Mrs. Pillsbury at the Grocery Store

It was time to get dressed. I had just finished taking a quick video of myself stripping out of my clothes and uploaded it to my Site. I thought my subscribers would like it, because it featured a long closeup of my pussy, which was perfectly bare from a recent laser treatment. Now that my Site duties were done, for the moment anyway, I could focus on other things I had to do.

It was a Saturday morning, and the kids were busy playing the Xbox in the living room. I could hear them yelling at the screen from across the house. We were running low on some food supplies, so I planned to stop by the grocery store. It was a small store, privately owned and tucked away amid the houses and leafy greenery of our neighborhood. It was usually quiet this time of day, so I figured there wouldn't be any crowds or lines.

I stared at myself in the mirror. I was still nude, from the video I had just made. For the thousandth time, I thought about how strange it was that I was taking photographs and videos of myself, naked, and posting them online, for the world to see. I'd been doing it for a while, and both my husband and I had come to enjoy it, and to enjoy the money we made from it, but it was still always a little strange. I wasn't about to stop, though. It was too lucrative, and way too much fun.

What to wear? You might think I'm always looking to wear something sexy, because of my site and the adventures I talk about. But the reality was that 90% of the time I was just a regular mom and a busy corporate executive. I usually dressed and looked just like anybody else. Plus, I tried to be careful when I was out and about in my neighborhood. I didn't want to make things riskier than they had to be.

I settled on a blue denim, button-up dress with a hem that stopped just above my knee. Cute, but not sexy. But I decided, on a whim, not to wear panties or a bra. My breasts were firm enough that I could get away without a bra when the material, as with the denim of this dress, was thick enough to conceal the swell of my nipples. And I liked the feeling of the air on my pussy. Nobody would know I was going commando but me. I laced up white sneakers and gave myself one last appraisal in the mirror. Again: cute, but not sexy (except the commando part, which nobody else would know).

I made a mental checklist of the things I needed and scooped up my wallet and keys, heading for the garage. My husband, Rick, sat in the kitchen, munching a piece of toast and reading something on an iPad.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," he said back, eyes running up and down my body. It was somehow comforting that my husband never got tired of looking at me.

"Where are you off to?" he asked.

"The store. Food."

"Don't get in any trouble," he said, with a naughty smile. "If you do, make sure you tell me all about it." My husband knew me well and was 100% supportive of my hot wife activities, but I knew he was kidding. I might have had a hot online alter ego as Mrs. Pillsbury, but in my daily life I was just good old normal Kristen Johnson.

A few minutes later I pulled the Lexus sedan, which I'd recently purchased from the proceeds of my website, into the parking lot in back of the store. As I had guessed, it was quiet. The lot was mostly empty, and I figured the few cars there probably belonged to the store's staff.

It was spring, but the temperature was unseasonably low. Clouds overhead muted the light, and cool air nipped deliciously at the bare skin between my legs. It felt so good, and just a bit naughty!

I wheeled a shopping cart efficiently up and down the aisles of the store, gathering the things I needed. I knew where everything was, and it didn't take long to get what I needed. I lingered a little longer in the produce section, deciding what kind of potatoes to buy for the family dinner. The cucumbers caught my eye. I picked one up, to put it in a bag, but before I did, I held it in front of my face and wondered, wickedly, what would happen if I slipped it under my dress and pushed the tip of it up into my pussy, which was still tingling from contact with the cool store air and growing needier by the moment.

I started to wonder if I could really get away with doing something naughty in the store.

"Mrs. Johnson?" A voice suddenly interrupted me. Startled, I almost dropped the cucumber.

I turned to the source of the voice, to my right, and a tall, good-looking young man with dark hair and dark eyes looked down on me in a friendly, knowing way. But I didn't recognize him.

"Yes?" I replied.

His look showed he understood my confusion.

"It's Sam. Sam Zimbardo."

Sammy Zimbardo! He was the oldest son of one of my neighbors, Leah Zimbardo. To tell the truth, I didn't like Leah very much. After the end of one my kids' soccer games the previous fall, I invited her over to my house for coffee. Instead of saying "yes," she looked to both sides of her, as though to check whether anyone could hear us, and then she fixed me with the most Karen-like stare you could imagine.

"I know what you're doing, Kristen, and I don't approve."

"What I'm doing?" I asked her, feigning innocence even though I knew at once what she meant.

"You know what I'm talking about," she said, her mouth curled into a sneer of disgust. "Your . . . online activities. I think it's disgraceful. You should be ashamed."

Needless to say, Leah Zimbardo did not come to my house for coffee, and that was the last time I ever talked with her.

I hadn't seen Sammy in years. I think he was still in high school when I last saw him. He once babysat my kids, who were years younger than he was. I knew he'd gone off to college a few years earlier—I didn't recall when, exactly, or where—and I hadn't seen him since. He'd been a skinny kid in high school, but I remembered that he'd always been mature for his age, gregarious, assertive, and well-spoken. He'd always been one of those rare kids that seemed to know how to walk up to anybody and talk to them confidently like an adult.

Now he stood looking at me in the produce section of the grocery store, as I held a cucumber. I cleared my throat and put the cucumber in a plastic bag.

"Sammy! It's nice to see you. It's been years. What are you up to?"

"It's Sam, now," he said. "Graduated from college last June. Working here, downtown. Got a place of my own. What about you? What are you up to?"

His eyes strayed to the cucumber in the bag in my cart, and if I wasn't mistaken, I saw a faint smile play over his lips.

"Oh, you know," I said. "Same old stuff. Mom things. Job things."

"Mom things," he repeated. That same subtle smile.

I'll say this: he cleaned up nicely as a young man. His body had filled out well, his arm muscles stretched the fabric of his t-shirt, and his voice sounded deep and resonant. Mrs. P felt a tingle inside.

We were both done with our shopping, as it turned out, so we walked together to the front of the store, and we checked our purchases out one after the other. I had several bags full of food, and he had just a small one.

"Can I help you with your bags?" he asked. He really DID have a very masculine, appealing voice. His hair was cropped short and close to his head. His shoulders were broad. His jawline was full and square, but he had thick, sensuous lips. There was a look in his eye that was hard to read.

"Sure!" I said, maybe a little too eagerly. "Down girl," I said silently to myself. This was the son of an enemy mom, after all.

We walked out the front door and around the building to the parking lot in back, and Sam let me go first, carrying several bags of my groceries as I fished for my car key. I wondered, naughtily, if he was checking out my ass. I almost wished I'd worn something sexier so he could get a better look. I was so bad! They were just thoughts, though, right? It's OK to have bad thoughts if you don't act on them, isn't it? Moms are entitled to that, aren't they?

I beeped the car trunk door open with my key fob, and Sam laid the bags inside and closed the trunk with a solid "thump!"

We stared at each other. I had to break the silence.

"It's so nice to see you, Sam! It's been so long."

"It's nice to see you, too, Mrs. . . . Johnson." The pause was noticeable. The stare was steady, the eyes inscrutable.

Mrs. P was growling inside. Mrs. J was thinking it was time to get home.

I shouldn't have said it, but I did.

"You've grown up into a handsome young man, Sam," I said.

Maybe five seconds elapsed until he replied, but it seemed much longer.

"Handsome enough to fuck you?"

I know my jaw dropped and my ass fell back against the trunk of the Lexus.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me. I know about Mrs. Pillsbury," he said. Ah, that wicked semi-smile!

"What are you . . . referring to?" I stammered. I was unaccustomed to being at a loss for words in the company of a man so young. Usually, I was in control, even with men my own age.

"I'm one of your subscribers," he said.

"Oh!" I replied, and I'm sure my mouth formed the most perfect open circle you could imagine.

I was pressed up against the trunk of my car. He drew nearer, looming over me. He was so tall, and his shoulders so broad. I could swear I saw the ripple of muscles under his t-shirt.

"You don't have to pretend," he said. "I've been subscribing to your Site for months. You are the sexiest thing on the Internet. So fucking hot. My friends think so too, you know."

"They do?" I asked, my voice as small and squeaky as a mouse's.

"Oh yeah. We all talk about you. Kristen Johnson, the nice neighborly mom, and Mrs. Pillsbury, the hot MILF. You're so fucking hot. Everybody thinks so."

I was totally freaked out. It was nice to be complimented, but I was standing in the open, in public, in a parking lot, being told by the son of a neighbor that he and his friends had seen me naked on the Internet and thought I was hot, and I had no idea how to deal with it.

"You don't have to worry," Sam said. "It's not like I'm going to tell my mom."

"Your mom already knows," I blurted out, kicking myself inside as soon as the words came out.

"Oh yeah?" Sam asked, smiling. "I didn't know that."

"She told me. She wasn't happy about it."

"That doesn't surprise me," he said. "Mom's kind of uptight."

He drew closer still.

"But I'm not," he said.

He put his hands on my waist. The touch was like butter, even through the denim.

Sam looked in every direction. There were two other cars in the parking lot in back, but no sign of any people.

"How about it?" Sam asked me, his eyes flashing at me.

"How about what?" I replied.

"Let's fuck."

"Sam, what are you talking about? Don't be crazy!"

"I'm serious," he said. "I've watched all your videos and listened to all your stories. I listened to the story about your adventures at the tech convention recently. Getting fingered by one guy under the table while you hand-jobbed another guy."

I squirmed.

"We're in public," I said.

"You were in public then," Sam said. "People were all around you, but it didn't stop you. There are no people around now."

That was true, for the moment, but somebody could enter the parking lot at any time.

I shook my head.

"Sam, how old are you?"

"Old enough," he said.

"Seriously."

"I'm 22. A college graduate."

"I'm more than twice your age," I said. I wasn't sure what to do. I was backed up against the car trunk, and he was standing so near and was so much taller than I was! I felt a little helpless—something I rarely felt with men. But I was turned on, too.

"I know," he said. "That's part of what's so hot about you. The perfect MILF."

"Sam, we're in public. I just bought groceries and I'm going home."

"Are you in a hurry?" he asked.

"No, not exactly," I said.

"Then let's do it," he said.

He took me by the waist, then, hands strong and steady, and with seemingly no effort, he lifted me and set me upon the trunk of my car. I had no time to protest. He came closer still and my bare legs splayed out to either side of his waist under the denim dress, which suddenly seemed much shorter than it had been minutes ago. In this position, I exposed a lot of thigh.

Sam put his hands on my legs. The touch of his fingers on my skin was electric.

"What are you wearing underneath?" he asked.

"Sam, we can't do this," I said.

"Yeah, we can, Mrs. . . . Pillsbury. You're Mrs. Pillsbury now, and you know what Mrs. Pillsbury wants. Mrs. Pillsbury doesn't say 'no'."

His hands moved slowly up my legs until they hit the hem of the denim dress.

"What is Mrs. Pillsbury wearing under her dress, I wonder?" His hands pushed back against the dress. "A lacy thong? Boy shorts? I want to know."

I could have stopped him. I could have put my hands against his, and though his hands were stronger than mine I believe he would have stopped if I had resisted. But I didn't resist. My hands lay back to the side of me, resting on the trunk of my car, and they stayed there.

The entire time his hands moved against my dress, his eyes remained fixed on mine. He didn't look down, not until my thighs were laid almost entirely bare and he knew he would see what he wanted to see.

Then he looked down.

His eyebrows arched and he pursed his lips and he whistled.

"I should have known." His eyes turned up, back to mine. "I should have known. You ARE Mrs. Pillsbury."

With a quick shove, he pushed my dress all the way back, and my bare, lasered pussy lay exposed to the parking lot, if only someone else had been there to see it.

"I can't tell you how many times I've seen that pussy on the Internet," he said. "Dreamed about it. Stroked to it. Do you have any idea how much cum I've spilled by watching your pussy? You have no idea how hot you are."

Oh God, it was embarrassing, but it was so arousing to be talked about this way. A few weeks earlier I had seduced another young man at my company, Dylan, 24 years old, at a technology convention. Dylan was shy and uncertain. I called him my cub. Sam was 2 years younger than Dylan but nothing like Dylan. He was no cub. He may have been young, but he was an alpha wolf in full rut, and his eyes bored into mine with lust and determination.

I made no move to close my legs. They remained spread open, exposing the most intimate part of my body to Sam's eyes and to the eyes of anyone else who might have stumbled into the parking lot at that moment.

Sam snuck a hand forward, fingers outstretched. My pussy lips lay open to his fingers like a ripe flower, welcoming the fresh-spring kiss of an eager pollinating bee.

I looked down, between my legs, under my dress, at my open and exposed pussy, like it was something that belonged to someone else. I didn't feel in control of myself.

A twist on a familiar musical refrain echoed through my brain:

Good moms don't. Good moms don't. Good moms don't.

But I had to.

I had a knack for naughtiness. I couldn't help but be myself. I was Kristen Johnson. But I was also Mrs. Pillsbury.

"Say 'yes,'" Sam said.

I garbled a reply.

"What?"

"Yes," I said, voice barely audible.

A forefinger pressed forth and touched the pearl of my clit, partially exposed under the pink folds of my fleshy hood. A shock pierced my body, sending ripples up and down me in waves. My butt squirmed on the trunk of the car. My legs twitched.

"God," Sam said, "I've thought about this pussy so much. I've zoomed in on it in high resolution, on a huge computer monitor. You have no idea. And here it is. I'm touching it. At last. The ultimate fantasy. Mrs. Johnson. Mrs. Pillsbury."

The forefinger pushed farther forward, until its tip disappeared between lips engorged by arousal. The finger rotated and curled inside me like a corkscrew until its tip touched the spongy, super-sensitive center inside me: my G-spot.

"Ohhhh," I moaned, immediately aware that my voice was loud enough to catch the attention of anyone who might have been nearby. Fortunately, nobody was. Yet.

Sam didn't seem to care that we were in public or that someone might see us. I fed off his confidence and determination. His attitude steadied me. Although it was against my controlling nature, it felt good to surrender to his need.

I closed my eyes. Ah, the sensations. The cool air on my face. Sam's strong, searching finger in my pussy. The burning in my loins.

A sound ripped through the quiet of my reverie, making me open my eyes: a zipper unzipped.

In seconds, Sam's cock burst forth from the confines of his fly. It was a tawny, veined monster, thick and needy, head bulbous and pointed at my pussy, which lay pink and open when Sam withdrew his finger.

"Say it, Mrs. P," Sam said.

My mouth opened but no words came.

"Say it," he said again.

"Fuck me, Sam," I managed at last.

"Yes," he said, and he did.

His cock entered me then, thick and hard, stretching me. My pussy, already stimulated, was wet, easing the way of his shaft inside me.

It occurred to me that he wore no condom. I may have been a hot, MILFY bitch, but I wasn't crazy. On cue, however, as though reading my mind, Sam whispered, "Don't worry about a condom. I just got checked. I'm fine."

That did it. I pushed my hips back at him. My legs wrapped around his waist. Pragmatism, discretion, and good sense surrendered to lust and the need of the moment. I needed him. I needed his cock, inside me, plundering me, taking me, servicing me.

In and out, in and out, in steady, not-too-fast strokes. Most men stroked too fast, focused on their own impending orgasms but heedless of the needs of their women. But not Sam. He stroked me hard but not fast. He seemed to intuit the needs of my body with the steady rhythm he took in me. Like a cat, I purred to his sublime stroking.

I watched, fascinated, as his hard, needy sex disappeared in mine, and at the way, when he withdrew, my lips clung to his shaft, as though desperately begging him not to go.

I tore my gaze away, and I looked at my surroundings. We still had the parking lot to ourselves. Nobody could see us. But they could have seen us at any moment. A gap to my left revealed the entrance from the street to the parking lot. Anybody driving along the street and happening to look in our direction could have seen us fucking.

But still, I kept fucking Sam. Or, more accurately, I kept letting Sam fuck me. He was in charge, hands on my hips, his cock ravaging my pussy. I loved it. It felt delicious to know that this young man, in the bloom of his youthful prime, wanted me, a woman over twice his age, so badly, and it felt delicious to surrender to his lust for me.

And I confess a wicked little glare of retribution lit inside me, too: the knowledge that the young man fucking me so ardently was the son of Leah, that judgmental neighborhood scold.

"Take that, bitch," I said to myself as I squeezed every muscle I could against her son's steely cock. Thank God for Kegel exercises.

He pushed back against my squeeze, filling me, satisfying me.

He raised his hand to my dress and fumbled with its buttons. I thought about protesting but chose not to. Eventually, after some effort, he unbuttoned the top of my dress, and opened it, revealing my bare breasts and dark nipples. Sam pinched them. The pinch hurt, almost, but it was the best kind of hurt imaginable.

He moaned, low, guttural, animal sounds welling up from somewhere deep inside his leanly muscled chest. And as I sat splayed open on the trunk of my car, deliriously receiving his cock in steady thrusts, I thought: this was what I'd always imagined being fucked could be. Perfect.

He took me, and he didn't let go, thrusting, thrusting, thrusting, his eyes staring at mine, seeming to read me, to gauge my timing, to wait for my orgasm.

I wanted to give it to him, a present for his delicious fucking of my body, a sign of my surrender, an acknowledgment of his skillful movement inside me.