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I had decided to dump her. After almost two months of dating, going out, driving her home, I had had enough frustration with Jessica to not try and keep our thing going. What thing? I had not been able to go past second base, and every time I had felt her body tense, as if she was trying as hard as she could to please me, but would not let me go any further. So I had decided to call it a day for us. She’d cried a little, she’d ask (somewhat weakly) for me to reconsider, but I know that she was relieved. And I am back to square one.
I drive back home, park the car and open the door. You are in the living room, watching the news on TV. You look up when your “hi there” doesn’t get much of an answer, and indeed, I am not having the best of time. I feel frustrated, of course, but also furious to have wasted my time with Jessica. You notice something isn’t right, and you come to see me in the kitchen as I am drinking Diet Coke from the bottle I have just taken from the open fridge. You close the door, then looking me in the eye, you ask me:
– What is the matter, baby?
– It’s Jessica, that stupid …
– Oh, bad evening. You got dumped?
– No, in fact, it’s the contrary. I dumped her.
– Wow. You did? Why is that? You seemed to be getting along fine though.
– Well, too bad I didn’t notice.
– Want to talk about it?
– What is it to talk about? I mean, we’re done. I’ve had enough, that’s all.
– O-kay. Seems someone here is in a bad mood tonight. If you need me, I’ll be in the living-room.
Once you’re gone, I take a deep breath, and I finally manage to get things a little under control. I put the bottle back in the fridge, and I go up to my room. I turn on my computer, log on the Internet, and begin surfing. After an hour or so, I’m logged onto Yahoo!Chat, trying to sort through the bots, while looking around for a few good dirty pictures. I know how things are going to end — I feel it in the bottom of my stomach, this aching need that will have me jerking off no matter what happens (or not) online tonight. I hear you climb the stairs, you knock on my door and I lock the computer screen right away.
– Yes, Mom?
You open the door and step inside.
– Are you okay, Chris?
– Yeah, I’m sorry I yelled at you downstairs. I’m feeling better now. I know I dumped her, I shouldn’t be angry about it, but I don’t know, I … it’s stupid, isn’t it?
– No, it’s normal. We all get a little disappointed when things do end up the way we wanted them to. Tomorrow’s another day.
– Yeah, I suppose.
– Well, I’m going to bed now. Don’t stay up too late. Good night.
– Good night Mom.
I close the door after you leave, and get back to the computer. Bots, bots and bots, and not a single interesting conversation in about half an hour. Somehow, I have a bad feeling about this evening. I browse a few pictures, find a couple sexy ones, then a link has me stumbling on thumbnails for different galleries of pictures — sorted by categories, ranging from “schoolgirls” to “asians” to “anal” to “animals” to “grannies” and worse things even. I am going to close this window when I notice a picture by the “big tits” category. A blonde lady, late thirties, short hair … she looks somewhat familiar, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that she kinda looks like you. I click on the link, opening a gallery of pictures as well as a couple of annoying popups. The pictures are nice but not great, showing the blonde lady in various stages of undressing, until a guy enters the scene and she starts sucking on his cock. Sixteen pictures, no cumshot, to be very technical. But the resemblance is there, even though you might be a little less busty than this lady (which, in my opinion, has been surgically enhanced, but that’s another matter).
I look around the same site, going through more popups and a few good pics, and I find another series featuring the same lady. The situation is the same, the guy is different, but she still looks a lot like you. And then I realize that those pictures are turning me on far more than they should. I can feel my cock tighten whenever I look at a picture where the resemblance is striking, soften for the others.
I decide to call it a day, it’s already past midnight and I don’t want to stay up too late. I close all windows, switch off the computer and go to bed. As I lay on my back, my mind goes back to those pictures, I wrap my hand around my cock, and I jerk off silently, thinking of the blonde woman. Afterwards, tired and satisfied, I fall in deep sleep.
The next morning, you wake me up by knocking on the door and calling me. As usual, I’m in grave danger of being late for my summer job (spending the day at a bookstore moving crates around, and God those books are heavy), so I rush in the shower. Soaping myself, I feel a familiar tingling in my stomach, but reason prevails and I refrain from jerking off — and my morning erection finally wears down. I step out of the shower, wrap a towel around my waist and begin to brush my teeth. I’ll grab a coffee on my way, there’s a bakırköy escort Starbucks next to the bookstore where there’s this girl that has been hitting on me, I’m pretty sure. She’s more my type than Jessica, blonde, a generous figure — and a mouth to die for. Or at least cum for. Or in. Or all over.
I shake my head, pushing away the dirty thoughts that have managed to thicken a little my cock, and finish brushing my teeth. At that moment, you knock on the door, and open it a crack.
– Chris? Are you done?
– A minute.
– Do you mind? We’re really running late, and I need some woman’s stuff.
You brush past me, wearing your bathing robe, and I can’t avoid but notice how it reveals some cleavage — and I kind of get mesmerized by the little movements of your breasts under the fabric. I snap out of it before you notice anything, and I leave the bathroom.
Back in my room, as I dress up, I realize that my cock is thick again. I put on some trunks, my black pants and a black t-shirt — can’t get wrong with black. I pick my keys, a CD that I have promised I would lend to Steve (one of my co-workers at the bookstore), and I am ready to go. I stop by your door, you’re in front of your mirror, still in your bathrobe, applying make-up.
– Mom, I’m going.
– Already? Damn you guys have it easy. Just a shower, and you’re off. Sure you don’t want to grab any breakfast?
– Nah, I’ll get a coffee on the way. See you tonight.
– Have a nice day, baby.
– Bye Mom.
I don’t know if that’s the result of finally dumping Jessica, but it seems that I’m looking at the world with brand new eyes today. Or brand new horny eyes, to be honest. Every woman seems to be bristling with a sex-appeal I had not noticed previously — you, for instance. It had taken me last night’s picture to be aware of your sensuality. Oh, I had had my fling when I was a kid, Oedipus and all, but it had never been near any kind of sexual intimacy fantasy. But I would be lying to myself if I was to say that I had not tried to peek a little at your cleavage when I stopped by your room to tell you I had to go.
The coffee girl is nice and very helpful, within the limits of her job — I mean, how nice and helpful can you be when you just have to take an order and yell it at some poor shmuck who’s like you, doing a summer job for a lousy pay? But I nearly ask her when she was off with her shift, but … but I don’t know, somehow she doesn’t look so fine today. To be honest, I am still thinking of you. Remembering the last time I have seen you in a swimming suit, how you had complained that you had put on a little weight and it might be one size too small. Indeed, it was a little tight, but I remember thinking how hot you looked that day. And decide to stop thinking about that, as I am again having the begining of an erection.
The whole day is the usual dull day. Moving heavy stuff around, helping customers with some books they couldn’t find, trying to squeeze as much pauses as possible. I feel horny as hell, and I can’t wait to get back home, log on the Internet and find some hot girl to chat with and cum with. With big tits and a hungry mouth. Yeah, would be nice.
It is Richard’s (the manager) birthday today, and he has decided to throw a little impromptu party after we close. I’m still in a strange mood, but I’m not going to walk away from free booze and crackers. Not that the staff is particularly feminine, except for Lorna who is 30 going on 60 and wears far too much make-up. Oh, and she’s got about 40 pounds to lose too. I rememeber I have to drive home, so I keep it light. The party is okay, I mean, we’re not exactly “friends”, but Richard is a decent boss and everybody is more or less happy to work there. After a good hour, I’ve nearly exhausted all the subjects I can share with them, and I decide to drive home. I drop Steve (and my CD) at a bus stop on the way in, and when I park I can see you’re already there.
I’m a little disappointed, as I had planned to get back early and maybe squeeze in a good hour of chatroom surfing and dirty talk, and now I will most certainly have to wait until we have dinner. I open the door.
– Mom, I’m home.
– Chris, I was begining to worry. Have you seen the hour?
– It was Richard’s birthday, we had a couple of drinks to celebrate. And yes, I was reasonable. You can check outside, the car is fine, and I didn’t run over anybody.
– Still in a foul mood, it seems. Okay, dinner’s served in five.
I sit down in front of the TV, switch on ESPN to watch some baseball recap. I look over my shoulder at you — relaxed from the day, wearing a silk robe that shows off advantageously your body. Yeah, definitely some nice bod there, I think.
Dinner is spent in a mix of chatting and long silences, and I keep throwing glances at the way your tits sway under the think fabric, getting a little turned on when I think I can make out a nipple. Then I’m off to my room, closing the door behind me, turning the computer on right away. Five minutes later, beşiktaş escort I’m on chat, with bots already PM’ing me. None of my regular “friends” are there, so I try some room-hopping, finding more bots and no real women. Damn.
Looking for pictures doesn’t really help — most collections haven’t been updated since the previous day, and the few ones that have been don’t have anything that tickles my interest. So I turn to the stories. I browse down the list of new stuff, discarding the incredibly long ones (53 parts! who’s to read all this!?) and the disgusting ones (bestiality AND scato? thanks, but no thanks), and picking one at random. Badly written, no characters — crap. Four or five stories later, I’m beginning to think of going back to picture-hunting. Then I stumble on a little story.
The story tells of a guy who had to go to a big party with a date but got dumped at the last time. Maybe it was that part that gets me hooked, I don’t know. Anyway, he’s disappointed, his separated mother proposes to help him and be his date for this night. He agrees reluctantly, and they go out together. His mother acts very flirtily, and things escalate — he starts by groping her (at her suggestion) to show off in front of his friends, and they end up with her faking giving him a blowjob in his car. Well, of course, she can’t resist anymore and actually gives him a blowjob, sucking him dry.
A nice story, with a good pacing and a rather believable unfolding. And damn hot overall, I thought, my cock rock hard. I hear you climb up the stairs to go to your room, and I realize I’ve completely identified with the main character in the story — and put you in the role of his flirty mother.
I shake my head, and go back to chat. There’s a name there, lady40_4u that seems interesting …
As it is often the case with online chat, I don’t get lucky this evening. Another hour of bot abuse, and I decide to call it a day. As I lay on my bed, I think about the story again, about you as the flirty mother, about the whole scene ending with you gulping down my cock … about my cock cumming in your mouth and splashing your beautiful tits … about you smiling at me with cum dripping from your lips … I’m hard in a minute, and cumming the next. Then, exhausted, I fall asleep.
The following morning, over breakfast I can’t help but look at you differently. The fullness of your hips, the heaviness of your tits, your mouth … those thoughts make my head spin — and my cock ache in my trunks, as I try to chew down my cereals. You seem to notice something.
– Something is wrong?
– Hm? Err, no, why is that?
– You keep staring in a strange way, you seem to be miles away.
– Yeah, I suppose. Not yet fully awake, you know, low caffeine level in the mornings.
– Try not to do that, will you? You creep me out, it’s like I’m having breakfast with a zombie, or a serial killer.
– Really? Maybe a little bit a both, you know. (raising my hands in front of me, with a trembling voice) Need … Coffee … Woman … Give … Me … Coffee …
You make a little high-pitched shriek, drawing your arms to your chest — making those lovely breasts of you bulge under your bathrobe. I feel my cock jump again, and I chastize myself silently. I try and think of other things, serious things like the job ahead for the day, or else … or else, I’ll have to stand up before you with a full hard-on. After a couple of minutes, I feel I’m back to a more decent level, and I stand up to put my plate in the sink. I am still half-hard, but that can pass (I hope) for the normal “morning call”. It’s not as if you’re looking at me anyway.
I get dressed, and I leave the house for work, dropping by your door on the way. I’m a bit disappointed you are nearly dressed, and I caress the idea of popping in earlier to get a better view. I manage to get my head cleared during the day — a slow day, where I spend most of the time sitting in the backroom chatting with Steve about music and movies. Richard, obviously in a good mood, allows us to leave earlier — too bad his birthday comes only once a year.
When I get home, you’re still at work. I switch on the TV, get a coke, then climb up to my room to check my emails. Nothing much, so I do a little surfing … and I end up checking a website with dirty stories, checking out the mom-son ones. As usual, there are horrible stories where the author has no grammar and only a vague idea of what characters are, some far-out stories involving all sorts of household pets (and others), and a couple of good ones among all that.
I read for a full hour, my throat dry and my cock hard, as story after story unfolds — a mother’s seduction of her son (to make sure he wouldn’t turn out to be gay), a funny story about a mother and a son abducted by aliens willing to understand human reproduction and love-making, a hot story about a son taking a photography class and his mother modelling for him … I jump, startled, as I hear you closing the door downstairs, and calling my name. I answer you quickly, beylikdüzü escort telling you I’m upstairs, and I make a dash for the toilets.
Through the closed door, I hear you climbing the stairs, going to your room to change into more comfortable clothes. My cock is still hard, and the stories come to torture me again, reminding me of the way that every scene can become the turning point where suddenly, hot steamy sex happens … what if I was to step out of the toilets with my cock hard, pointing at you? Would you fall down on your knees and happily suck me? Nah, I’d be in for a scold and a harsh explanation of what is decent in this house … but I decide to ignore that, and picturing the scene in my mind, I begin to stroke my cock slowly — and quickly, I cum moaning your name, quietly.
Over the next days, what started as a chance interest evolves progressively into a full-fledge obsession. As if I am digging deeper and deeper, and still unable to find satisfaction, moving towards more explicit, more graphic stories and pictures and fantasies.
During the day, I don’t notice any more the girl at the Starbucks, however nice she tries to be with me. I’ve bumped into Jessica yesterday, and I don’t understand now what I was seeing in her before. And at the store, I’ve begun appraising women in their forties, basking in their smiles as they enjoyed being serviced by a polite young guy who seems genuinely interested in their needs … and their figure, but they never notice that.
During my evenings, I roam the Internet chat rooms in search of older women, trying to seduce them into playing with me. Some of them indulge me and let me watch them on cam, and I reciprocate, enjoying their enthusiastic comments on the size of my cock and its hardness. Everytime they tell me they would love to suck it for me, I feel like a little bubble in me. I also spend time looking for pictures, focusing on big tits and the “MILF” type — “Mother I’d Like to Fuck”, as they say.
Of course, the biggest of my fantasies is you. The scenarios become more elaborate, more varied too — but invariably end up with your lips tight around my cock, until I can’t hold it anymore and yield to your hungry mouth. Some fantasies go even further, imagining how life would be with you as my lover, how I would meet you in the kitchen for breakfast — me with my cereals, you on your knees with my morning erections ; how the showers would become soapy affairs, you bending forward to impale yourself on my hard cock ; how you would greet me back from my job or school, wearing a skimpy nothing and unbuttoning my pants as soon as I pass the front door …
The week passes, and tomorrow is Saturday. I get one Saturday off every two weeks, and tomorrow is a sleep-in day. I know I’ll be up late tonight, ready to make the best I can of whomever I’m going to meet online. I’ve just gotten home, and you’re there, sipping ice tea and watching the TV. I look at you, and I know I’ve made my mind. I’m not satisfied with my fantasies any more, not with you being so close. I want more. And I’m going to get it.
I reread the stories, looking for clues about what to do. I know those are just stories, and I know that there is no way they would happen in real life. The chances you are going to fall down on your knees the first time you bump into me with a hard-on are non-existent. But I want to trick you into this just as I have been tricked — little by little, by a slow seduction that will become (I hope) an obsession.
I decide on the first phase of my strategy: make you realize I’m a horny young man, sexually active. I go to my room, and pick up my nudie mags from their hiding place in a plain folder labeled with “Maths” at the bottom of my cupboard. I take the most explicit one, put the others back in place, search the magazine for the hottest picture (a cute blonde getting some cum lipstick), open it at this page and slide it under my mattress so that it shows only a little — enough to raise your curiosity.
I also set up the computer: open a couple of “normal” windows, pointing to Google and the baseball scores on EPSN, and another one, hidden underneath, with a gallery of nice cumshots. I put the mouse on the edge of a magazine, and leave it that way. In about three minutes, the screensaver is going to kick in, but any minute movement around should get the mouse moving and the screen revert to normal.
Then, I change into more “relaxed” clothes for the evening — low-cut shorts, a t-shirt, no trunks. No point in looking like one of those guys on the covers of gay magazines, but the idea is to show off a little my wares. I go downstairs, and sit down on the couch next to you.
– Hey Mom, watcha watching?
– Hm, nothing, was going to cook something. Want to check out something in particular?
– Mind if I change to the baseball highlights on ESPN?
– Be my guest.
You hand me the remote, and you go back to the kitchen. I’m a little disappointed — my shorts are in a thin fabric, and the outline of my cock should be visible. Of course, I’m not erect, which might explain why I didn’t even get a glance … damn. Well, tomorrow morning, I’ll make sure you get an eyefull of my “morning glory”. I change the channel, and during the next commercial break, I go to the kitchen. You’re there, preparing something simple but good (spaghetti with bolognese sauce, which I really like).
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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