Extending the MILF List Ch. 23

Did I just put off pheromones that made some females willing to have sex with me? Or did I have the ability to seduce any female I cast my lustful gaze at and turn her into whatever sort of sexual creature I desired her to be?

Okay, that's a long way from asking a simple question. Did the women who fucked me fuck me because I wanted them to or for some other reason? This morphed into another important question. To me at least, so fuck off. Could I have sex with any woman I wanted or not?

See how this dove-tails with the sinister visitor and his curious offer? The umbrage over the ambush would smash into the surrealism of my visitor and dizzy me profoundly. That and the lessons of Mavis served to scramble my addled, pussy-sated brain even while my body wondered what my mind was up to now with the lack of pussy!

It turned me schizophrenic. On the one side of the mirror I returned to being a student. I discovered I was behind in two of five classes against my elegant rationalizations. And had to bend my back to achieve parity before spring break rolled around and broke me. I had a list of females I needed to put to the cock and traveling for spring break seemed like a waste of good fucking time...or perhaps it would prove to be a needed respite since I'd demonstrated exhaustively that I had a true physical limit. But I digress....

On the other side of the mirror, this sexual psychosis boiled in me. How do you know why another person fucks you? True rationality could be simpler...if she will, then you do! For all of my life up until I fucked my own mother...well, a little before that actually, I'd been pleased if any female fucked me and took it at face value and never considered the implications of her willingness to lie down and spread her legs and wink at me with her wet little pussy. It was always, "if you want to I definitely want to, and...if you will and I can, I definitely will!" I had had two previous relationships sort of, depending on how you draw the lines and make the definitions, and had not overlapped or gone hounding after any other pussy because it was like cock dipping had closed me off and even if interest appeared in another female's eyes, I saw only polite sociability and never sexual interest.

Now, however, sociability had vanished and every female I met seemed to be willing to wink in lying invitation at me. And I found myself willing to poke her in the eye all night long and then offer her to my friends to see if they wanted to poke her in the eye too. And thus far, said willing female had been willing to be poked in the pussy when I suggested it by whom I suggested, often with some eagerness they found surprising even as it swamped their good sense in the pheromones of climax. This metaphor has gotten away from me I know and that is the point. The situation had gotten away from me, which presents the uncomfortable and perhaps more important, the unhappy condition that my sisters were right, not to mention the rampant metaphor might actually be apropos.

If you ever had sisters, you know how sticky that wicket can be, allowing them to ever be right has long-lasting effects that are difficult to reverse. The idea that I'd gone hog wild in pussy heaven leaving good sense and decorum arguing in the foyer finally began to have a basis... but fuck, I do hate when my sisters are right! Clumsy and irritating as it may have been, maybe, just maybe they were onto something. Still, and this is an important point, Sonny LOVES pussy! I went to school on Monday and for three days lived and studied and worked and acted all normal and shit if you ignore Mavis, her huge tits that she never showed off to me, or this duality snarling around inside me. The vicious sharpness of its incisors did not appear in my mind until Wednesday afternoon when I finally faced it directly.

Could I fuck any woman I wanted?

There is the real question that haunted me. Consider that sensation and yes, it is a sensation and not an idea or a thought or a theory or a conception...although it could turn into a conception if you plowed a properly fertile field. Don't be impatient with me. Metaphors form buffers between the conscious mind and the harsh, often frightening reality from which they emanate. So don't monkey with my metaphors! I need them to keep me safely insulated from that snarling duality because I feared it might be rabid.

Think about it. What if I had some special some...I was going to say special sauce but that is just too close to not being a metaphor so you see why metaphors matter, so...something...that allowed me to set my sights on a particular female and undress her with my eyes, my mind, then my hands and then take her naked on some random bed irrespective of her position...in life when she's upright, I mean. What if I could take any female I wanted?

First, it suggests that I could set my desire on a particular woman and overcome all of her objections and have her as I desired. As I desired. That entire idea clashed with my previous persuasion that insisted that I was giving each female precisely what she desired and I don't mean my cock. Well, yes, my cock too but the reason my cock filled her need...and her slick, wet pussy was because she got something abstract from me, that she had an emotional or mental need that somehow I managed to persuade her was being filled or would be filled should I be offered the chance to do the filling as I liked, providing my filling for her little pastry.

Yes, sometimes it was purely physical. Fucking dirty milk maid Lynn was to relieve the pressure making her teats swell with milk. But Lydia for example had a latent need to have sex with a woman...or was that need Quilla's? What about Anne and Annie? I fucked them both and the single body responded in very erotically unique ways in both contexts. But I digress....

This was the side of me that throbbed and loomed and otherwise brooded while the other side of me scrambled to get caught up with my school work. By Wednesday night, this psychological bifurcation was in full bloom and I felt like two people stuffed into one skin sack, like meat sausage and veggy sausage stuffed into the same casing, similar but not the same, connected, smashed together, but anathema to each other so that together they made me feel absolutely ill-suited for association with man or beast. And females are the beasts from East of Eden.

What of Mavis, you might ask? Honestly, I ignored her. The growing irritation at my sisters and the others at the "intervention" culminated when I finally saw one of my erstwhile MILF hunters Wednesday morning. I saw Landon standing in the brittle cold and I walked right up to him and pulled him around to face me.

"Landon, ol' buddy, they are mine. All of them and no one is going to make a whore out of any of them, ever." I growled and then just walked away. I liked Landon...still do...no, that's not right. I love him. He's my friend but at that moment, I let fly my own outrageous arrow and told him what his fortune was going to be when it came to the MILF list without any tea leaves. That spurt of umbrage squeezed out of a fissure in my psyche. I didn't feel anger or spite or resentment. I did feel the dissonance between the idea put forward at the intervention and my own feelings about the MILF list and their daughters and the miscellaneous other females who had taken a ride on the Sonny express. That little spurt of insouciant umbrage expressed my feeling at the moment but not my thinking. Honestly, sending a female out to fulfill her life long dream of getting paid to fuck was neither anathema nor a passion of mine. Carol Lynn had that passion, among others I'd discover, perhaps others did and my passion was to give them their passion...but how far would that passion for their passion go in me? What did it mean? This was about to become the headliner in my little immorality play.

These were my thoughts walking away from Landon. Part of me wanted my friend to run after me and try to explain. I wanted him to drag me around and make me talk about it, to discuss it, perhaps successfully drag me around to his way of thinking. That did not happen. In those pregnant but then stillborn moments, I realized I had test driven a Testarossa for D. Debra and then left her garage empty. And to some extent, I was doing that to everyone, dangling them over the slough of erotic satisfaction but never doing more then dipping them into it and not all the way to their Stygian heels, leaving them each with an Achillian and thus fatal vulnerability. But I digress....

Mavis and I were as much like an old, bored, married couple as we could get. Yes, we slept together and yes, after the first couple nights when I got my stamina restored, I got an erection sleeping beside her, cuddled up against her fine ass or her bulbous tits pressed against my bare back through that thin nighty she liked to wear, after I took back my shirt. But we did not speak. Not one word. In fact, after the first exchange when I opened the door to the suite, we did not communicate at all until Wednesday night when the sinister visitor appeared in my life and rather made the fissure in my psyche both evident and more profound.

That significant Wednesday, Mavis left a note for me that she was having dinner with Howard that evening. I read it standing by the TV table when he turned on the bathroom light and scared the bejeezus out of me. I know I have this account all jumbled up but that's because it is all jumbled up. In me! I was having a sort of internal crisis, like a TV suddenly only getting radio stations for the audio and trying to pair them up with the pictures and fucking it all up. I mean if a TV was truly a "smart TV" and not just programming that is dumb as gravity and just as inconvenient...and convenient, it could figure things out and not need me to know things.

Mavis's return though was the beginning of something new in my world. Yeah, she talked.

"Have you eaten?" She asked standing in the door way, the door held open by one hand. I flicked her note at her.

"This says that you had dinner with Howard." I said as though that answered her question. Have you ever noticed how rarely we answer each other, but skip to the end of the proof and QED it with our own conclusions and never really get what the other person is trying to get at? This was one of those times for me. In spades.

"I think I have you figured out." The woman said. "I understand clearly that you clearly don't understand me. I am like an alien visiting your world but I look similar to the others in that world so you assume that I am like them. I assure you, I am not."

As far as non sequiturs go, that was a pretty good one if words, any words can not be discontinuous with pleasant silence.

"I'm a voyeur." Mavis returned. "I like to watch." She smiled her "Mona Lisa" smile.

"You like to watch other people eat?" I responded, puzzled but she shook her head and skipped over my skipping over her implication.

"I got stood up. Howard didn't show. I suppose he was fucking one of your sisters and forgot about me." The idea teased me, that my sisters were no longer just talking about sex...well they had sex with me, but were riding the hard and long themselves without my involvement. I had an inkling that the thought was going to gyre me but then my stomach growled and I shrugged. The ease of my distraction may testify to my psychic fragility, or is it a return to situation normal for friendly feathered Sonny, all fouled up?

"Sure. I could eat." I said. Mavis Percival turned out to be a very accommodating listener. We went downstairs to the hoity toity restaurant with table cloths and cloth napkins and plush seats and waiters with sticks up their butts and waitresses I wanted to strip down to see what was real and what wasn't, and then, yes, fuck them to distraction, maybe stick something of my own up their butts. We sat, we ordered, we toasted, I forget to what...oh right...to uncomplicated sex, her offering and I didn't know for sure what she referred to but decided it had intrinsic virtue and agreed with her toast, clinking fluted glasses with the sparkly she'd ordered. She didn't even ask my opinion so apparently she clearly could read the tattoo of "bumpkin" on my forehead.

Throughout the entire meal, I regaled her with stories of fucking females. It did occur to me that she might be affronted or bored or otherwise unhappy with my dinner patter but I needed to unload the plethora of pussy on my mind and Mavis was there and compliant. She consumed food and patter with real astute interest, asking questions and probing for details as I tromped through the orchard of the MILF list, plucking each mature plum as it occurred to me...which is a way of admitting that I had to go back several times to tell parts of the story I'd forgotten to make the present dialectic sensible.

Now I didn't get down into any details. I merely fucked with no directions and often not even getting into which hole I'd gotten into or which order. I focused on why and the fissure in me split wide open. My mind swirled with the conversation with Mr. No Name Blue Man and yet I spoke not a word about him to Mavis, as though it had not happened. How could I? It was utterly outrageous. I was in search of something, a significant detail, a telling bit of minutia that would seal up the fissure and make me whole again. It didn't happen. I gushed like Don Juan had contracted Tourettes Syndrome. All inhibition about vocabulary and diction vanished. Socially acceptable became defined as "Sonny possible" and out it all flowed. It was time for dessert before I managed to slow down enough to feel embarrassed that I'd dominated the conversation.

Mavis shook her head.

"Sonny, when I said I am a voyeur, I meant it." I squinted at her.

"You may have meant it but I don't know what you meant." I returned.

Mavis smiled and looked down and for the first time I realized that we were comfortable with each other and not in a sexual or even asexual way. I had that tingle in my cock that told me two things. I could fuck her. And I would fuck her. Is that one thing or two? But I also had the feeling that fucking her was not the most erotic and perhaps intimate thing I could do with her. This was. Conversation was. Not even this conversation, just conversation, talking, interacting. And without any preamble or preface, she started talking around dessert and the cognac she ordered to go with it. The chocolate torte was flourless, the whipped cream was real and the cognac was fabulous but her story was...I confess, I have no fancy word for it. It was captivating but that describes me, I was captivated.

Mavis was raised a good Catholic girl with the dichotomy of sexual adventurism and confession that tends to accompany such upbringings. She was two month's pregnant when Howard married her in a passionate ceremony that hid the grand "oops" of the situation, her fertility and his persistence that passed for charm in their world. She would be pregnant three more times yielding two daughters, and two sons now grown, that is over eighteen for those keeping track. Marriage at her young age was permissible so now, at 38, she was free of the primary responsibility of being a mother, her eldest was 22 so you do the math. Her daughters were away at college and presumably fucking whomever they liked, her presumption and, she then averred, that she was finally free to explore her own sexuality.

"I'm a baby machine. My body is built to make babies. Once the matter is settled, I return to form. I look much like what I looked like at eighteen. A little fuller, my boobs are larger and more sensitive but generally speaking, I am what I was then. My waist is still twenty-five inches round and my hips are thirty-eight. My thighs are large and my calves are large but I am as flexible as a politician's ethics." She smiled then.

It was like I saw her for the first time. She had a sensual quality about her that was frank and open and...predatory, like she hunted something and I didn't know what it was and perhaps she didn't either.

"My pussy, or do you prefer cunt?" She showed me her teeth but it wasn't really a smile. I was lost, still swimming in the overflow of my own fractured psyche.

"I think both are wonderful." I said, averring myself. She smiled and nodded, accepting of my dodging diction.

"Howard developed a taste for younger women early on. I mean, after a decade, that is in their twenties. He's forty-four now. We fought about it, endlessly but being Catholic, I would not divorce him no matter how many secretaries or other men's wives he porked. What is the point of joining something if you ignore the rules that define it and thus you? It took us ten years to come to some sort of understanding. We had a conventional relationship and treated each other using all the whys and wherefores of conventional marriage. He was a good husband and father but, when he traveled, if it was more than 500 miles away, he could browse and pick and choose and philander as he liked. So long as the pussy he philandered with did not live within 500 miles of me.

"We had an idyllic marriage, conventional except for that. I had several of his professional colleagues attempt to shatter our little idyll by tattling on him. I would look at them with complete sobriety, no matter how much wine I'd had, and tell them if they ever mentioned 'her' again whomever it was, I'd give my husband permission to fuck his wife, daughter, mother, sister, girl friend, boss...whatever female was of note in his erotic etch-a-sketch or all of them if the urge struck me and I assured them with somber aplomb that it would and he would and I was certain my loving husband had a cock that would make the bitchy male of the moment irrelevant to any and all of their female possessions. I warned that if he, or they—some few females thought to beard me and they got a dose of warning in a gender-specific way too only, they were promised they'd never get the husband cock of legend though all their female friends would have the opportunity to brag that they did ride his thrilling thirteen. I'd see to that. Envy motivates the female in ways the male knows nothing of. They all mostly surrendered the field and retreated back to their petty palace of petulant but pissy piousness. I got to where I loved shutting the fuckers up." She stopped and licked her thick lips. Did I mention her lips? They were thick, full and richly apportioned. If I focused on them, my cock automatically got harder. The little guy was trying to figure out if this conversation was sexy or not and Mavis was not giving me any definitive hints so I was just riding the surf waiting for the right wave to tell me the truth of the matter.

"Well, as you can imagine, eventually Howard's philandering overlapped with our home here. One of his candles in the wind moved into the area and sought to take up with him again, behind my back. Apparently, Howard always insisted that his flings were flings until his daughters graduated from high school, which also meant they were eighteen and perfectly legal, since he insisted that his sexuality should never overlap with their childhood, so it had to remain out of reach.

"Oh, Howard fucked me, often and well. Our sex life was good but good in the sense that a corporal likes the army. My period is regular as the moon, no pun intended. He knows when and how to fuck me based on what he sees the moon doing. I like orgasms as much as the next gal but our sexual life had no texture, no variation and that was exactly how I wanted it. It fit. There was no juice running down my legs at odd and inconvenient times. I was satisfied and Howard got his. I enjoyed the snark around me about his 500 mile rule and the tittering infantile eagerness to slap me with that dead fish. I got to put lots of people in their place. No few females thought Howard would fuck them and found out differently and I got to make them pay for it. Their humiliation aroused me, I can admit that now. During those interregnum years, the arousal meant that Howard got a piece of me off schedule because I'd demand he make me any time I got to slap one of his colleagues around about his philandering." Mavis stopped and drained her glass of wine, then drained the cognac and ordered a refill of both.