Exit, stage left.

John reluctantly pulled the milf's face away from his groin. "Maybe later", he grinned as he helped her back to her feet.

Just as he was doing so, the door flew open once more and Alison burst through it. "I got here as quick as I could mom. Is everything ok? Am I in time?" she asked breathlessly. She looked amazing. Exactly as John had remembered her, except a little more flustered. "Did you get them to wait a week?". She paused and took a deep breath then looked at her mom getting up from her knees, then to John. "John - what are you doing here?" she asked looking confused.

"Alison", said John, "Uh, I can explain..."

"Oh honey, your boyfriend here, he paid the rent for us", cried Alison's mom, getting to her feet and rushing to Alison to hug her tightly, almost knocking her from her feet. "He's a diamond. Why havent you brought him round before. So much better than that, that... bastard!". John noticed she still had a little bead of cum in her cleavage.

"Mom! He's not my b",

Just then a baby chose that moment to cry in the next room at full volume, and both women began talking over one another rushed to get it. John quickly used that as his excuse to slip from the house. Suddenly trying to take a step forward with the class hotty from 5 years earlier had just turned a lot more complicated..., and he wasnt quite as **** having just splurged his cum across her mother's tits a short while ago.

Content and feeling mellow following his cum deposit on the milf, John wound his way back the long way to Hawthorn avenue via the park since it was a nice day. The sun was up and he was feeling the heat. A few subathers were out already. One caught his eye and looked up as he passed

John smiled at her. He thought, wouldn't it be good if he had a device or artefact that could stop time so that he could just slide on board. He could picture himself on top of her, and the feeling of wanting more fun after his morning at Alison's returned.

In a daydream of fucking every decent looking woman in the neighborhood, he carried on, through the park till he came to Merton Street, which would take him a dogleg back onto Hawthorn Street and about half a mile from home. He had loosely been aiming towards the Pitcher's Glove there - a relaxed Sports Bar where he thought a quick beer before heading home might come in handy. However, as he approached it, he could see it had changed in the 5 years since he had been gone.

The sign outside the door had changed. No longer the friendly image of a glove and ball above the door, now it was a harley with flames following in its wake. The name had changed to "Hellfire" and there were rows of bikes lined up in the parking lot. Shit! thought John, but fascinated, and still thirsty and in the hope of a beer, strode in.