I was sitting in the conservatory. The spring sun was surprisingly warm, and the conservatory had heated up to the extent that I had the doors open. Earlier when I had collected the laundry, I had opened the upstairs windows to let fresh air blow through. My son Mik’s room had especially needed a blow of fresh air; phew, it ponged.

I relaxed back into the chair and sipped at my tea. Nearby a bird was twittering away, a robin possibly. I could hear voices, and I realised it was Mik and his friend Gregory. They were talking in his room, and with all the open doors and windows, their voices travelled.

“I am telling you she is a grade A MILF," I heard. Gregory was talking; he seemed excited.

“Maybe,” Mik said in response, “but she is not your mother.”

"God, I so would," Gregory said again, “can’t you arrange it for me?’

“Fuck off, I am not even going to dignify that, you prat; she is my mum.”

Oh, were they really talking about me? Was I the MILF in question? Crikey Moses!

“Her tits are to die for,” Gregory said again. I unconsciously held my boobs, feeling them, their weight, and my nipples hardening.

“I don’t care; they are not your mum’s tits. How would you feel if I wanted to fuck your mum?”

“Do you? I wouldn’t mind if you did; her cunt is so wet.”

“So, you say," Mik again.

“Hell, it is. My dick just went straight in. God, I am fucking hard again just thinking about it.”

“Yeah, well, my mum is no slapper; she wouldn’t drop her knickers just for you to fuck her.”

“Are you calling my mum a slapper?” Oh, was it getting heated?

Mik laughed, "No, you prat, I am just saying my mum keeps herself for Dad, and that is it. Never a hint of it, never flashes anything, more the pity. No, she may be a MILF, but she won’t put out just because she is.”

“Oh, God, Mik, I saw your mum in her bikini last summer; I cannot forget the bulge of her mound. Oh, my God, I bet she is so creamy.”

“Shut it, Greg; I am not comfortable talking about my mum. You know your mum flashed her knickers at me last week.”

“Did she? She does it all the time; she wears such short skirts.”

“Yeah, I could see her crease; her knickers were almost see-through. God, I wanked so hard when I got home.”

“Fuck, you wanked off to my mum? I see it all the time; it doesn’t do anything for me anymore. I just fuck her when Dad is playing golf.”

“For real, or in your mind?”

“I am telling you it is for real; anyway, I would rather fuck your mum. She is so hot; she looks so much better than my mum. Dad fucks her every night; I can hear them. They hardly ever shut their door.”

“Do you watch them, see them fucking?”

“Yeah, he usually fucks her from behind; all I can see are his balls dancing around. Sometimes Mum looks back under her legs; I know that she can see me watching them.”

“Bloody fucking hell, Greg, that is perverted.”

I smiled at the memory of the image of looking back underneath as Paul was shagging me and seeing Mik standing there with his dick in his hand. I found it so hot; I bet that Greg’s mum found it hot too. There is something hot about knowing that you are being watched, especially if the watcher doesn’t know that you are watching him. 

The language had me flinching; it was too crude for me. I had to have words with Mik ages ago, and I will not tolerate his saying 'cunt' or 'tits', and I dislike 'fuck' too. It was amusing to hear the boys talking about Greg shagging his mum, and I was pleased that Mik hadn’t said that he shagged me.

I had made him promise never to tell anyone, and he was being true to his word. They carried on in the same vein, crude descriptions of sex, but then, I guess that is what they are like at that age. Both are eighteen and have yet to learn the subtleties of discretion or non-crude speaking. 

I went into the kitchen and made myself a fresh cup of tea and started to peel some potatoes ready for dinner. I was planning on doing a cheese and onion pie. As I was just clearing away the peelings, Greg came into the kitchen.

“I’m off now, Mrs M. Thanks for the Diet Coke."

"Okay, Gregory, that is fine; you are very welcome,” I said and turned back to the potatoes, cutting them ready for boiling.

After the front door had shut, I heard Mik come into the kitchen. He came up behind me and snaked his arms around my waist. I turned to face him.

“How is your friend, Gregory?” I asked him. I didn’t call him 'Greg', as Mik always called him 'Gregory' when he spoke about him to me, and if I said ‘Greg’, Mik might realise that I had heard their conversation.

“Oh, he is fine; he thinks that you are a real MILF.”

“Goodness, really, that is just his age; he’ll get over it once he has his own girlfriend to spend intimate time with. 

“You’re not mad?”

“No, why would I be?”

“I don’t know, I suppose.”

“Well, there we are then. Do me a favour, go and close the upstairs windows; I am busy doing dinner.” That was my way of saying that I didn’t have any time for his attentions just now. I decided that I would make some sausages to go with the cheese pie; I had a pack of six in the fridge that really needed eating today, and I was planning on chicken for tomorrow. I opened the pack of sausages and put them under the grill; that was dinner sorted. I went and sat in the conservatory and finished my cup of tea with only the twittering robin for company.

Hubbie came home just as the sausages were finished, and I dished up the cheese pie and two sausages each. The gravy was simple instant gravy with added Marmite and brown sauce. Mik loaded the dishwasher, and Paul opened a bottle of wine. We went and sat in the lounge and watched some TV, a drama series Paul had recorded about secret video surveillance that was altered in real time – all very far-fetched, but I guess plausible. Mik didn’t have any wine; like so many modern kids, he didn’t often have alcohol.

When I woke in the morning, my head was a little thick. I stood in the shower and washed away the vestiges of last night’s loving, but it didn’t really wash away my headache. I put my dressing gown on and went down to make another coffee. As I was leaning on the work surface, Mum rang. The weather had been dry, and could Mik go over and mow her lawns for her? I said I would ask him. I went up, and Mik was lying in bed doing something on his computer.

“Grandma asks if you will go and mow her lawns for her, will you?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll get up and go get it done; hopefully it won’t be too much of a job.”

It’ll take him around an hour to get there on the bus and then a couple of hours sorting Mum’s garden; she’ll probably make him a sandwich for lunch and then an hour back on the bus. He’ll be gone all morning; that means I can potter around and do my thing. I emptied the dishwasher and tidied the kitchen, shouting goodbye to Mik as he went out of the front door, and then went up to get dressed. A bra, a thong and a simple dress just to be decent if anyone came to the door, really. I would be quite happy pottering around in just my dressing gown, but, well, convention says you don’t. 

I was just thinking about dinner and what needed preparing when the front doorbell rang. I opened the door, and it was Mik’s mate Greg.

“Oh, hello Gregory,” I said.

“Hello, Mrs M, is Mik around?”

“Oh, gosh, no, sorry; he has gone to his grandma's to do her garden.”

“Oh, damn, he’ll be gone for hours then, I suppose.”

“Yes, I am sorry. You can come in and have a cup of tea if you want. I’m not Mik, so I can’t talk with you about computer games and the like, but I do make a decent cup of tea.” Well, I was only being polite.

“Oh, er, okay, yes, that would be cool, Mrs M.” He stepped in, shut the front door and followed me down the hall to the kitchen. I filled the kettle and switched it on to boil and grabbed a couple of mugs, dropping a tea bag in each. I turned to face Greg and leaned on the edge of the kitchen work surface. He was leaning against the kitchen table, looking at me, his eyes roaming my body. I was glad I had taken the trouble to get dressed; my dressing gown can gape a bit. And then I remembered his conversation with Mik yesterday; perhaps my gaping gown would have been better for him.

The kettle clicked as it came to the boil, and I turned and poured the teas. I added milk and passed him a mug. “Come on,” I said. Let's go sit in the lounge.”

I led the way, and I sat on the single armchair, meaning that Greg would sit opposite on the sofa. I intended to be naughty; why not? Life is too short, and I sat with my knees slightly apart. He would get a glimpse of knickers. I looked him in the eyes and smiled.

“So, how are things with you, Gregory? How is your girlfriend? I don’t think I know her name; Mik never mentioned her.”

“Oh, I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment, Mrs M.” He didn’t look exactly sad about it.

“Oh, that’s a shame, Gregory.”

“No, I find them too young, if you know what I mean. I prefer someone more mature, with more experience.”

“Crumbs, Gregory. Well, my goodness. What do they call older women looking for young men? Cougars, is it? Well, I don’t even know how older women go about finding young men.”

If I parted my legs just a little more, he would be seeing my knickers quite clearly now, and with a bit of luck, they would be stretched tightly across my fanny. I smiled to myself and wondered how far I could play him. I could see from his eyes that he was looking, and he shuffled in his seat a little; perhaps he was getting a little tight in the crotch area.

“I mean, I would guess that there are plenty of older women that perhaps are not getting the attention that they want from their husbands.” He said, again shuffling in the seat.

I was pretty sure I could see a bulge; gosh, I bet that was uncomfortable. I couldn’t be sure, of course; I don’t have a dick that grows and fills my knickers, thank goodness. But I did know I was wet down there; I wondered if it would show on my knickers. I couldn’t exactly ask him, could I?

“I suppose that there might be, but how would you know? How would you find out? That sounds like a pretty private thing, not the sort of thing a woman would want to advertise.”

“No, perhaps not, but if I were to speak to her, you know, all friendly-like, she might give some clues.”

“Goodness, I wonder what clues they might be, Gregory. I can’t imagine; I can’t imagine at all.”

I moved in my seat, sitting on my other buttock by leaning the other way, and then, my knees apart again, showing more knickers and, hopefully, a bit of a crease. I was wearing a simple dress; it didn’t have buttons at the front that I could undo, and it was simply low-cut and showed some of my cleavage. Probably just my cleavage would have been enough, without adding the view between my legs. I put my knees together.

“I’m just nipping to the loo, and then I will make some more tea,” I said, standing up, making sure I leant forward in front of him as I collected his teacup. He should have got a view of my bra.

I took the cups into the kitchen and then went into the downstairs loo. I didn’t quite shut the door; he would hear my pee hitting the bowl. I wasn’t just wet; I was absolutely soaking, and my knickers had that dark circle where my fanny had contacted them. Could I put them back on, or should I leave them off? I decided to leave them off. I rinsed them in the handwash basin, squeezed them as much as I could with my hands, and then draped them over the radiator. I would collect them later when Gregory had gone.

Back in the kitchen I put the kettle on to boil. I heard Gregory go into the loo; he left the door open, and I heard the splash as he emptied. Was he playing the same game as me? I wondered. I turned around from the kettle, and Gregory was standing right in front of me, inches away. He put a hand up and brushed away a strand of hair from my face. I closed my eyes, and I felt his hand on my side, right underneath boob level. He was not afraid of coming forward; that was for sure.

His lips touched mine, and as I tentatively returned his kiss, his hand moved up and cupped my breast. “The small signs,” he said, “like showing their knickers.”

I swallowed. Was it that obvious? I thought I was being clever. His hand ran down my back and over my buttocks, lifting my dress, his fingers going between my cheeks and then underneath. I gasped loudly as his fingers touched my fourchette and then pressed a little further, his hard dick pressing against me. This was the point of no return. I either pushed him away, saying that he had misunderstood, or I let him carry on.

He pushed me back towards the kitchen worksurface, his hands held my buttocks, and he lifted me up, sitting me on the work surface, my dress rucked up behind me, the worksurface cold against my buttocks. He bent down, and I felt him blow along the crease of my fanny; I wondered if my fanny lips were puckering. I felt his tongue just running along my lips and then partially pressing inside, parting my outers, my inners wrapping around his tongue as he moved.

"Oh," I gasped as he found my nubbin, and rivers of pleasure flooded my body. My nipples hardened and pressed against the fabric of my dress, the bra almost irrelevant. His teeth nipped at my nubbin, tugging and then releasing, letting it fall back into its mound as if it were a rubber band.

“Oh, my,” I gasped again as fingers circled my entrance, pressing a little harder with each lap until they had begun to penetrate, my hot fanny wrapping itself around his fingers as they pleasured me. 

"Goodness," I gasped as his fingers reached my depth and parted, opening the way a pair of scissors parts, only inside me and also not cutting. My fanny walls clamped, trying to squeeze his fingers together; his other fingers pressed at my crinkle even as his thumb flicked my nubbin. My head was pushing back, my neck stretched, vulnerable, and my mouth open in a silent scream as my pressures filled. This boy knew his onions.

He pulled me forwards and let me slide down towards the kitchen floor; my passage slowed as his dick pressed into me and began to fill where his fingers had been. His clothing seemed to have magically fallen down, or perhaps it had been his other hand whilst his fingers were distracting me.

"Oof." I gasped as I was impaled, his dick filling me, his hands under my buttocks, rocking me up and down in a standing shag. He moved me faster and faster on his dick, his foreskin a blur inside me, his fingers getting ever deeper into my cleft as he raised and lowered me. A finger touched and then pressed; I was invaded again, one then two knuckles inside my arse, a finger shagging my bum as his dick shagged my arse. I felt possessed.

The game was lost, or was it won? Was this his game? Was he simply playing me? I knew his desires; I had overheard them yesterday as he spoke with my son. I was being royally shagged in my kitchen by my son’s friend. My plan to tease and titillate had been overtaken by this lad’s desire to shag me, to have me, to possess me. I could hardly distinguish what was where beneath me: a dick filling my fanny, a finger invading my bowel, other fingers somehow on my perineum, pushing at my fourchette; my breaths were gasps when and where I could; I was lost.

He lifted me up, dick leaving my fanny and finger leaving my arse. I was gaping, wide open down there, and my mouth was open at the shock of the sudden ending. He twisted me around and bent me forwards over my kitchen work surface. Almost before I could rationalise what was happening, his dick thrust hard into my fanny.

“Argh!” I shrieked, and then he began to shag hard, thrusting deep, his stomach cracking hard against my buttocks. The slaps echoed around the kitchen, my gasps chasing the sounds. My stomach was pressed hard against the edge of the work surface, painfully so, but I didn’t care; I gave that pain no mind. My fanny was being pounded, and that was my focus.

He began to press deeper, pushing in harder and harder, his balls bouncing around between my thighs, his hands pushing my...