The mature MILF next door

-Hello, darling~-.

A brief pause ensues, with only silence responding to your playful overture. Soon, your sultry gaze transforms into a disheartened frown. No, no, you can do better.

Swiftly shedding your bra and panties, you retain only heels and stockings, gracefully pivoting your ample hips until you recline on the mattress, one leg bent, the other firmly grounded, parading your plump butt to the open door of the bedroom. Pouting, you simulate a kiss.

Urgh. Your pendulous breasts begin to ache, and your back rebels against the unfamiliar arch. Then, what about...

You recline on your stomach, bosom now pressed against the bed, one hand behind your head, and your feet playfully suspended in the air. So sexy...

...if only you were two decades younger. Maybe you're overanalyzing it. Rising to your knees, you let your arms fall gracefully along your hips and stretch a winsome smile.

-I look like an idiot.- You say with gritted teeth. The fact is, you're too agitated to find satisfaction in any pose. Readjusting your lingerie, you hurry to the bathroom, bending over the faucet. Your vexed murmurs reverberate through the empty house.

"Come on, Susan, pull yourself together. He'll be here in a minute. He loves you. You know what he likes. You got it.".

You scrutinize the woman in the mirror, delicately smoothing the crow's feet around your eyes. A sigh escapes your lips. It's not just those. Your face has always borne this mousy grunt of yours—appealing, perhaps, but certainly not beautiful in the conventional sense. In your youth, your body boasted curves and allure, and so you just had to act more 'sexy' than 'pretty' to compensate. Yet now, the toll of motherhood has left its mark on your figure.

As you cautiously touch the wrinkles around your dimples with your fingertips, attempting to appear at least a bit younger, you hear the front door opening and some heavy steps approaching. Your heart palpitates. It was you who left the door open, but... what if it's not him? What if it's...?

-Hello?- A familiar hoarse voice echoes from behind the door. You take a breath of relief.

-Achille! Come into the room! I'll be there in a moment!- You instruct him. His steps move into the master bedroom, and the creaking of the bed springs informs you that he's sat down, patiently waiting for you.

You face your reflection for the last time.

"Alright, Susan. Showtime.".

Your behavior changes radically as you sashay into the bedroom and lean on the door frame, winking at the man sitting in front of you.

-Hello d-ahem, hello darling~- You tease with a touch of sophistication, utilizing your considerable charm. His eyes are transfixed on your prosperous chest, magnificently shaped by your bra cups.

-Hey, seems that I came just in time.- He croaks. You attentively look as he unfastens his belt, and you gasp at the sight of his black cock springing to life. This time as always, you think it's the biggest you've ever seen.

-Where do we start today? Do we have time, or...-.

-We have time. Lot of time.- You kneel down in front of him. His cock is thick, slightly curvaceous, with veins and capillaries ploughing along its length. You accept it in your mouth, merely the tips forcing your jaw to spread open. You look up, discovering his face already basking in bliss.

-Ohh, your lips are softer than usual...- He groans. You feel like smiling, you overworked yourself with the chapstick for half an hour. You start pushing forward, until your mouth is completely swollen, and even like this you've reached only half-length. But you do a good job, as he asks you to move on the bed, since his knees are already shaking.

Crouched on all fours on his side, his clothes discarded on the floor, your task is made easier by gravity, as you now only need to bob downward. At the same time, your fingers caress his testicles, something that you know makes him even more sensitive. In fact, it takes only a minute for him to interrupt you.

-I think I'm ready, Susan.- You can hear he's a bit embarrassed with his request. For him too, you consider, the stamina of youth has long passed away, but fortunately his dimensions aren't. However, you can't escape a little tease, and when you retract you play a bit with his head using the tip of your tongue.

-Fuck, you're really naughty today!- He rasps. You flash an amused smirk and slowly, sensually, take off your panties, parading them in front of you before slinging them away.

-What can I say, Mr. Keebler?- You purr while you crawl onto him, until your hair are dangling over his large nose, which you tap with your finger: -You make me feel another woman.-. His delighted gaze pops down, and a similar grin appears on his face.

-Mmm... I want to see your girls...-.

-My girls? You mean my titties!- You correct him triumphally, proceeding to lower your bra therefore exposing your hardened nipples.

-Yeah, yeah, I mean your titties!- He chuckles, his eyes glinting for the revealed sight: -You know, from this angle they appear...-.

"...even bigger than the usual.".

-Even bigger than the usual!-.

-And what do you want to do with my big... girlish... titties?-.

He takes a second to reply, probably aroused by this lustful foreplay you're setting up: -Mmm... well, I want to see them bouncing as you ride me!-.

-Ding ding ding! Correct answer!- You emit a giggle and then align your groin over his one, until you feel his cock brushing between your tight. His large hands come to grope your asscheeks and guide you down.

-Now make me feel goo-fwah-ahh!!!- Your request doesn't go unsatisfied, and you delight at the feeling of being penetrated by the thickness of his manhood.

-Ohh-uhh-fuuuck, you've done something to it, you're breaking me apart!- You moan, exasperating the concept, but not quite lying.

-I, uhh, I'm assuming a lot of pepper recently, it's a natural... ohhh... vasodilator!-.

Your moans turn into a laugh, you're not sure if he's joking or not, but for sure it has worked.

-I really like you being this... ahh... this spicy for me!-.

Soon your thrusts slow down, but also go more in deep, and you can fully savor the sensation of your walls gradually making room for his warmth, then tightening, then widening again. You even have to support yourself on the pillow, the mixture of pleasure and pain disfiguring your face in dramatic grimaces.

-I'm, I'm sorry Susan, I don't think I'll last much longer!- An out-of-breath Achille informs you. Even if you were expecting it, you cannot help but feel deluded. Being with him, making love with him, rekindles something that you thought had been turned off forever. For these magic, delighting moments, you go back to being a young lady in the spring of her adolescence, rather than a mother with the ailments of age. There were so many other positions you wanted to try!

-D-Do not come yet!- You beg him. You rotate around his crotch, so that you turn your back at him, and you ride Achille in reverse cowgirl style, while you use your fingers to play with your clit and to keep your entrance stretched open.

-Keep it going! Keep it going, I'm so close!- You cry. However, you soon yelp as you're pushed forward, finding yourself lying on your stomach with the black man towering upon you and pounding you hard from behind. He's thrusting himself with furious frenzy, his wild instinct having kicked him, the need for a male to breed the female of the species by asserting his dominance, his vigor on her. It hurts, burns, but also gives you a twister pleasure that is tearing your mind apart. You hear howls coming out of your mouth - oh God, what will the neighbors think?

-It's coming! I cannot hold it anymore!- He urges you. You feel his manhood throbbing inside your folds, he has reached the climax threshold. You spin around again, spreading your legs in the air and pressing yourself against his groin. You see his snout contracting, he emits a raspy groan, and then your vagina is filled with squirts of warm stickiness, you can feel them hitting your cervix and sending you haywire.

The two of you remain immobile, panting like warriors after a battle, then he carefully slips out of you and sits on the mattress. His face is still squirming in labored expression, you're almost afraid that he's in pain.

-Oh, Jesus! I'm too old for these things!- He whines.

You lift yourself up, propping on your elbows, and half-jokingly tell him not to say that: -You're one year younger than me, Achille! If you're too old, then what am I?-.

He peeks at you, initially a bit scared that he has pressed a sore point for every woman, but then he scoffs: -You, my dear, you're adorably aged, like a cask of fine wine.-.

-My, thank you!- You grin, brushing your heart (or rather, your tits) to feign being flattered: -But I hope you're not suggesting I'm fat too!-.

He sneers, then turns to the clock with a grave expression: -How much...?-.

-Don't worry. There's no hurry.- You reassure him again. Achille nods, then you silently redress and move to the living room. Before exiting the bedroom, however, he catches you looking at the messy bed.

-Ahem, do you need help?-.

-No, no, I'll change the sheets later.-.

Once you're sitting at the table, a pair of coffee cups in your hands, he pulls some papers from his briefcase and wears his glasses. You like him better with the glasses on, but it's no longer the right time to flatter him.

-So, erm, as I told you last time, it is no longer advisable to withdraw more money from the joint account, whilst here- He extends you a form: -I need just a final signature to habilitate your own.-.

-But you also called off every control up to now, right?- You ask him, more worried than you should be, as the answer has always been the same.

-Yes, of course, but now these mechanisms are becoming computerized, and so it's not in my power anymore.-.

-I know.- You look at the sheet again, feeling his gaze on you, waiting for you to sign up definitely. And you wish it was this simple.

-And how is it with the lawyer?- He asks, taking a side step from his role as bank accountant: -Are the papers ready, or...-.

-They are. Everything is ready, it's just...- You can't lift your eyes from the table. The pen is next to you, it would take you only a moment; as it did three days ago, with the divorce files. But they're still in your drawer, still with a white spot remaining.

-Achille, I'm a mother. I'm a housewife, I'm 48. It's twenty years of my life we're talking about.-.

-Susan.- He leans in and gently places his hand over yours: -I can imagine how difficult it is. But you have to think for your own sake, you're not happy like this. And it's also for your son, in what family environment do you want him to live? What example would you like to give him?-.

You wince, your breath trembling in your throat. He is quick to apologize for being too intrusive, but you're not angry. It's just, that you know he's right, and yet.

-Tomorrow I have the interview for the job with you.- You inform him. He knows it already, obviously. You're not sure why you pointed that out, but he takes it as an encouraging sign.

-Exactly. See? You're already taking the steps in the right decision, Susan. I know you can do it.-.

A dense silence falls between you, and then a click of the clock catches your attention.

-You should better go now.- You timidly say. He tightens his lips and then nods.

-I'll wait for you tomorrow. I love you, Susan.- It's his last words before leaving. Once really alone, you sigh heavily, and remain for a good half hour with your fingers on your temples, sitting in the living room. Then, you get up and open the window in your room, letting the fresh air dissipate the reek of sex. You change the sheets, then undress, toss your clothes in the laundry basket, and take a hot, yet not long, shower.

Once out, you pay **** attention to perfecting your appearance in front of the mirror, and finally, you put on a tight-fitting red dress and a new pair of gold hoop earrings. You check on your reflection.

"Not bad.".

The remainder of the morning is spent meticulously cleaning the house until it's restored to its pristine state, reminiscent of the day it was constructed. Subsequently, you prepare lunch. Just as the meal approaches completion, the front door swings open.

-Mom, I'm here!- Your son's voice calls you.

-Reginald! Just in time, we're having lasagna!-.

-Lasagna?- Reginald enters with the backpack still slung over his shoulder: -Cool!-.

-Reginald, come on, wash your hands first.- You scold him. He rolls your eyes and obeys. Sigh. Despite being on the cusp of completing high school, he still requires explicit instructions for many things. You can't help but wonder if your neighbor, Jessica Harris, faces similar challenges with her kids. The youngest, Tina, goes to the same school as Reginald, though not in the same section. You met Jessica just yesterday, she rang your door and asked you to come in for a second. Then she...

-How was school?- You inquire once he's seated. He gives you a more than elusive 'all good', prompting you to probe further.

-What about that test? Did you get the grade?-. He continues to eat, only occasionally glancing up at you.

-Yeah, you know, that teacher hates me, but I got 5/10, so no big deal.-.

-What? But...- You're speechless at the nonchalance with which he faces a failing grade just before report cards: -Sweetie, are you studying enough? I can help you if-

-I told you not to worry!- He blurts out, banging the fork on the plate: -I just have to pass the makeup exam next week and he will give me a passing grade on the report card.-.

You drop your face and silently begin eating. 'A passing grade', meaning 6/10. But you know Reginald could get more if he just applied himself better.

-Anyway, how was your morning?- He interrupts your considerations. Your lip flicks at that question.

-Just cleaned the house. Listen, Reggie...-.

-Cool. Now excuse me, I'll play a bit before studying.- Your son gets up from his seat and goes into his room without leaving you time to react. You quietly finish your meal and then do the dishes.

Time slips away until it's almost 3:00 PM, and you prepare for the next appointment of the day. Setting up the table in the living room, you await the doorbell. At 3:10 PM, you answer it.

-Hello Mrs. R!-.

-Hi, Marcel.- You let him in. Marcel Herrera is a schoolmate of Reginald, you're tutoring him twice a week for almost a year.

-So, how was the test?- You ask him hopefully while he retrieves his materials from his backpack.

-Uh... kind of good. Almost got 5.-.

You swallow, attempting to conceal your disappointment.

-Oh. Well, I'm sure that the makeup test will go better.-.

-Yes, tot! I mean, I improved by half a grade since last time! You're a great teacher Mrs. R! Oh screw, I forgot my notebook. Is there any paper...- Your dismay turns into alarm as he's about to open the drawer under the table, and you exclaim a 'No!'. He stares at you bewildered, and you recompose with a cough. You provide him with a pair of white sheets from another drawer, and you start the private lecture.

-...so if you substitute the x here with the value 9...- You're saying 30 minutes later. He dutifully writes the number and looks up at you with a beaming smile.

-Maam, you're really good with this stuff! Reginald is surely lucky to have you as his mother!-.

You blush and start muttering some belittlement, then he adds: -How comes you're not a teacher?-.

You flinch. Marcel frowns, expecting some answer. You studied to become a teacher, actually. It was always your dream. But then you met your husband, and... Those were different times, he insisted he was the breadwinner for the house, plus he was already a university professor, and what was a primary school teacher compared to that? And so...

-I never thought about it.- You simply say. Suddenly, you hear your son's voice at the entrance of the room.

-Hey man, how you doing?-.

-Hi hermano!- Marcel stands up and shakes hands with Reginald in a weird way, that you suppose is common between people of their age.

-How's it going here?- He asks. You open your mouth to reply, but Marcel anticipates you.

-Meh, you know. I was just telling your mom she would make a great teacher!-.

-Mh? I see. Anyway, I bought a new game for the Playstation, wanna try it five mins?-.

You blink a couple times: -Reggie, when did you buy...-.

-Cool!- Marcel's face brightens up at the proposal, then turns to you in discomfort: -Aehm, sorry Mrs. R, we will continue next time. I'll finish home my homework, promise!-.

-What? But, we made only half an hour.- You object, astonished by his decision. However, he's already following Reginald upstairs.

-Don't worry, I'll pay you for the full hour! Coming Regs!- And then he disappears. You look vacantly at the empty corridor, then lower your visage on the sheets on the table.

Sigh.

The rest of the afternoon proceeds normally. You go out for groceries, a pair of time you knock at Reginald's room to ask him how he's doing, but he tells you that he's busy. Judging from the noises coming from behind the door, it's not with studying.

Anyway, you've got even more pressing thoughts in your mind. You're preoccupied with Achille's words and the monumental step you are on the verge of taking. But, are you? Are you really ready to go through the hell of a divorce?

These contemplations of yours slow you down in making dinner, and so when you hear the front door opening again, you've just turned on the stoves.

-Dinner's not ready yet?- Patrick asks you as he steps into the kitchen. You find the best of your trained smile and you turn to him.

-Sorry, honey, I lost track of the time.- You apologize. He gruffs a 'mmm' and then proceeds to change. You resume preparing dinner, finding yourself momentarily caught in the steam of the pan, tears mingling with the vapors. Perhaps if this evening unfolds differently from the others, maybe...

You hear your husband's steps reentering the room. You know he's gonna circle around the table, passing right behind you; and you know how this dress of yours is delectably shaping your ass. You jut it out to the best of your chances, reminiscent of the times when he used to caress it during the early years of your marriage.

He struts to his seat, securing the napkin around his neck. Minutes later, Reginald joins you, and you serve the dinner.

-Zucchini? Eugh!- Reggie complains, earning a scowl from his father. Patrick then instructs him to resume his day, which he does trying to gloss over the bad grade he got, and also adding some study hours you're not convinced he spent.

As you both listen to him, you see Patrick's hand casually resting on the table. You subtly move yours, seeking some physical connection with him, the first of the day. But just then your husband shifts, admonishing your son.

-You're starting university next year! How are you supposed to do it if you don't study?-.

-I, it's not like that...-.

-Do you think I'm an idiot? I'm a professor, Reginald, you can't fool me!-.

-Y-You're right Dad, I'm sorry...- He babbles. Your heart aches at the sight of your son this mortified.

-Honey, don't be this hard with Reggie, I'm sure he didn't mean to...-.

-You're too soft with Reginald!- Patrick asserts, sternly gazing at you. You gasp at the intensity in his eyes.

-I don't want our son to waste his life, besides, think about my reputation with my colleagues if he fails school!-.

-W-Well...- You glance at Reginald, equally agitated: -He was telling me before that tomorrow he had a study group with his mates, right sweetie?-.

Reginald stammers confused, but as his father turns at him, quickly nods: -Right, right, in the library, thanks Mom for having reminded me.-.

Patrick grumbles, evidently unconvinced, and concludes the conversation. The rest of dinner unfolds with minimal exchanging of words. Once Reginald finishes his meal, he retreats to his room to complete his homework. Left alone with your still-irate husband, you finally manage to brush his torso with your palm, although it earns you a stern look.

-What about your day, honey? How was it?- You ask in a dulcet tone.

-Nothing particular to say.- He answers, retracting his hand. Yet, he briefly averts his eyes, and you know what it means. What he's hiding. He hastily recounts a couple of interactions with colleagues, and you offer your undivided attention, playing the role of the supportive wife. Later, as you wash the dishes, he lounges on the couch to watch some sports.

When bedtime arrives, he enters the bedroom ahead of you. You observe him entering, almost expecting, almost hoping, that he notices something amiss, a detail you forgot to address. However, only silence emanates from the room. Moving to the bathroom, after the customary hygiene routine, you retrieve a set of lacy purple lingerie from the closet. The rhythmic click of your heels resonates as you gracefully sway in the bedroom, leaning against the wall to present Patrick with your full silhouette.

-Hey honey, I think you've accumulated some stress today.- You purr.

-Perhaps I can help you... relieve yourself.-.

Patrick gazes at you, genuinely surprised. He then lifts an eyebrow and mumbles: -Not today, Susan, I'm really tired.-.

You shiver at those words, yet you persist, sensually making your way to the bed: -Mmm, are you sure? Do you remember this lingerie of mine? It's the one we bought for our marriage, I remember you couldn't take your eyes away that night~~~-.

He follows you with his eyes as you lie next to him, but then he rotates and faces the opposite direction.

-Perhaps. But I'm really tired now. Goodnight, Susan.- And with that, he turns off the lights.

You stand frozen in place, trying to comprehend the situation. He just rejected you, just like that. Because he's too tired.

Because he's screwing a couple of coeds behind your back, and they don't have your wrinkles or your hip fat.

You crumble on the mattress, pressing your hand on your mouth to stifle a scream.

"Because for him, I'm nothing anymore, just the cleaning lady!".

This, this is the life of Susan Rachett, née Dinsmore.

The life you hijacked yesterday, when your sister, posing as your mother, introduced herself in her house and **** your goo form down her throat. For that entire day, you watched her movements from the inside, hearing her thoughts. Today, you moved her yourself, you thought her thoughts. And now you're living her distress, her despair, her inability to accept the failure of her life.

Mrs. Susan Rachett. A woman thwarted by life.