The Housewife From Hell

Leaning back on the sofa, she opened her thighs a bit and he could see she wasn't wearing stockings. It was obvious she hadn't shaved her legs for a while. He knew she was wet because she emitted that odor he knew so well. The scent of arousal, of need, of urgency.

"Do you think I have nothing to do except sit home and wait for you?"

He shrugged. She looked like an unmade bed.

"Was someone here?" he asked.

"If you must know, Agnes was here. She just left ..."

"Maybe I should ask you if you had fun."

"Agnes is a dear friend. She's from church. We were discussing Timothy's letter to the Corinthians."

"I bet."

He smirked at her.

"I get that ... feeling .. more so than you know. I'm a mature woman and I have needs ... all the time."

He listened politely.

"I have urges, lots of urges. I would like a woman's mouth on my pussy? Do you know how that feels?"

He waited for the revelation.

"Sweet! It feels sweet. Not vulgar, like some man slobbering over it ..."

"Mom, I'm sorry I was with a woman. I wanted the experience. I was a virgin ..."

"Not my problem, sonny boy. Not my problem. Get fucked on your own time. Not mine!"

His crotch attracted her attention because it was stretching his pants. The lump was there, growing, getting bigger. She was less angry, now a bit flirty, making herself available to him. She knew there was nothing sexier to a young stud than a fleshy mother. He was a male with a rampant cock, a boy still in a way, but he'd always be her baby. Even when he's 60 years old.

She took his hand and led him into her bedroom. It was his mother's room, a strange place for a person like him. It smelled of flowers and powder and freshly washed panties. The top drawer of her bureau had sex stuff in it, but he never dared looked in there. It scared him, it was mysterious, naughty.

The bed was unmade, as if she'd just had sex with someone. The sheets were wet from her outpouring's. Gesturing, she indicated she wanted him lying down and he followed her instructions. Slip off your pants she told him, and as he pulled his pants off his huge limb sprang up at her. She smiled, glad he was young and could give her some good action. She didn't care who he fucked as long as he was there for her. Stiff, his engine bobbing at her. Deluge me or I'll bite your balls off, she told him. She wanted him to fuck her. But first, she'd rather tickle his nuts as she usually did.

* * *

He would become a seminarian, a cleric, a male with a huge dick and he would always need to get himself off. No wonder Jesus sweated blood when He prayed. It was difficult being holy when your balls were full. That was the meaning of life, not whisperings in the breeze, but how much seed you could dump into a woman's vulva. For which she would feel blessed, that she had peace, not the peace that passeth all understanding, but the peace that satisfies a convulsing pussy.

At school, Michael took a class on creative writing. He was asked to write about a personal experience, something that actually happened to him during the summer. Thinking about Amber, he shrugged it off. Nobody would believe him. He thought about his mother, and her needs and how she preferred having a woman licking her pussy. How she made herself available to him, 24/7. He could intersperse Bible quotes about Jesus and Mary Magdalene. Except Mary would be somebody's wife with needs. Lots of needs. Like his mother.