The Pool Boy Age Gap MILF erotica #5
Mouth open. Brow drawn. The helpless flutter when he rubbed the spot inside her that made her toes curl against his back.
“Harder now. Still not fast.”
He gave her harder. The slap of his body against hers sent little shocks up through the water.
Mara’s clit dragged his pubic bone on every inward stroke.
She reached down and rubbed herself with two fingers because she wanted the extra and because she wanted him to watch her do it.
Oil and pool water and her own slick. The sound turned filthy.
“I’m going to cum on your cock,” she said, almost laughing at how plain it came out. “Don’t you stop.”
She did. It took her in a long, shaking pull, pussy clamping down on him in waves he had to breathe through.
She bit his shoulder to keep the noise in the yard and failed anyway.
He kept the same deep rhythm while she shook, exactly as told, and when she went loose he kissed the corner of her mouth and waited.
“Again,” she said, wrecked. “You can. I want it.”
He shifted her, one foot higher on the step, and the new angle made her curse. Deeper. A bright, specific pressure. She came the second time faster, meaner, nails in his back, water sloshing over the coping. His arms were shaking. He was still hard as the stone, still moving, still not finished.
“Out,” Mara managed. “Now. On the tile.”
He pulled out at once. The sudden empty made her gasp.
He stroked himself twice, cock shiny with her, and came across the wet stone beside her hip in thick stripes.
White against gray. The sun made it look obscene.
He kept his other hand on her waist the whole time so she would not feel dropped.
Mara watched his face through it, the way a 23 year old tried not to make a sound and made one anyway.
Then it was just breathing. Cicadas. A jet humming in the deep end.
She slid down a step until the water covered her to the ribs and pulled him with her.
They sat in the shallows, her legs thrown over his, his softening cock against her thigh, her swimsuit bottom still hooked uselessly aside.
A little of him had smeared on her hip. Pool water thinned it. She did not wipe it off yet.
“You lasted,” she said.
“You told me to.”
Mara laughed against his neck, surprising herself. The laugh shook something loose. She felt open, used in the way she had asked to be used, the ache already starting where he had stretched her. She pressed two fingers between her legs under the water just to feel the swollen proof.
A car door slammed on the street.
Both of them went still.
Not the drive. The neighbor’s curb. A kid’s voice. A trunk. Ordinary Saturday noise that made her flinch hard enough to send a ripple across the surface. Wes’s hand tightened on her calf and then loosened when she shook her head.
“Not him,” she said. “He’s still in Dallas.”
The voices moved off. A mower started two houses down. Mara let her head fall back against the coping and stared at the white sky until her pulse came down.
“Photographs went out last night,” she said to the air. “Somebody could be driving by to look at the outside. I should care.”
“Do you?”
She looked at the tile where his cum was already going thin in the heat. At her own thighs, marked with the shape of his hands. At the 23 year old in her pool who had done every single thing she told him.
“Tomorrow night,” she said. “Not the steps. Inside first. Then we’ll see.” She hooked the swimsuit bottom back into place like that would make her decent. “If a car door does that to me again I’m going to have to decide what this is.”
Wes nodded. He did not offer to leave until she told him to.
Mara sat in the warm water with her pussy still twitching and the neighbor’s ordinary life going on beyond the fence, and she listened for another door that did not come.
Monday evening she did not text him about the pool.
The message was one line.
Kitchen. Don’t bring the net.
Mara waited in the short silk robe with the island light on and the rest of the house dark.
The listing had gone live that morning. Three saves already, the agent said.
A possible showing Wednesday. She should have been packing the extra wine glasses.
Instead she had oiled nothing and planned nothing except the height of the counter and the fact that she was done pretending Wes Tanner was coming over to skim leaves.
He knocked once and came in through the slider.
Twenty-three years old in jeans this time, not work shorts, like he had understood the job description had changed.
Mara did not offer him a drink. She pulled the robe’s tie and let the silk open, then shrugged it off her shoulders and let it hit the tile.
Naked. Kitchen light. Forty-one years old and done with costumes.
“Ask,” she said.
“Can I fuck you on this counter.”
“Yes. Standing. I want my heels on you. Same as Saturday — you pull out when I say.”
He crossed the kitchen like the floor was a decision.
Mara hopped her ass onto the island, the stone cold enough to make her hiss, and spread her knees.
She was already wet. She had been wet since she sent the text.
He stepped in, freed himself, and she took him in her hand to feel the weight of him again before she put him where she wanted him.
“Look at me while you push in.”
He did. The first thrust still made her mouth fall open. Sore in a sweet way from the pool steps, tight anyway, and the angle of the island put him against that same bright place immediately. She locked her heels in the small of his back and pulled.
“That’s it. All the way. Hold.”
He held, buried, his jeans shoved down just far enough, her bare heels digging in. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere a dishwasher ticked, leftover from a life in which she still did ordinary chores. Mara clenched around his cock on purpose and watched his throat work.
“Now fuck me. I didn’t invite you here to be careful.”
He drove into her. Different from the water.
Dry air. The slap of his hips against the insides of her thighs.
The island inched a quarter inch on its feet and she laughed once, broken, and told him not to stop.
Her tits moved with every thrust. He got a hand under one and squeezed the way she had taught him on the lounge chair, thumb on the nipple, and she felt it all the way down in her cunt.
“Harder.”
He gave her harder. The wet sound of it filled the kitchen, shameless, her slick all over him.
Mara leaned back on her palms and watched his cock piston in and out of her, shiny, thick, stretching her on every stroke.
She reached down and rubbed her clit in tight circles because she wanted to cum fast the first time and then have another.
“Don’t you finish,” she warned. “I get two. You get the floor.”
“I last.”
She came with her heel slipping on his ass and her other foot hooking his belt loop to keep him in.
Pussy locking down. A raw sound she did not swallow.
He rode her through it without changing pace, jaw clenched, 23 years old and doing exactly what a 41 year old woman had ordered in her own kitchen while her husband’s mail sat on the far counter.
She did not give him long to be proud of it.
“Again. Don’t pull out. Change the angle.”
He dragged her closer to the edge, almost off, and fucked up into her.
Deeper. Meaner. The stone bit her tailbone.
She liked the bite. She grabbed the back of his neck and put her mouth on his, messy, more breath than kiss, and the second orgasm took her with less warning.
She shook on his cock and told him filthy things in fragments — don’t stop, fill me up, you don’t get to yet — and he groaned like the last sentence hurt.
“Out,” she said, when she could. “Floor. On me if you want. Not in.”
He pulled out, lifted her down because her legs were unreliable, and they went to their knees on the robe she had dropped.
Mara wrapped her hand around him and stroked once, saw how wet she had made him, and then he took over.
He came across the soft of her stomach and the underside of her tits with a sound he buried in her hair.
Hot stripes. She watched it land and felt a possessive little kick at the sight of his cum on her in the kitchen light.
After, they sat on the tile with their backs against the island cabinets. She was sticky. He was still breathing like he had run. She took a dish towel off the handle and cleaned her stomach first, then his cock, gentle, which made him twitch and swear.
“Showing on Wednesday,” she said to the dishwasher. “I have to have the house looking like nobody gets fucked in it.”
Wes turned his head. “You want me to skip Wednesday.”
“I want you to skip the pool on Wednesday. I want you Thursday night.” She dropped the towel in his lap. “Late. Lights off. Water. I’m not doing the island again the same way. I already used that.”
“Thursday night,” he repeated.
“If a buyer puts an offer in before then, I’ll tell you. If I panic, I’ll tell you that too.” She leaned her temple against the cabinet door. “What I won’t do is pretend I called you over here to look at a noisy filter.”
He almost smiled. It made him look even younger. Mara reached out and touched the bite mark she had left on his shoulder Saturday, faded already.
“You all right to drive?”
“Yeah.”
“Then go before I change the pull-out rule because my kitchen smells like sex and I’m feeling reckless.”
He stood, tucked himself away, picked his jeans up off his thighs. At the slider he paused.
“Thursday,” he said. “I’ll wait for the time.”
“Ten. Bring yourself. Don’t bring tools.”
She did not get up to kiss him at the door.
She sat naked on her own tile with his cum drying in the hollow of her navel and watched him go out into the ordinary Monday dark.
The listing photos were still on her laptop at the end of the island, her in a tasteful dress by a still pool, a woman who did not grind on pool boys or take it standing up against the quartz.
Mara closed the laptop with her foot.
Thursday night. Dark water. She already knew she was going to ask him for something she had not asked for yet.
Thursday at ten the pool lights stayed off.
Mara met him at the slider in nothing but a towel.