The Pool Boy Age Gap MILF erotica #7
When he finally slipped out it was because biology said so, not because either of them wanted the loss. Mara made a small unhappy sound. He pressed two fingers to her pussy as if he could hold it in for her and she let him, shameless, his cum and hers coating his knuckles.
A phone lit up on the deck.
Not his.
Hers, facedown where she had left it with the towel. The glow threw his forearm in sharp relief. Mara reached, dripping, and read the lock screen over his shoulder because he was still half on her and she did not want him to move.
Landing tomorrow. 4:10. Need a ride or I’ll grab a car.
Husband.
Tomorrow.
The cricket kept going. Wes’s fingers were still between her legs. His cum was still in her. Mara stared at the words until the screen dimmed and then she set the phone down like it might bite.
“Tomorrow,” she said to the dark.
Wes did not ask who. He had seen enough of the calendar the week he was not supposed to look.
Mara pulled him back down until his chest covered her tits and his mouth was at her ear. She was 41 years old, full of a 23 year old’s cum, and her husband was getting on a plane.
“You still come in the morning,” she said. “Usual time. Like it’s a job. I have to look at you in daylight and decide what I’m going to be when he walks in.”
“I’ll be here.”
She kissed his temple, tasting pool water and sweat.
“Stay another minute. Then you go out the side. I’m going to lie here and feel this and I’m not going to clean it off until I have to.”
He stayed the minute. Then he stood, a dark shape dripping on her stone, and she watched him dress with her knees still loose and his cum cooling inside her.
The phone did not light again.
Wes’s truck rolled up at 9:57 like it had every workday that mattered.
Mara was already in the pool.
White one-piece. Wet on purpose. The same traitor fabric from the first afternoon, clinging to the heavy hang of her tits, dark between her thighs, her hair slicked back off a face that had not slept enough.
Forty-one years old in daylight she could not hide in.
His cum had been washed out of her in a shower at dawn and she could still feel the ghost of it when she kicked to the wall.
She took the steps the way she had the first time. Water sheeted off her. She did not reach for a towel.
He came through the gate with the net. Twenty-three years old and trying to look like a man who skimmed leaves for a living. His eyes went to her mouth, then the suit, then the house, as if the husband might already be in the kitchen.
“He’s on a plane,” Mara said. “Lands at 4:10. He asked for a ride.”
Wes set the pole down. “What do you want me to do.”
“Work.” She sat on the edge with her calves in the water. “For ten minutes I want the ordinary sound of you doing the job. Then you’re going to come over here and I’m going to tell you the rest.”
He worked. Net along the far side. Quiet. Cicadas winding up. The sun putting the same cruel glitter on the surface it had the day she decided to be wet when he arrived. Mara watched his shoulders and felt the ache between her legs like a bruise she had asked for.
At ten past she said his name.
He came to the steps.
“I paused the listing,” she said. “Texted the agent at six. No showings. I told her there was a family complication. That’s not a lie.”
Wes waited.
“I’m not picking him up.” She looked at the street like a car might already be early.
“He can get a ride. When he walks in this yard I don’t want you gone and I don’t want you hiding behind the pump house like I rented a secret. I also don’t want you standing here like a weapon. So you tell me if that’s too much for a Friday and a paycheck.”
“It’s not about the paycheck.”
“I know.” She hooked a finger in the strap of the suit and pulled it down off one shoulder, then stopped.
Not a show for the fence. A check. “If you stay, he’s going to see you. He may not know what he’s seeing at first. I will. I’m not introducing you as the help I let fuck me in the dark. I’m also not getting on my knees in the driveway. I need a middle that doesn’t make me small.”
“What’s the middle.”
“You finish the pool. You come inside for water. You’re here when the clock gets loud.” She held his eyes. “And before any of that, if you want me this morning, you ask. Daylight. No hiding. If you don’t, you skim the leaves and we wait. Both answers are clean.”
Wes looked at the house, the street, her wet white suit.
“Can I touch you.”
“Yes.”
He came down a step and put his hand on her waist over the nylon.
Then, when she nodded, under the strap, palm filling with the warm weight of her breast the way she had put it there on a night chair a week ago.
Mara’s breath left her. Morning sun on her closed eyelids.
Chlorine. Cut grass. The ordinary neighborhood going on beyond the fence while a 23 year old thumbed her nipple in open air.
“Not on the lounge,” she said. “Side of the house. Pump pad. If I’m doing this in daylight I still have a sliver of sense.”
They went around the corner where the equipment hummed and the neighbor’s second-story window faced the wrong way. Mara put her back to the warm stucco. She pulled the crotch of the suit aside herself.
“Fingers,” she said. “Your mouth if you want it. You’re not fucking me against the wall at ten in the morning with a plane in the air. I want to be able to walk when he gets here.”
“Can I put my mouth on you.”
“Yes.”
He went to his knees on the concrete and licked her in the sun.
It was different than the utility room. Harsher light.
The hum of the pump. The smell of hot plastic and tablets.
His mouth was sure now. He knew her clit.
He knew the spot that made her thigh jump.
Mara bit her wrist and came fast, almost angry at how fast, one hand in his hair, the suit shoved aside, a 41 year old woman finishing on the pool boy’s tongue behind her own equipment pad while her husband’s flight crossed a state line.
She pulled him up before he could go again and kissed her own taste off his mouth.
“That’s all,” she said, shaking. “That’s what daylight gets. Put the suit back.”
He hooked the fabric into place with careful fingers. She fixed her strap. They looked like a woman and the kid who cleaned her pool, except his mouth was wet and her knees were unreliable.
Back in the yard he picked up the net. She picked up her towel and did not hide in it.
She sat on the lounge in the white suit gone sheer and watched him work the way she had the first morning, except now she knew the exact weight of his cock, the sound he made when he came in her, the way he asked twice.
At noon she brought him water in the kitchen and let him stand at the island where he had fucked her. She did not take the suit off. She stood close enough that her wet hip touched his jeans.
“If he asks who you are,” she said, “you’re Wes. You work here. That’s true. The rest is mine to say, and I may not say it today. I may say it next week. I need you to live with that.”
“I can live with that.”
“If you can’t, you leave before four.”
He set the empty glass down. “I’m not leaving before four.”
Mara nodded once. Something in her chest that had been braced all week let go a fraction. Not a wedding. Not a confession script. A 23 year old in her kitchen at noon and a plane landing at 4:10 and a pool that looked, from the street, like nothing had happened in it.
She walked him back outside.
The white suit dried in patches and stayed translucent where it mattered. She stood at the edge with her toes over the water and watched him drag the net through sunlight, and when he glanced up she did not look away.
“Wes.”
“Yeah.”
“Same time Monday. Whether he’s in the house or not. I’ll text you if the gate’s a problem.”
He almost smiled. “I’ll be here.”
Mara stepped into the pool up to her knees and let the water take the morning’s heat. Behind her the street stayed empty. Ahead of her the clock moved toward a car she would not be in.
She had been wet when he found her the first day.
She was wet now for a different reason, and she left the slider open when she finally went inside to wait.
More taboo. More dripping. Keep going.