The M.I.L.F. Man

Barbara

"So, I'm your first," she said, nodding to the chair on the other side of that desk.

"Yes. That's correct. But not the last, I hope."

"British, right?" she asked. As her slate grey eyes swept over me as impassively as a barcode reader might.

I gathered she'd found whatever she'd been "scanning" for when she sat back in her very ergonomically correct chair and almost smiled. So I relaxed and took a better look at her, too.

She was somewhat plain, nearly makeupless--and wearing jeans, which intrigued me. Pricey ones, like the silk blouse she'd put with them.

Asked to invent a backstory for her, I would've said: Midwestern small town...above average but not stellar student...relatively good college...landed a position at a firm in Phoenix first and made enough of a name to become a big fish in a smaller pond in Tucson.

I kept that assessment out of the tone with which I responded, "Born in America, raised...all over the place, really. But mostly England, yes."

And she gave a little nod, pressed both hands down on that desk and said, "Well, let's cut to the chase. I'm biflexible and I have a wife. But unlike her, from time to time I miss male...energy. Penile penetration—strap ons just don't do it for me."

At that moment, I decided that if there was a small town that made girls like her, I needed to go there. But I merely said, "I see," as evenly as possible.

And she came around to sit on the desk and give me the most predatory gaze I'd ever seen. It was as if someone had flipped a switch that changed her into a hawk stalking her prey.

So I obeyed the "Stand up" that came next as if any hesitation might cost me my life.

And she stood, unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, parted her legs, grabbed my hand and put it down those jeans--no underwear--those grey scanner eyes staring relentlessly into mine.

"No lips, no tongue, no foreplay, actually—that's good, though," she said, apparently approving of the little "tickle" on the panic button that had moistened things down there a bit.

I realized then that Byron had chosen her precisely because she was so precise and might be damned difficult to please.

So I let her rub and tug and squeeze and stare me down like a Tango dancer, while I concentrated on my trigger finger, which seemed to have found just the right rhythm given that she fell back on her hands and let me lead for a time.

And when I sank to my knees—disregarding the "no lips, no tongue" rule--she grabbed my hair and yanked me up against that now glistening "mouth" between those legs and showed very vocal appreciation, I might add.

But just as we seemed to be getting somewhere, she pressed a bare foot down on my shoulder somewhat roughly, nearly sending me over backwards, and said, "Stop," quite firmly. Though there was a hint of a smile there which I pretended to ignore, putting on, instead, my own "BDSM" face.

And to that...she turned her back. But shinnied out of those jeans entirely and efficiently, as she flipped open a silver box on her desk from which she removed an Okamoto condom—women seem to like those—and said, "I'll do it."

Taking a knee herself then, in a "tit for tat" sort of move, to give me a few ice cream cone licks before sliding that aloe coated condom down on my cock which she pronounced, "Very impressive," as she did so.

And then she turned to hike a rather flat bottom up at me in a way that told me it was now time for me to do what she'd paid all that money for—I slapped that ass smartly, as a test.