The Pool Boy Age Gap MILF erotica #3
Thunder cracked closer. The house lights stuttered, held, stuttered again. In the dim she saw his eyes better. He was looking at the place where the silk met her thigh.
“Wes.”
“Yeah.”
“When I tell you to go, you go. When I tell you to stay, you stay. I need that clean. I’m still married on paper. I’m still selling this house. I don’t get to be sloppy just because I want your mouth.”
“That’s clean,” he said. “I’ll follow it.”
The rain did not slacken so much as change its mind. One minute it hammered. The next it thinned to a steady hiss, gutters loud, the worst of it sliding east. Gray light came back into the kitchen. The pool stopped chopping.
Neither of them moved.
Mara’s shoulder was bare again. A drop of rain he had brought in still sat at the base of his throat. The sandwich sat between them, ridiculous. She could have stepped back. He could have reached for his keys. The storm had given them an ending and they refused it.
She looked at his mouth one more time.
“Not yet,” she said, and it cost her.
“Not yet,” he agreed.
The refrigerator kicked on. Somewhere in the house a downspout drummed. Mara pulled the robe closed with her fist at last, not modest, just finished with the particular torture of almost. She walked him to the slider. The air outside smelled like wet limestone and cut grass.
At the threshold he stopped.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Ten. For the vacuum.”
“Tomorrow I might text you before ten.” She held the door. “If I do, you read it before you assume it’s about the pool.”
He nodded once and went out into the thin rain.
She watched him cross the deck, watch his shoulders, watch him not look back until he reached the truck.
Then he did look back. Mara was still in the open slider with the silk falling off her shoulder and the kitchen light behind her, 41 years old and done pretending the weather was the only thing that had come into her house.
She shut the glass.
She did not lock it.
The text went out at 9:41.
Leak by the equipment pad. Can you come.
There was no leak. Mara stood in the dark kitchen with the phone still in her hand and knew exactly what she had done.
The storm had left the deck slick and the air thick.
Friday’s photographer was twelve hours away.
Her husband’s last message sat unread on the lock screen.
She set the phone face down and went to change.
The white one-piece again. Dry this time.
Night made it different than Monday. No sun to shine through it, only the patio light catching the places the fabric stretched over her tits and the high cut on her hips.
She pulled the straps up, then tugged the crotch into place and felt it seat against her, already a little damp from thinking about the door.
She did not put a cover-up on. She walked barefoot to the gate and waited where the motion light would find her.
Wes’s truck rolled in quiet, lights off until the last second. He got out with a flashlight like a man who still believed in the job.
He saw her and the flashlight lowered.
“Show me,” he said.
“There isn’t one.”
The words sat between them with the crickets. Wet limestone. Cut grass from somebody’s late mower. Chlorine lifting off the black water. Mara kept one hand on the gate so she would not use it on him too soon.
“I wanted you back,” she said. “I didn’t want to dress it up as a basket again. Come inside the fence.”
He did. She shut the gate. The motion light threw her shadow long across the stone and made the white suit look painted on. Dry nylon still gave her away. Nipples. The dark suggestion between her legs. Forty-one years old in a 23 year old’s work lights, and she did not cross her arms.
Wes stopped an arm’s length from her.
“You said not yet.”
“That was this afternoon.” She stepped into the space. “I’m asking now. Kiss me. If you don’t want to, you get back in the truck and I pay you for the drive.”
He looked at her mouth the way he had in the kitchen. Then he kissed her.
Not careful. Not sloppy either. Rain-taste gone, just heat and the faint chemical of the pool that lived on both of them. Mara made a sound into it and fisted the front of his damp shirt. His hand hovered at her waist until she found it and put it where she wanted it.
Over the suit. Full on her tit.
“Yes,” she said against his mouth. “That’s what I want. That.”
He squeezed and her knee dipped. The nylon was thin enough that his thumb found her nipple on the first pass and stayed there.
She kissed him harder for it. Open. A little hungry.
His other hand settled on the small of her back and pulled her in until the hard line of him pressed her stomach through board shorts and white lycra.
She felt the size of it and her pussy clenched around nothing.
“Chair,” she said. “I’m not doing this standing at the gate like I forgot my own name.”
They moved without letting go. The lounge from Wednesday was still out, damp from the storm, facing the dark pool.
Mara pushed him down on it and followed, one knee outside his thigh, the other between.
The chair complained. She sat on the hard muscle of his leg and the suit dragged over her clit and she hissed into his throat.
“Tell me if I go too far,” he said.
“I’ll tell you.” She took his hand and put it back on her breast, then slid it down so his palm covered more of her. “This is not too far. Kiss me and let me use your thigh.”
He did. She rolled her hips once, testing, and the wet heat of her soaked through the crotch of the suit onto his shorts.
Shame tried to get a word in and lost. She ground down again, slower, and his groan vibrated against her tongue.
The patio light caught the wet mark she was leaving on him. She did not stop.
His hand left her tit only to grip her hip and help the rhythm she had started.
Not pushing her onto his cock. Holding her while she took what she had asked for.
Mara broke the kiss to breathe and he kissed the underside of her jaw, the place her pulse jumped.
She smelled night jasmine off the fence and chlorine and the clean sweat at his temple.
She tasted his mouth and the wine she had finished after he left the first time.
“Mara.”
“I know.” She rocked again, suit pulling, clit dragging the ridge of his thigh. “I know what I’m doing.”
She came close and backed off. Not because she was noble.
Because she wanted the first time she finished with him to be a choice with more room than a damp chair and a motion light.
Her thighs shook anyway. She dropped her forehead to his and kept the grind small, mean, enough to make his fingers dig in.
“You can put your mouth on my neck,” she said. “You can use your hand under the strap. You don’t go under the bottom. Not tonight.”
“Got it.”
His mouth opened on the side of her throat.
His fingers slipped under the white strap and found bare skin, the hot weight of her breast, the tight peak he had only had through fabric.
Mara’s back arched. The chair legs scraped stone.
She rode his thigh in a tight circle and felt how wet she had gotten, a slick spot that would be obvious when she stood up.
Twenty-three years old under her, hard as the deck, and holding the line she had drawn.
She kissed him through the worst of it, the almost, the shake. Then she stopped her hips with a sound that was half laugh and half wrecked.
“That’s enough.”
Wes’s hands stilled at once. He did not chase. He sat there breathing like he had run the fence line, her tit still filling his palm, her wetness cooling on his thigh.
Mara climbed off him careful. Standing made the suit cling in a way the night air turned filthy. She adjusted the crotch with two fingers and he watched her do it because she let him.
“Go home,” she said. “You’re going to finish in the truck or the shower and I don’t need to know which. Tomorrow you come at ten for the vacuum. After the photographer leaves, if I text you, you come back.”
“And if you don’t text?”
“Then you did the job and I was a 41 year old woman who lost her mind on a lounge chair.” She touched his mouth with her thumb, smearing the kiss. “I’m going to text.”
He stood. The front of his shorts was obscene. She looked at it the way she had looked at his hands in the storm. Want, named. Not acted on past the line.
“You sure you’re all right to drive?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Because if you stay, I’ll change the rules, and I told you I need them clean.”
He nodded. She walked him to the gate. The motion light flared and threw the two of them against the fence, her in the tight white suit, him wrecked and trying to hold the flashlight like it still mattered.
Mara kissed him once more, closed-mouthed, a period instead of a comma.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
She watched the truck back out. She stood in the wet yard until the engine faded and the crickets took the street back. Then she went inside with her own smell on the suit and his mouth still on her throat, and she locked the slider for the first time all week.
Only until morning.
The photographer left at 3:20 with a polite smile and no idea what the backyard had been for four days.
Mara sent the text from the kitchen while the listing photos were still uploading.
He’s gone. Side door. Now.
She did not change out of the dress she had worn for the pictures.
Soft black, knee-length, decent enough for a woman selling a house.
Under it she had left the white suit off on purpose.
Bare. The tile was cool on her feet. She unlocked the side door that opened on the utility room and stood in the bleach-and-chlorine dark until she heard his truck.
Wes came in without knocking. Twenty-three years old, work shirt swapped for a clean T-shirt, the same careful face he wore when he asked permission.
Mara shut the door. The pump hummed through the wall.
A washer sat against the far side, lid down, a stack of pool towels on top.
Concrete under them slightly damp from years of wet feet.
No windows. The house could have burned and they would have heard the pump first.
“Rules,” she said. “You ask. I answer. Nothing goes in me today. Mouth only. If I tap you, you stop.”
“Say it again so I have it.”