I may be a slutty fuck, but Johnny was an amazing lover, dedicated to bestowing multiple orgasms upon me. He was also quite kinky, roughly pounding me as I called myself a slut and other vile things. My immaculate home looked like ground zero after a tornado struck. In our horny zeal, furniture had been overturned, couch cushions flying willy-nilly. A chair was broken during our impassioned tryst, too frail to hold both our weights as he followed my urging to “fuck this slut as hard and deep as you can.”
Our meandering, frenzied union took a course through the house, into the hot tub, and finally onto the lawn, still muddy from the recent rain. I awoke to dirt-soiled sheets, further stained by his impressive ejaculations and my soaked, dripping pussy. Happy to wake up to somebody beside me in bed, I skipped into the kitchen and prepared a breakfast feast.
Covered in mud and cum, wearing my silky robe that Mike loved so much, I gleefully served my lover.
“I could get used to your cooking every day, Mary Anne,” Johnny mentioned, his words muddled through his overstuffed mouth.
I smiled at that, realizing that I wanted more than just his cock. I could settle for just his hard, long, thick cock pounding into my wetness, giving me vaginal orgasms, something Mike could rarely, if ever, do. However, his company and companionship were things that I craved more, or equally. Unbidden, I felt tender and loving emotions because of Johnny.
“Well, Mr. Rock,” I said instead, “eat up, and maybe we’ll do dinner soon. I need to clean up this disaster zone, and I have some errands to run, some work to do, and...”
“I’ll help you clean up,” he interrupted.
“No, that’s fine. I’ll do it. I have a certain way I need things to be. A woman is only as perfect as the way she keeps her house.” Then, my boiling lust for him gave me another idea. “But, why don’t you stop by this evening, um, for dinner? You can help me wreck the place again.”
He grew pensive, his face distant, then disappointed. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I have business.” He stopped momentarily, staring at me. His face lit up. “I know! Come with me. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“For business?”
“Yes. Then dinner. I’ll take you out for a nice meal at someplace fancy. What do you think?”
“I think you just asked me out on a date. I’m a widow, Johnny. Widows buy cats and hide in their house; they don’t date.”
He laughed. “Bring your cats along, then. Seven.”
“I don’t own a cat, let alone seven of them.”
“O'clock,” he guffawed, “seven o’clock.”
We conversed over breakfast and coffee, and, for a moment, it felt like old times. He wasn’t my Michael, quite different, in fact. It was all of those warm, serene feelings, the emotional tranquility of having somebody in my life, if even for a brief moment, that soothed my soul.
My housewife instincts suddenly kicked in, and I sent him to the bathroom to shower, deciding to give his rumpled clothing a quick washing and ironing. Humming and singing to myself, I instinctively packed him a hearty lunch and even tossed in the scarf I’d used the previous evening to tie his hands to the headboard.
“Thank you for the wonderful evening, your hospitality, and everything else,” Johnny said as he turned to leave.
As if the traditional housewife role was seared into my genes, I followed him to my front door, spun him around, and kissed him passionately. Our lips locked, and he moaned into my mouth with delighted surprise. Unlike my late husband, Johnny’s hands immediately grabbed my butt and squeezed my cheeks. The feeling of being desired by a flesh and blood man overtook and consumed me, and I reciprocated by shrugging off my robe and dropping to my knees as I thrust his lunch into his hand.
“Mary Anne, wha-what are you doing?”
I just smiled up at him, an expression of hunger on my face. “Making sure your day starts perfect, tiger.”
I fished out his cock, already swollen to half-mast, and deeply breathed in his clean, manly aroma. One hand went straight to my clit, fingering and rubbing my clit as I stroked his manhood to full hardness. Hearing no resistance, only Johnny’s moans, I took the shaft into my mouth, sliding my moist, hot lips up and down the length. Fondling his balls and moaning on his man meat, I fucked him with my mouth, going deeper and faster until I had his cock buried so far down my throat that I was gagging on it.
Within minutes, I could feel his hardness swell in my mouth. Johnny’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, and he’d collapsed back against the door. When his taut, muscular stomach began undulating, I pulled my mouth off his cock, little tendrils of spittle flying off of it as I vigorously stroked him.
“Cum on your slut’s face, Johnny. Show me how much I turn you on. Make me your fucking whore and cum on my slutty face.”
“Oh, fuck,” was all he managed to groan before I was rewarded with geyser-like spurts of hot, sticky cum, coating my face. By then, I was moaning as well, and the dirty filthiness of what I was doing triggered a powerful orgasm that shot through my body in torturous waves as if I were being whipped by pleasure itself.
“Have a great day, you sexy stud. Keep that cock hard for me.”
I threw the door open and sent him out my front door, hanging cock and all. As soon as his car left my driveway, I threw myself onto the floor and fingered my aching cunt to another orgasm. I finally felt complete, once more, and the feeling was liberating.
“Mrs. Mary Anne Rock,” I mused to the ether as I walked to the bathroom to shower.
I’d dreamed up a very busy schedule and further complicated it by deciding to shop for a new dress. It had been several years since I’d had anything remotely resembling a date, and I wanted to look perfect. That required a new dress, new makeup, and matching undergarments for when he undressed me.
In any event, keeping my forebrain occupied with daily trifles prevented me from ruminating over my slutty, nasty mouth being exposed to thousands of online perverts. Rather than dwell on the myriad comments, such as, “You women are fucking hot, but hearing Mary A masturbate made me cum in my pants,” or fixate on how aroused it had made me, I concentrated on choosing the perfect clothing for my day.
Finally accepting that I was still a desirable, single woman, I dressed for my own pleasure, barely noting that my wardrobe choices would also appeal to onlookers. The dark, sultry skirt, plain and billowy, coupled with a boob-hugging, simple top with a cleavage-showing scooped neck, made me look effortlessly sexy. Of course, seeing how I looked made me pause to do my hair and makeup in a vixen-like, sexy fashion.
A few seconds were spent debating whether I should wear any underwear, but I decided that since I was finally enjoying my freedom, my naughty bits should, likewise, be free. Sensible sandals finished off my outfit; the weather was beginning to turn colder, so I didn’t have much time left to wear just sandals.
As if I hadn’t already crammed enough menial chores into my day, my car decided to have a flat tire not long after I’d hit the city. Luckily, I was on the outskirts, and a service center was right up the road, conveniently situated at the precise spot where my thumping, deflating tire popped off the rim. Leaving the lurching jalopy in the parking lot, I sauntered inside, surprised to see a young, handsome man staffing the small service center.
His stitchwork name patch, in typical mechanic-shirt blue thread, read “Glen,” and he was cute and sexy in a grease-monkey way. Obviously a leg-man, his pale, green eyes took in my exposed calves and thighs as a smile sprouted on his thin lips, growing into a white, teeth-revealing grin.
“What can I do for you?” he asked. His voice was slightly high-pitched and had a sing-song quality.
My mind conjured images of his dirty hands staining my feminine flesh, my clothes being torn off my body, and his hard cock pounding into me as he forced me over the fender of a dirty car, making my horny pussy cum. His mouth looked perfect for gnawing at my hard nipples, those lips perfect for sucking on my clit.
“I’m flat,” I stammered when his eyes grew wide at my firm nipples poking through my top. “I mean, I have a flat. Can you fix me up?”
“Where’s your car?”
My extended thumb shot backward, over my shoulder, which made my tits bounce more than a little. Maybe he was a boob-man because his eyes didn’t follow my gesture.
“The one in the middle of your parking lot with the flat tire.”
“Let’s go have a look.”
His manly, grease-stained blue pants hugged his tight butt as he emerged from behind the counter and headed outside. I followed, coyly admiring the view. The warm day suddenly felt sweltering. Glen worked out, quite a lot, and it showed. His broad shoulders tapered sharply downward toward a tiny waist, one I could easily wrap my overheated thighs around. Every arm movement strained his rolled-up sleeves to the point of bursting, and, despite the homogeneous cut of his pants, his muscular thighs filled them out, nicely.
His hair was dark, almost black, and tied back into a little ponytail. He was neither clean nor clean-cut, and that was part of his appeal. He whistled when he saw the car.
“So,” he smirked, “which tire is it?”
I just shook my head.
“Well, you take 235/60-18s. No worries, they’re very common. We stock them. Just the one, or do you want new rubber all around?”
“I think that just…”
“Oh wait!” Glen interrupted me. “I have a full set, barely used, that I can give you a deep discount on.”