We live in a nice home on a cul-de-sac in a nice neighborhood in a nice development outside a large metro area. Big home on a big lot, like the rest of the development. The husbands are all professional types, commuting into the urban jungle, doing whatever professional husbands do. We are all well enough off that none of the wives works. Not so well off that we can afford housekeepers. Household ages mid to late 40s. Children all grown and gone. I was the last one left, and I would be gone in the fall.

Housekeeping has a certain drudgery, but even in houses as big as ours, it's not a full-time job. Tasks are divided between the days of the week. By noon, that day's work was done, and the wives had the remainder for themselves. The five wives on our cul-de-sac have formed a coffee klatch, meeting in someone's home for an afternoon, drinking wine, and gossiping about whatever women gossip about. It was Thursday of the last week of high school, and we seniors were let out at noon. I arrived home in my pussy wagon (black '99 Mitsubishi Eclipse, refurbished leather interior, finish restored, chrome rims with fat tires, some extra pep in the engine, throaty subdued exhaust. We aren't exactly poor, either). The coffee klatch was in full swing.

If you put a bunch of guys together with a keg, as the keg floats, the conversation turns bawdy. Not what you want your grandmother to overhear. Not what you expect to hear from women, either.

First, the players. Marilyn Morrison was tall, fit, her figure only slightly expanded from her college days. Phyllis Beckman was a little shorter, a little heavier, all in the right places. Ruth Segal was short and petite. Candace Overstreet had the type of body those starving supermodels dream about. Full breasts, narrow waist, volleyball player's ass, breeder's hips, long sculpted legs. Your classical wet dream. And mom. Clare Anderson (Mom) was almost as tall as me (just over six feet), with what might be described as a typical "hot mom bod." All the right things in all the right places in the right size. All rated high on the MILF scale.

And on this day, they were gathered in our kitchen, wearing the uniform of the stay-at-home mom, finished with the day's housework. Form-fitting shorts or yoga pants, T-shirts, or "wife beater" shirts. Three empty wine bottles and a fourth near death. I heard their whooping and laughing as I came in the side door. That's probably why they didn't hear me. As they continued their conversation, I quietly walked to the base of the staircase and had a foot on the bottom step when what I heard stopped me.

It sounded like Mrs. Morrison. "... and the lousy fucker couldn't even get it up. I must have sucked it for ten minutes, but it was deader than fried chicken. I was horny as hell, and all he could do was sit there with his eyes closed, chin on his chest, and his tongue hanging out, drooling on his shirt. I was tempted to sit on his face and piss in his mouth, but I would have had to clean up his puke." Uproarious laughter.

I had this conversation with my brain.

Me: Who just said that?

Brain: Sounded like Mrs. Marilyn Morrison.

Me: It sounded more like Marilyn Chambers. Maybe Marilyn Manson.

Brain: Nope, it was Mrs. Marilyn Morrison.

In my head, this conversation was 15 microseconds. It took you much longer to read it.

"I've felt your pain, honey. One night, I had gone to great lengths to ensure a romantic evening would end in a night of wild fucking. I mowed my lawn, used a flavored douche, wore an easily removable dress that would be no great loss even if he ripped it off, a light supper of fruit, and an expensive wine. I was going to suck his cock until his eyes exploded and have him watch as I rolled it around my mouth until I SWALLOWED IT! Then I was going to strip him and fuck him until his cock fell off. He walked in the door, looked right at me, and said, "Honey, I'm really beat. I think I'll take a shower and hit the sack." And that's what he did. I ended up in the spare bedroom with my Widow's Companion, which let me tell you was a poor substitute." More laughter.

Me: Mrs. Overstreet?

Brain: Yep.

Me: Dude, I know corpses that would get out of the morgue for a chance at that.

Brain: Yep.

15 microseconds for this one, too.

"Mine was gone for two weeks. TWO WEEKS! When he walked through the door, I was standing there wearing a silk robe and nothing else. Hair down, a champagne bottle in one hand and two flutes in the other. He set his suitcase down, kissed me on the cheek, and asked, "What's for dinner?" I could have worn a sign that said "Fuck me, I'm ready!", but I don't think it would have done any good." More giggling and snorting, and expressions of sympathy.

Me: Mrs. Beckman?

Brain: Sounded like.

Me: What's she married to, a eunuch?

Brain: They had three kids. Someone's the daddy. And Bruce and Jason do look a lot like him.

Same 15 microseconds.

Mrs. Overstreet again. "When I'm cleaning the house and seeing your son mowing our yard, sometimes it's all I can do to keep from asking him inside and have him trim my bushes."

Now they really roared. "Candy, you sex-starved SLUT!"

"We're gonna call you Cougar Candy!"

Then the one voice I recognized spoke up. Mom said, "I'll bet we all have these stories. It's a crying fucking shame we have to put up with it, but there's no way to get around it. It's the Widow's Companion, or maybe cruising on the island of Lesbos."

You would have thought she suggested they hook up with dogs, horses, or space aliens. The laughter was long, loud, and bawdy. They were coughing and choking on their wine. It had died down a little when the last voice was heard.

"There is one thing you can do."

It was Mrs. Segal.

"In the strip mall by the gas station at the Freeway off-ramp, there's an adult novelty store. You park at the far end of the gas station, walk through it past the restrooms, and out the back where the big trucks park. Walk along the back wall to the other end and through the back door to the novelty shop. They have all sorts of things there, more than your wildest imagination. And there's this nice young lady with lots of tattoos and piercings who is nice enough to show you how stuff works. I wore a wig..."

The rest was drowned out in the gales of laughter and cat-calls from the other women. Let's just say they weren't comments you would ever hear from a lady in polite company. I didn't see, but could almost hear Mrs. Segal blush beet red, from her brown roots to her magenta toenails. That was enough for me. I quietly returned through the garage and made a production of entering the front door. They had enough time to set their wine glasses down and say hello. I dashed through the entry and up the stairs, calling my greeting as I ran.

Lying on my bed, my brain spoke up.

Brain: Dude, this looks like a golden opportunity for a young entrepreneur.

Me: How's that?

Brain: These women suffer from a deficiency that you are uniquely qualified to supply.

Me: What's that?

Brain: Lack of cock. They have the disease, you have the cure. All you need is the opportunity.

Me: Let me get this straight. You want me to fuck women as old as my mother?

Brain: They're already high on the MILF scale. It's the next logical step.

Me: Okay. Let me think on it.

All further conversations between my brain and me take 15 microseconds. Saves typing.

Like I previously said, we are all well off, but not so much that we can afford servants. Or lawn care. And all the houses have huge yards. The five households in our cul-de-sac have a package deal with a landscaping service for fertilizer, weed and pest control. But the lawns also needed weekly mowing. We have one of those zero-turn, 54" riding mowers. Add a battery-powered string trimmer and leaf blower, and I was in the mowing business. Each household paid me $100.00 weekly to edge between the lawn and the curb, sidewalk, patio, and driveway, mow the lawn, and blow the clippings back into the grass. I mow one a day. Five lawns, Monday through Friday. It pays gas and insurance for the pussy wagon.

As I mowed the Beckman's yard, an idea began to form. I needed to get next to the wife, activate her maternal instinct, add some emotion coupled with physical contact, and let nature take its course. Be ready to overcome reluctance with soothing phrases that would incite sexual ideas without being overly pornographic. I continually refined the plan until I thought I had a chance at success. And tomorrow I would be mowing "Cougar Candy's" lawn. Maybe I could also trim her bush.

Friday morning, I was on the mower early, at the Overstreet house. I was wearing a clean but loose "wife-beater" and cut-off sweatpants. I had thought about skipping underwear, but the thought of having "the boys" bouncing around for 90 minutes or so with no support changed my mind. Mirrored Oakley's and boat shoes (no socks). Ready for action.

I kept glancing at the house. Maybe she was watching me. Maybe she was daydreaming about the same thing as I was. My mouth was dry. Did I have the balls (PUN!) to go through with it? Risk/reward. Big risk, big reward.

When I finished, I parked the mower behind the house and walked across the patio. The double glass doors were unlocked, and I let myself in. "Mrs. Overstreet, I'm done." She called down from upstairs, "Have a seat, I'll be down in a minute." I slipped off my shoes and went to the couch in the living room. I needed the wider seating capacity for my plan to work.

Presently, she came down wearing an oversized T-shirt and baggy shorts. "Can I get you a cold drink? You look awfully hot."

"Thank you, Gatorade, if you have it, ice water if not."

She returned with a large tumbler of ice water and sat next to me. "We haven't had Gatorade since Tony left."

"Thank you, this will do fine."

Brain: Now roll your shoulders forward, head slightly down, hurt look.

"Are you feeling alright? You look like something is bothering you."

Brain: YES!

"Well, there's something that happened, and I don't know what to do."

Brain: Bait in the water.

"I'm sure your parents can help you solve whatever it is."

Brain: Nibbling?

"I don't think it's something I can discuss with them. I just don't know where to turn."

Brain: Jiggle the bait a little.

"Is it something you might discuss with me?"

Brain: There's the hook.

"It's embarrassing. There's a woman who's made advances toward me. At first it was flattering, but now I'm not so sure."

Brain: Jiggle the hook, show the bait.

She moved closer to me, her leg touching mine, and she put an arm around me as she grasped my hand with her other. She leaned forward, cocked her head, looked into my eyes, and said, "Oh, you poor dear! Who was it?"

Brain: Get ready to set the hook!

"I don't want to say. I don't want to get her into any trouble. I was so surprised an older woman would find me sexually attractive, and maybe I led her on."

"What happened?"

Brain: THE HOOK IS SET! Now if she just doesn't spit it out...

I leaned back on the couch. With my arm around her shoulders, she leaned back with me. Her arm around my waist, head resting under my ear. She gazed at her hand holding mine, on my lap.

"It started innocently enough. Then our conversations became racier. She would comment on how handsome I was, how the girls must fight over who would be the next to go to lover's lane, and give up their virtue. Hell, we don't even have a lover's lane. And she would stand very close to me, touching me when we talked. She put her hands on my hands, my arms, my face, running her fingers through my hair. And even though she's older, she's attractive. Very attractive. When her eyes looked into mine, the message I saw was that she would be very willing to go to that lovers' lane with me and give up her virtue.

By now, "Cougar Candy" was breathing heavily. The arm around me gripped my waist. Her hand was sweating.

Brain: Go for the kill!

"One day, we were at her house with her sitting next to me. She turned my face towards hers and kissed me! I was so shocked that I just sat there. She used her tongue to open my lips, then she licked all over my tongue and lips. I was frozen. She put one of her hands on my lap and grasped my manhood. I was so excited that I couldn't control myself and had an erection. She massaged me through my clothes, and it became uncomfortable. There isn't much room in there, and I have a big one."

I thought she was going to hyperventilate. The time for talking was over; now time for action. I used my hand around her shoulders to turn her face to me. Her lips parted, eyes shining, blush on her cheeks. Her eyes closed when my lips touched hers, her tongue greeting mine. Her arm hugged me closer, her hand squeezing mine. For a few minutes, we were two kids on her couch with her parents away.

But we weren't kids. I took her hand from mine and put it on my cock, laying my hand over hers to have her hand grip it. Now you know why I wore the cut-off sweatpants. The underwear was kind of constricting, but not so much that she couldn't get the idea of what was inside. Once hers was engaged, I moved to cup one of those massive mammaries. Wow, was it heavy! I could feel the hard nipple through her bra. I massaged it, pinching the nipple. She was panting now.

Suddenly, she sat bolt upright, shoving me away. "My God, what the hell are we doing? I can't do this, we can't do this, you have to go." She stood and turned away, hugged herself, shivered like she was cold.

I moved behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, hands on her lower stomach. "Yes, we can. I've always thought of you as a beautiful, sexy woman. Today I finally found the nerve to tell you. The boys at school always voted you the top MILF. Fuck, you're so sexy." When my hands moved up to those heavy breasts, she took a shuddering breath and leaned back into me. I raised one hand to her throat while I licked under her ear and that nexus at the nape of her neck. My other hand descended under the waistband of those baggy shorts and under her panties. About halfway down, I discovered two things: She had already trimmed her bush, and she was wet. At first, I thought it was urine, but the texture was different. Not watery like urine, this was thicker, like light syrup, and stickier. Holy fuck, it was pussy juice, and lots of it! A little further down, I encountered her vulva. Parting the lips, I found her clitoris, waiting for me. A few strokes elicited a "MMMmmm," and the undulation of her hips. Inserting the finger and rubbing the clit with my thumb, the humming changed to "Ooohhh," and the undulations changed to shivering.

I turned her to me, locked lips, and continued fingering her as I walked her back to the couch. I removed my hand long enough to lower her shorts and panties and lay them on the couch, sitting her on them. I knelt down, spread her legs, and dove right in.

It was like diving into the Sea of Pussy. Much of the secretion had stayed in her panties, but it had also smeared and clung like syrup. Not the fishy odor you hear attributed to women, and just a slightly off taste. There was a lot of it, and it was still coming.

A note on how to please a woman. Back in the dark ages, sex education was mostly on-the-job training. There were no books or manuals, no classes where you could learn how to. Dirty jokes and lying stories from people who had no more idea of how to do it than you. Then came the Internet. Suddenly, everything you wanted to know about sex was there for your viewing pleasure. From any possible way men and women could couple, to those forms that, if you got caught, guaranteed you a prison-school education. So if you want to know how to pleasure a woman, surf the web. Only don't look at man/woman sex. It doesn't take long to see that there's a script being followed and the actors are acting. The woman/woman scenes are different. Many of them also have a script, but if you stop spanking the monkey long enough to observe the technique, you will see there are times when they play for real. It's like they are saying, yeah, we're getting paid for fucking, but we're gonna have some fun, too.

Back to the story. Her inner labia looked like sushi-grade tuna, swollen, dark red, and glistening. I ran my tongue up and down, inside and out, pausing to lick her clit a few times. Then I inserted two fingers and rubbed on the anterior wall of her vagina, looking for her G-spot, while simultaneously getting a vacuum-hold on her clit and swirling my tongue counterclockwise around it. That did it. She grabbed two handfuls of my hair, thrust her pelvis off the couch while trying to pull my head in, all the while wailing like one of those European police sirens, "AAAHHH, aaahhhh, AAAHHH, aaahhhh, Aaahhhh aaahhhh." Then she went limp, and I finally got my mouth free.

I turned her around and laid her on the couch. Standing up, I was shucking my clothes as she opened her eyes. Standing there, naked with a diamond-cutter, I looked at her and she at me. She whispered, "Are you going to fuck me now?"

"That would be nice if you have no objection."

"Oh, no, I think I'm ready." That same dreamy voice. "It's been a long time since I've had a big one."

Kneeling on the couch, I put Mr. Johnson at the starting gate, and in he went. She wasn't kidding. She was very tight. Even with the copious lubrication, it took several times before my balls rested against that awesome ass. A few shallow thrusts to ensure everything was sufficiently lubed, I lifted her legs onto my shoulders, grabbed two hands full of her magnificent ass, and began to rail her. I guess her previous orgasm hadn't fully dissipated, because the next one began almost immediately. Then the next. Then the one after that. And the one after that. That was when I shoved my cock against the face of her cervix and proceeded to whitewash it.

When it was over, I lowered her legs. Her face looked like she had just woken from a nap, soft and slack. Her eyes were half-lidded, sparkling. The face of a well-fucked woman.

South of the border, however, was a cross between a FEMA disaster and a Superfund site. Gaping, angry-red maw. River of semen running over her anus, pooling on her shorts. Thank God, no blood! And thank God, I had thought of laying those shorts down. Those cushions would have been ruined. Pussy syrup everywhere. The genitalia of a well-fucked woman.

She spoke in the soft voice of someone just waking from sleep. "You better go now. I have some cleaning up to do before hubby gets home." Then she added, in a quiet whisper, "Thank you. It was wonderful."

I quickly dressed. As I leaned over her, she turned her head to me, and I kissed her lightly on the lips.

"You were magnificent."

Then I was gone, out the back door, and rode the mower home.