Rich Mom, Whore Mom Pt. 01

"I need your help, Jack," Iris Maguire said. She leaned on the oversized desk in the attorney's expansive office, offering him a glimpse down the plunging neckline of her black knit blouse. She'd dressed carefully for this meeting, knowing two things: first, she could barely afford an hour of Jack Holland's professional time, and second, he had wanted to fuck her for as long as they'd known one another.

"You're putting me in an awkward situation," Holland said. As Iris had hoped, his eyes rested on the round swell of her breasts visible above the lace edge of her bra. "You and George and I have been friends since college." He cleared his throat uncomfortably, making a visible effort to shift his gaze up to her luminous blue eyes. "On top of which, this promises to be one ugly divorce. If I were you I'm not sure I'd want to plead my case in court. Have you considered arbitration?"

"There's nothing to arbitrate! George is out to ruin me. He's drained our accounts and managed to freeze assets that I brought to the marriage. And the things he's telling people--"

"Are they untrue?" Holland interrupted. "I need you to tell me that much before we go any further." Before Iris could gather her wits to answer, he continued, "How's Greg taking it?"

"Well, he's had to leave school for one thing. His father's cut him off. He's got a partial football scholarship but it's not nearly enough to cover tuition and expenses. And I've got nothing."

"Pretty harsh, I agree. Yet, given the circumstances, not many folks around here would blame your husband for being vindictive. Not saying I'm one of them. But Iris, I'd be taking this on pro bono and against my professional judgment."

"If you won't help me, I've nowhere else to turn," Iris said simply, with an expression that was two parts pleading and one part seduction. She might not have much leverage here, but she'd damned well use what she had. Holland looked at her for a long moment with his lips pursed thoughtfully. Then he got to his feet and came around the desk to stand before her.

Iris smiled when she saw the hard-on tenting the front of his pinstriped trousers. She ran her hand along his fly, feeling the warmth of his cock right through layers of wool and cotton. Her heart raced. "So, what would be the terms of this deal?" she asked, feigning uncertainty as she set the hook.

Holland leaned back on the edge of his desk, leering down at her. "For starts, let's see you naked."

Iris was almost forty, but she had a great body: big, round tits with only the barest beginnings of middle-aged sag, dusky rose nipples and areolae the size of teacups, a slim waist, flat belly, and full, womanly hips. She was a natural blonde, but ever since her college cheerleading days she'd been shaving her mound bare of the light silvery down that would otherwise fringe her small, neat pussy. She'd discovered back then that the fellows on the team went down more eagerly on a bare cunt.

The things that turned men on mattered to Iris. Fucking was her raison d'etre and had been since the night a high school senior whose name she hadn't bothered to ask had popped her cherry at a beach party. Her fervor for fucking had not been diminished by age, decades of marriage, or motherhood, nor was she too choosy about her partners in most respects. Looks, age, and character were all superficialities to her. What she cared about was how heavy a guy was hung, how often he could get it up, and how much jism he could shoot.

All of which, she reflected ruefully, had brought her to this unhappy pass. But if anyone could save her fortune and maybe even her reputation, it was good old Jack Holland. The brilliant lawyer was one of the few men or women in her circle of friends and acquaintances whom she'd never gotten around to fucking. Even if all the rest turned their backs on her now, spending the coming days and nights with Jack between her legs while they put her life back together would be some compensation.

Standing in the center of the office, Iris pulled her blouse over her head and tossed it onto a leather sofa. She unzipped her slim skirt and shimmied out of it, causing her giant tits to jiggle in the overstuffed cups of her bra. Holland's eyes were laser-focused on those double-D beauties. When she flipped the front clasp open and they tumbled out of their confinement, he cursed softly in amazement.

"Why thank you, Jack. You really like them?" She hefted her breasts teasingly, showing him how stiff her fat nipples already were.

"Jesus Christ," he repeated. Of course he liked them; every man Iris had ever been with went crazy for her huge tits and she'd noticed Jack eying them lustfully on many occasions. She lifted one to her mouth and flicked her tongue over the nipple. His prick jerked in his trousers. The familiar, reassuring feeling of having a man in her power washed over Iris, raising her spirits and giving her a feeling of hope for the first time in days. She made a sexy show of wriggling out of her hose and panties.

"The earrings, too," Holland said with sudden authority. "All the jewelry. Everything except the wedding ring." He grinned wolfishly. "Leave that on."

"Yes, sir!" she giggled playfully. When she was utterly bare she sauntered across the carpet toward him, swinging her hips like a stripper. She dropped to her knees and undid his belt. "I'll admit that I've been curious about you for a long time," she murmured, pulling his trousers down to his knees. "I don't know-- Oh! "

Her pussy muscles clenched at the sight of Holland's cock. Size mattered to her, and while Jack's was nowhere near the biggest prick she'd played with, it was long enough and nicely curved, topped by a dark, blunt knob and crisscrossed by thick veins that promised to please all of her favorite places. He was hard as iron and at once all the fear and helplessness that had consumed her in the days since her husband had discovered her riding cowgirl on another man in their marital bed vanished in the heat of her fuck-lust.

Taking firm hold of Holland's cock she slid her hand down to the root, leaning closer and opening her mouth wide. The sight and aroma of new fuckmeat overwhelmed her senses.

"I need to taste you." She guided the pulsing head of his cock past her lips. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the silky warmth, slickness, and flavor of his dripping pre-cum.

Iris loved sucking cock more than anything on Earth--she loved it even more than a big dick up her cunt. She didn't know why, and she'd never wasted much time wondering about it. She only knew that she'd been addicted to giving blowjobs ever since the first time a man's prick had erupted in her mouth to feed her a hot, creamy cum-load.

During courtship and the early years of her marriage to George Maguire, she'd insisted-- demanded --that he let her suck him off several times a day. At first, he'd been naturally grateful to have wed a voracious cumslut who apparently lived for the chance to swallow his jism any time he wanted. Over time, however, her singular obsession had started to trouble him. He'd insisted that she see a therapist.

That was George Maguire all over, a man who could find a turd in a diamond mine.

Iris's therapist had not succeeded in diagnosing the root of her oral preoccupation. She wasn't sure that he'd put much effort into it, because as soon as he'd grasped the nature of her obsession their weekly meetings had quickly developed into hour-long suck sessions. Sometimes he'd invited other psychiatrists in his practice to join them "in consultation." These worthy professionals became yet more new sources of semen for her cum-craving palate. Several times she'd taken on three or four men who'd relaxed on her doctor's sofa with their cocks out as she'd worked her way down the line.

That had reminded her of her school days. It was loads of fun but somehow hadn't solved her problem at home. She always needed more fucking.

"Unngggh! Oh, fuck, that feels great. Suck it, babe! Work out on my goddamn dick!" Holland watched as she bobbed her face on his cock, her eyes blissfully shut and her nostrils flaring with the effort to breathe as she took another inch or two of his length down her throat with each repetition.

The gurgling, slurping hum Iris made as she sucked left no doubt of the joy she took in the act. Her cheeks hollowed and puffed out like bellows as she stretched her lips around him and vacuumed his cock-head into the top of her throat. Pleasure sparked in her tits and pussy as his fuck-rod slipped further and further into her. She cradled his balls in her palm, kneading and squeezing his full, heavy scrotum. Based on her many years of experience at draining men's nuts, she expected that she'd soon be gulping down quite a lot of cum.

As always when she sucked cock, Iris soon grew oblivious to everything other than the glorious sensation of Holland's prick swelling and moving inside her. His knob dripped a steady flow of pre-cum, easing its passage down her gullet. She swirled her tongue around his cock-stalk, licking up the salty fluid and swallowing it hungrily.

"You're one sweet cocksucking whore, Iris. I should have been balling you for years," Holland growled. He grabbed her head, tangling his fingers in her hair and holding her still as he bucked his hips sharply, drilling his prick powerfully in and out of her spasming throat. His balls slapped her chin and his coarse belly hair mashed into her nose as he mercilessly fucked her face.

Iris gagged and almost choked for an instant, but she recovered quickly. Rough sex was nothing new to her, and Jack Holland was not the first stud who'd lost control at the brink of his climax. She'd once handled three truckers in a midnight gangbang behind a dive bar in Denver; she could handle one middle-aged lawyer who thought he was a superstud.

Grabbing his ass cheeks in both hands she held his crotch snugly against her face, rhythmically contracting and relaxing her throat muscles to trigger his orgasm as easily as if she were jerking him off in her fist.

"Gonna shoot! Oh fuck!" Holland climaxed, his cock twitching and jumping in her mouth. She greedily gulped and swallowed the hot cream pumping from his prick, sucking hard, determined to milk every drop of his load, hungry for a belly full of ball juice. Her tits bounced against her chest as she resumed bobbing her head up and down his rod, shuddering all over. Blast after blast of tasty jism spurted onto her tongue and rolled down her throat. This was probably his first orgasm of the day. Iris expected that he'd shoot enough to satisfy her cum hunger--at least for the moment. She grabbed his shaft and jacked it rhythmically, fondling and stirring his balls with her other hand to encourage and extend his orgasm.

At last, Iris let the lawyer slip from her mouth. She caught the last dribbles of white goo on her parted lips and stuck out her tongue to lick them clean. Gasping for breath, she slumped and rested her head against one of his legs, an arm curled around his thigh. Inches from her face a mixture of his jism and her spit slowly dripped from the tip of his prick onto the brocade carpet. She was pleased to see that he was still half-erect.

"Let me clean that up," she whispered, lifting her face to his prick again. "I'll have you hard in no time and we can screw. My hot little cunt's wet and ready for a good fuck."

"Nah. Don't think so." To Iris's shock, Holland yawned lazily and got up from his chair, retrieving his clothes from his desktop. I've got other clients this morning. Paying clients."

If she hadn't been so horny, she would have immediately sensed that she was in over her head. But she'd grown too used to relying upon what she thought was her irresistible sexual allure. Rolling over and looking at Holland through half-closed eyes, she spread her firm thighs enticingly and slid one slender finger into her slit. "I haven't come yet, Jack. Come on, you owe a gal--"

"Did you hear me? Your husband's appointment is in ten minutes."

"What?" She sat bolt upright. "George is coming here?"

"Uh-huh." Holland sneered, enjoying himself. "He put me on retainer three days ago, to handle the divorce. In the interest of, ah, professional ethics I let him know that you'd already gotten in touch. He suggested that I go ahead and have a little fun with you. What was it he said? Oh, yeah --'Why should you be the only guy in town she hasn't humped,' is how he put it."

"You bastard! You motherfucking son of a--"

"Get yourself dressed." Holland zipped up his trousers and buckled his belt, then tied and offhandedly adjusted his necktie. "Oh, and leave the earrings. Diamonds, aren't they? George showed me the receipts, I said I'd recover them for him."

Contemptuously, he threw Iris's skirt and blouse on the carpet in front of her. "Hurry it up. It'd be pretty embarrassing for you to have George walk in here while you're wiping my spunk off your mouth. Although I'm sure he and I would get a laugh out of it."

She scrambled to her feet, wanting to hurl herself at Holland and tear his mocking eyes out of his face. But no. Adding aggravated assault to the list of her transgressions would play into his hands.

"If I were you, I'd take a little trip somewhere," he suggested. The smug bastard's voice was almost soothing, as if he hadn't just humiliated her. "Get out of town for as long as you can. Once word gets around about what you and Greg did--and I promise you, I'll see that it gets around--you won't have a friend left who wants to be seen anywhere near you."

"I've got nowhere to go," Iris said numbly.

"Yeah, well, maybe you should have thought of that before you went and fucked your own son. Right? Now, scoot. Skedaddle.

"Get out!"

Iris sat in her ancient Volvo in Holland's parking lot and sobbed. Her rule was to allow herself ten minutes of grief before getting on with the business of living. Few men had made her cry. None of them had been worth more than five minutes.

Fifteen minutes passed before she wiped the mascara from her cheeks and set about fixing her face in the rear-view mirror.

She needed a new plan.

First order of business was to find more permanent lodging for herself and her son Greg than the decrepit walk-up hotel room they'd holed up in together. She figured that her one remaining credit card would hit its limit by the end of the week, anyway.

Jack Holland had been right about one goddamned thing. She and Greg would be better off right now anywhere other than in this town.

What about Victoria, then? Calling her sister for help was the last thing Iris wanted to do. They had not parted well, the last time around. But she simply didn't see another, better choice. And this couldn't be about her pride. She had to think about what was best for Greg.

And while Iris hated to admit it, deep inside she missed her sister. She needed her family.

Vicky certainly had the space to spare for a few guests.

Steeling herself, Iris picked up her phone and made the call.

I have got to stop doing this, Victoria told herself, shifting her ass forward and spreading her legs wider apart on the glass tile seat of the spa while sipping from her second mimosa of the day. Her free hand was beneath the water, the manicured tips of her fingers sliding under the hem of her bikini bottom.

It was a few minutes past twelve on a sunny Tuesday in June, and Victoria Stone was starting her afternoon as she most often did: drinking her lunch alone and masturbating in the Jacuzzi on the pool deck behind the manor.

She glanced furtively in the direction of the tennis courts, where her son and a girl from his college bounded back and forth across the clay, sweating in the heat, laughing and calling out points as they volleyed back and forth.

Victoria couldn't remember the girl's name. She wasn't sure whether or not they were a couple. That would be good. Kyle was nineteen years old, and his mother hoped that even though he didn't have a steady girlfriend he at least was getting laid. Because Victoria was getting fuck-all.

She'd spent most of the morning in the master bedroom with her collection of vibrators, getting herself off repeatedly. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. She'd never make it through the two weeks until her husband's return from Japan, and three days after that he'd be gone again, bound for Finland.

Barry had once been an all-time great NFL running back, one of the seeming few with the good sense to have hung up his cleats at the peak of his career with his brain and body still intact. It was a hell of a body, too, and Barry was a hell of a stud. They'd met and married at the dawn of his career, after a brief courtship that had consisted largely of dodging paparazzi in search of private places to fuck.

It wasn't Barry the press was chasing. Promising as the rookie was, in those days Victoria had been the main publicity angle. She was at the top of her modeling career, far from just another WAG. Most in the media who stalked them so relentlessly didn't expect the union to last. But Victoria and Barry had at least two things in common that few appreciated.

In the first place, they were both kids from the Midwest who were ill at ease in the glare of the bright lights.

And in the second, the tall, regal young redhead and her giant Adonis were an insatiable match in the bedroom.

When the frantic extravagance of their celebrity became too much, they'd bought this isolated coastal estate and dismissed all but a few of the staff. They had no fixed plans other than spending their nights and days naked and fucking.

Remembering the first years of their marriage, Vicki sighed wistfully and took a long swig of her drink. She tugged the crotch of her suit to one side and repositioned herself over one of the spa's water jets. The warm stream of bubbles flowed over her mound and tickled her bare pussy lips, sending a fresh surge of arousal radiating through her belly and thighs and tits. God, how she needed cock right now!

If Barry Stone came home to find her gone stark raving mad from sexual deprivation, he'd have no one to blame but himself.

After a few years of what Victoria had considered pure bliss, Barry had turned out not to be quite as done with life in the spotlight as she. When an upstart streaming sports network came calling to offer him a lucrative on-air contract he'd leaped at the opportunity. The salary and back-end money, he told his distressed wife, was too good to pass up. He was doing it for them as well as for Kyle.

And so for most of the year, now, the only way that Victoria saw her husband between her legs at night was on the bedroom television, a distant talking head anchoring broadcasts from Brazil or Abu Dhabi for sports he'd never played. Soccer. Cricket. Gymnastics.

She drained her glass and set it aside. She turned the water jet between her legs to the highest setting.

Yes, she definitely needed to find another hobby before she wound up like her sister.

Iris's tearful phone call had come from out of the blue after years of no more personal contact than annual Christmas cards. She'd carefully left out most of the details of her split from George Maguire, but it wasn't hard to fill in the blanks. Iris was an unabashed slut, fucking and sucking her way through life with alarming abandon, and unless George was an idiot he must have been aware of her endless infidelities. But after twenty years together, something had changed.

Whatever the final straw had been, it must have been a doozy.

Victoria couldn't help the delightfully lurid images that flashed through her mind when she thought about Iris and her escapades. She untied her suit bottom, pulled it off, and plopped it onto the deck. Draping her arms over the tub rim to either side she levered herself up to float a few inches above the bubbling jet. She rolled gently from side to side, just enough to better aim the folds of her pussy at the tingling spray. Resisting the temptation to touch her clit, she let herself relax and enjoy the slowly building erotic heat in her pelvis.