Editor's note: this story contains scenes of rough, reluctant, dubiously consensual, or non-consensual sex.
*****
I normally spend my summers playing computer games, eating sloppily made PB&Js, and masturbating. It's a heavenly time. Both parents at work, no siblings, no looming deadlines to stress over.
Like every other guy in school, I have a thing for MILFs. Lately, I have last semester's biology teacher, Miss Blake, to thank for that. Not a day goes by when I don't dream about the day she wore that tight, translucent tank top through which I could see her large areoles and protruding nipples. If she was wearing a bra that day -- big if -- it must've been as thin as the Kleenex tissues I wipe by jizz with after I tit fuck those breasts.
From that day on, Miss Blake -- or rather, her tits -- promptly dislodged Max's mom -- or rather, her ass -- as our goto MILF fantasy. Miss Blake is also a more convenient choice because we don't have to worry about Max appearing out of nowhere or risk him eavesdropping.
Eric's last message appears on my chat window, "I'm being ordered to sign off. Lets hangout?"
"Ah, fuck. Alright. I'll see if Max is around and meet you at the bleachers."
"Cool, cya soon. Say hi to Mrs Park for me ;)"
"Lol"
That's all the trigger I need for Max's mom to claw back to her rightful place in my MILF fantasy world.
I lift myself off my cushiony leather chair and marvel at how well its holding up. That chair to me is what a car is to a motorist. The upholstery is peeling off in places, there are scruff marks on the arm rests, and one of the wheels is moody. But I don't mind at all because it serves as a reminder of all we've been through. First ejaculation, first Counterstrike win, first IM with a girl. I've abused that chair to no end.
I get hard thinking about how I'd love to abuse Mrs. Park on that chair. I picture myself leaning back and her sliding up and down my wet dick, reverse cowgirl style. I'm twisting her long auburn hair with one hand and smacking her ass cheeks with the other while I pound into her mercilessly. Her weight counterbalances mine, so I don't tip over. The chair's squeaks merge with her moans to produce a symphony so pleasurable that even Mozart can't match.
"Save it for later, Romeo." I laugh as I tuck my already slimy dick back into my boxers.
I stretch out my legs. My hamstrings are sore from the endless sitting, but I'm relieved I can still touch my toes. I thrust my hips into Mrs. Park a few more times to get my blood flowing.
Even though Max usually answers the door, my fantasy compels me to freshen up, just in case Mrs. Park answers. After a quick shower, I check myself out in front of my bathroom mirror. I graze my damp beard, admiring its recent growth spurt. I circle anti-acne cream around the zit on my jawline and apply deodorant under my armpits. A bottle of citrus-noted cologne catches by eye while I place everything back. I generally save that for dates and family functions, but I decide to pull it out and spray a couple puffs on my neck. "Fortune favors the bold," I nod into the mirror.
I put on jeans, a faded AC/DC shirt, and beat up sneakers and walk over to Max's house, the cool Californian breeze further lifting my spirits.
Their lawn is freshly mowed and wind chimes jingle on the veranda as if announcing my arrival. I don't spot their Mercedes 4MATIC SUV in the driveway and wonder if Max is even home. I hope he is because I've genuinely grown to enjoy his company, even though -- I admit -- his mom was the primary reason I befriended him a year ago.
I'd first seen her when she trotted up on stage with her well-oiled legs in 4-inch heels to give Max an encouraging hug before our class rendition of Peter Pan. I'll never forget how she squatted to adjust his costume, her tight navy blue suit bucking under the strain of her voluptuous ass. I envy the men standing on the other side who, if they were as opportunistic as me, must've won a peek at her pussy like the fat cop in Basic Instinct. Thanks to my ensuing friendship with Max, that was the first of many silent overtures I've made towards Mrs. Park over the last year. As expected, they've all gone unheeded, except in my imagination of course.
I skip over the stepping stones and ring the bell. No answer. I ring again. Nothing. The door is slightly ajar, so I gently push it open and holler, "Hellooo? Max? It's Darren." I remove my sneakers and step inside. I've been inside his house many times, so I don't think twice about it. His house is immaculately clean as usual; polished hardwood floors glow under the sunlight and family photos adorn the off-white walls in perfect ninety degree angles. Suddenly, I'm glad of my decision to shower and wear clean clothes, the only exception being the smudge of wetness on my boxers, brought forth by the potentiality of meeting Mrs. Park.
A stray sock catches my eye. It's jutting out from under a door down the hall. I walk towards it. Although my room is littered with stray clothes -- it's convenient to always having something nearby to wipe off my cum -- something about a stray sock in a spotless environment bothers me. As I squat to pick it up, I lose my balance and brace myself against the door. The door squeaks open just enough to reveal a wooden staircase to the basement. At the foot of the stairs, I recognize Mrs. Park's naked feet on their tippy toes. I've sucked on those red polished toes in my dreams God knows how many times. A washing machine churns away in the background, which explains why my calls went unanswered.
I stand up and tentatively go down one step. Mrs. Park's smooth calves enter my line of sight. I quickly check my rear to make sure no one is watching and take one more step, feeling for creaks. Her creamy thighs and the onset of her wide hips come into view. They're not oiled up like in my fantasies, which is oddly refreshing. I'm transfixed by the creases in her skin and stretch marks on her thighs. Being privy to her secret rawness fills me with a special desire that no fantasy can match.
