones. He again asked what kind. She cited pictures and videos on the Internet and broached calling his parents. He said don't and that they didn't know anything. He squirmed and she won. She could have dressed more like lady that day too.

No hose. Bare legs. Shaved that morning. For his class she rolled the waist of her skirt, a flimsy piece of cotton, twice so the hem stopped above the knee. Rarely were her shirts so tight. She couldn't risk cleavage but the cups her bra did good work.

If this nineteen-year-old kid, this boy with the rocket cock who came in splatters, wouldn't say yes today, he wouldn't say yes at all. He got hard before they finished their chat.

He said yes.

—

Mr. Mayweather stopped being useful as a sex object years ago. He tried pills but they did nothing for his mood. He didn't even jerk off anymore. Mrs. Mayweather knew because she asked and tried to catch him.

Mrs. Mayweather fucked James at her house for weeks. In all places. On any surface. Sometimes she wondered if Mr. Mayweather found the stains. She didn't want to wash them. Having James' cum around thrilled her. She started wearing panties again for a filthy reason. She'd have James douse them and she'd wear his cum where it would be closest to her. To where she wanted his cum.

Sometimes he did it after religion class.

She'd slip off whatever she wore that day and hand it to James who disappeared to a boys' room stall. He started jerking, her panties to his face so he could smell between her legs. He liked her smell like she liked his. When it got to be time he covered his dick in her panties and filled them. James returned them to his religion teacher still dripping and warm.

Mrs. Mayweather did abominable things.

He let the kid fuck her in every position, from every angle, in every hole. She cried the first time he put his cock inside her ass. But he held her down, pushed slowly, and finished there.

James worshipped her. He worshipped how she weighed more in all the right places. The way he couldn't fit his hand even halfway around her breasts. The way they gathered in the cups of her bra and brimmed over. The way she let him rub up and down her thick thick thighs and vised them around his waist to force all she could fit of him inside her.

James voided himself everywhere. On her face. In her hair. On her tits. On her belly, which shook when he slammed himself to his balls, into her, over and over until the sheets, or whatever they fucked on, stuck to them.

Always was there so much. It seemed like more when he finished inside her.

James sped up. He held her down. By the legs. By the waist. By the big, warm tits that smacked against her chest when they fucked — the woman and the boy. By the throat. Whatever part of his cock hadn't fit in that soppy snatch before, it fucking fit now. He filled her. Made her scream and brace against him. He thrust her at an angle, arcing down when he went in and shoving up as he went through. It didn't matter what position. Made her cum-scream every time.

Mrs. Mayweather knew when he would cum.

One last thrust — a ram that came from his hips — and he pushed himself as far and as hard he could against and into her. Every bit of his cock tensed. Especially that fat mushrooming circumcised head that rubbed her inside so well and made her wetter than Mr. Mayweather ever did.

And James came. Five squirts. Ten squirts. Each as thick as the other. Fifteen? She always tried to count. When he finished, his dick — that wet, throbbing rocket-shaped piece of boy half as fat as his calf — fell out. A hose flopping backward.

The cock hit all of her on the way out and made smacking noises against the cummy wetness puddling at the opening of her cunt. Around the lips. In her bush. Down her legs.

Mrs. Mayweather, fifty-one years old, mother of three, lay wherever little James left her, rubbing her fingers in the cream between her thighs.

He'd always get up to get water. She loved watching him walk naked, that cock more soft than hard — even then it was bigger than what made Mr. Mayweather a man, and James could barely grow a beard — dangling and shifting from thigh to thigh as he moved. The wetness on the shaft, hers and his, made it shiny. It rolled down his balls, sometimes all the way to the floor.

Next James would lay down next to her, hold her. She'd hold him back. Rub her fingers along the back of his cock. He could always get hard again, and if she was too sore he'd do a show for her and cum again. Wherever she liked. Even on himself.

Mrs. Mayweather couldn't believe he said yes but he did.

James lay on his back and rolled back so his cock hung in his face. Knees beside his ears. From there he stroked himself. Mrs. Mayweather watched until the boy burst in his own face, the cum running into his mouth and down his neck. The after-cum dripped onto his chest. He milked it out with his fist.

If he asked her, if he really asked her. If he begged and begged — called her "Mrs. Mayweather, please!" and looked in her eyes with his dick inches from his face and leaking cum — she'd move close. She'd look down his balls and dick like a targeting sight.

Then Mrs. Mayweather, fifty-one year-old religion teacher, and mother of three, would put her little fingers in James' little ass just as he squirted loads and loads of sticky white and white-hot jism into his mouth. She'd always kiss him after.

Abominable things.

—

Mother Manuel didn't know details. She suspected show-and-tell. She suspected inspection. She suspected touching. She suspected intercourse. She asked.

"Are you aware of the rumors?"

"No, mam."

"Are they true?"

"Certainly not. I'm married. I have kids. I love my husband. We'll be married thirty years next month."

Mother Manuel removed from her a cell phone. Being an older woman, it took her a moment to do what she wanted. She hadn't been much good with typewriters either. But she did and handed the phone to Mrs. Mayweather.

It played a video taken at stealth angle in a girls' bathroom from outside a corner stall.

A skinny boy had the navy pants of his school uniform open. He pulled on himself in a disgusting way. Mrs. Mayweather noticed the blessing in his hand.

She also noticed the middle-aged plump woman sitting on the tank of the toilet, freshly shaved legs soft and apart, flimsy skirt bunched high to show the way she contorted her right hand in an ungodly manner about what made her a woman.

Mrs. Mayweather shouldn't have been at that moment, sitting in the headmaster's office like that, but she was. The video, even now, made her wet and she shifted in her chair.