At the party

Masochistic Masturbatory Melee – Off the Record with ‘S’ Continued

Lola had to take a break and pull out her Magic Wand after the last segment of the interview was over.  Something about it got her engine revving and that, in turn, meant that Mr. Hitachi’s engine was also buzzing away.  I found her there, in the bed, naked, her computer to one side, her legs up in the air, bent at the knees, her right hand holding the giant white instrument between her legs.  But, unlike her usual use of the upside-down white ice cream cone, where she just applies it to her sopping pussy, this time she was using it like a cudgel.  She was violently pounding the bulbous head of the thing against her pussy as if hammering a nail home.  It was vibrating, but, so it seemed to me, her sexual stimulation was from the repeated strikes of force.  I feared she was going to bruise her lovely, delicate labia.  Instead of bright pink, they’d be violet and mauve!  I stood in awe of this masochistic masturbatory melee until, as if breaking down the wall of a dike, she suddenly sprung a huge leak and she pressed the spherical bulb of the vibrator against her gushing pussy as if to stop the broken dam.  But her blocking the source of the river only caused it to flood more until she finally ran out of energy and the mysterious fountain of youth went temporarily dry.

She was panting in bed and I slowly slid in next to her.

“What was that?” I asked in a whisper.

“What was what?” she asked, her pupils still dilated.

“The new pounding technique with your slick sledgehammer there.”

“Punishment.”

“Punishment?  For what?”

“For liking what I shouldn’t.”

It was then that she passed me her computer to read the “off the record” part of the interview.

“I don’t think we can post this,” I said.

“No, we can’t.  It’s off the record,” she said, as she slowly returned to the land of the living.

“I meant, it’s – well, it’s. . .”  I was searching for the words.

“A touchy subject?” Lo suggested.

“To say the least.”

“You should hear what else she told me.”

“I’ve got time.”

It was Saturday and I was still in my pajamas.  Lo turned toward me, her breasts seeming to demand my attention.

“Well,” she began, “I couldn’t transcribe the story fast enough.”

“Because you were typing with one hand?”

“Daddy.  Please.”

“So, I’m right.”

“Do you want to hear her story or not?”

“You have me – a captive audience.”

She grabbed me by the balls and said, “Very captive.”

“Stroke my cock as you tell me the story and I’ll be completely captivated.”

She complied.

Here’s the gist of the story.

The events of the ‘boys being boys in the basement’ had happened toward the end of the school year.  Then it was summer vacation and S has an inground pool that kids who are too old for high school but too young (and rich) for a summer job congregate to on hot days.  The added benefit of seeing S suntanning by the pool was certainly an incentive for those young, horny boys to flock to her house and do belly flops and cannon balls into the cool, blue pool in a pathetic, but cute attempt to get her attention.

Though the boys came by regularly and there were a lot of scenes which S could describe for your lurid and prurient entertainment, three days of the summer stand out as extra perverse.

The first was Memorial Day.  S and her husband, let’s call him Dale, threw a party for their friends, neighbors, and their son’s friends, as well as the kids’ parents.  Dale was very excited to man the grill on the backyard patio while his guests enjoy the pool and other amenities.  S and Dale live in the southern U.S. and, though Memorial Day is in May, it is warm enough to want to swim in their part of the country by the end of April.

The party started off fine with some of the friends and neighbors arriving in small groups of twos and fours.  A couple of S’s son’s friends arrived and they were the first in the pool.  S, herself, was wearing a white t-shirt (no bra, no bikini top under it) and her Daisy-Dukes jeans shorts as she flitted from one small group of their guests to another.  Her rather provocative sartorial choices were not so provocative among this crowd of church-going, boob-job revealing, shorts and cowboy boots wearing MILFs in their thirties and early forties.  In fact, it was more of the rule than the exception.  The only difference was, S had been in porn posted on the internet and her son’s friends knew that, though the parents supposedly didn’t.

Dale was wearing his cargo shorts and a button-down, patterned, short-sleeve shirt and flip-flops.  He was prepping the steaks, burgers, dogs, and the marinated vegetables he was going to fire up on his enormous Weber grill.  He had a wide grin on his face, flashing those large white teeth of his, as he carried his cold beer from place-to-place, greeting his guests in between taking the food out to the chef’s station on the patio.

All was going well until S went inside to use the master bath to pee and caught one of the boys rummaging through her panty drawer in the bedroom.

“Now, what are you doing in there?” she asked, without judgment and with a little amusement in her voice.

The poor kid turned around and a more guilty face had never been seen.  His entire complexion was scarlet and he was near trembling, even as his right hand grasped tightly a red lace thong.

“I, I, I – I,” he stammered, not saying anything more.

“Were you looking through my panties?”

“Yes, yes ma’am,” he managed to say through his dry mouth.

“You like my panties?”

Again, he was only able to answer monosyllabically, “Yes.”

S shut the door and said, “Well, now.  If you don’t want to get into trouble for stealing my undergarments, take down that bathing suit and put on those panties you’re holding and then put your bathing suit back on.  You may have them, but that’s the only way to get them out of here.”

The boy’s complexion deepened from scarlet to near purple.  But he didn’t say anything in response.  He just slowly removed his boxer bathing suit, exposing his small, but rigid penis to S, who looked on in a supervisory sort of way, and then he slid the red lace thong up and over his hard penis.

“Now,” said S, “how’s that?”

The boy just looked down in silence.

“They look a little big on you, but then again, you’re small,” she said.  She reached forward, pulled the elastic band of the panties with her left hand, put her right hand down and fondled the boy’s parts to get them even more riled up.

“Maybe,” she said, looking at him, “we should put one of my dresses over you and send you back out to the party like that.”

He looked positively petrified that she was in earnest.

“Oh, I’m just kidding with you,” she finally said, laughing.  “You can’t wear that.  You have to grow up some more to fit into my panties.  Take them off and put your bathing suit back on and get going.”

The poor punished thief did as she said and he skedaddled right out of the bedroom to be back with his friends, including S’s son.

S laughed about it to herself.

Much later in the day, after the guests had eaten, drank a lot of beer and other, stronger beverages, swam, and drank some more – all under the hot sun of the clear sky – S changed into her bikini and got in the pool.  Her bikini was skimpier than the other MILFs’ swimwear at the  party.  It was two small white triangles on top, barely covering her areolae and transparent when wet, and a similarly small white triangle, pointing in the opposite direction down below, held in place by strings no thicker than shoelaces.

The boys’ jaws dropped when they saw her.  She smiled at them and slowly descended into the pool.  She swam exactly one lap and then emerged out of the pool like Venus emerging from the sea.  All three tiny white triangles were transparent.  Her nipples were clearly visible under the thin fabric and her shaved slit could be seen through the lower triangle, dividing it into two equal triangles.

She ignored the stares of the boys and their parents and walked over to bar and grabbed herself another drink.

A while later she noticed that none of the boys were outside.  She figured they had gone inside and were playing video games in the basement again.  She was worried they’d sit on the leather couches with their wet bathing suits.  She went inside and down to the game room.  No one was there.

She was surprised.  Where could a gaggle of teenage boys disappear to?

She went back out to the party.  She looked around.  She walked out front.  She could hear the boys’ voices.  She looked in the two-car garage window and saw them.  They had stolen a bottle of whiskey or brandy or something and were daring each other to take a swig.  In between dares, they were talking.

“Did you see Mrs. P–?” said one of the boys.

“Damn, she’s hot!  Hotter in person than on the videos.”

“Hey, that’s my mom you’re talking about!”
The boys ignored him.

“All dripping wet.”

“And that bikini!”

“You could see every-thing.”  He pronounced the word slowly, emphasizing each syllable.

“And I liked what I saw!”

“You did, did you?” said S as she walked around the corner of the garage and caught them red-handed and full of braggadocio.  Suddenly, they weren’t so bold anymore.  In fact, they were quite craven.

“Mrs. P–!” said one of them, as another tried to hide the bottle.

“I saw what you did,” she said.

Guilty faces all around.  So guilty, in fact, S wondered if maybe they did more than just steal a bottle of booze.

“Give it here,” she said to them, stretching out her arm.

Her son placed the bottle in her palm.

“Fuck!  Really?!  The Johnnie Walker Blue Label?  You couldn’t just take the Wild Turkey?

“Sorry,” said one of the boys, shame faced.

“Sorry?!  That’s not gonna cut it.  Turn around, all of you,” she said commandingly, as she walked to the big blue plastic bucket in which they kept their game stuff.  She pulled out a Ping-Pong paddle.  “Pull your bathing suits down,” she said.

“What?!” asked one of the boys, turning to look at her.

“Turn around, pull your suits down, and bend over.  Now!”

She sounded mean, like a drill sergeant, but she was laughing to herself.

The boys complied.

She first looked at all their cute little butt-cheeks lined up in a row.  Then she started paddling from the left to the right.  It was only one paddle each, but it was a hard, firm whap!  Each one let out a little cry as their turn was up.  Then she said, “Now, turn around.”

One of the boys began to pull up his suit.

“Did I say to do that?  Keep your trunks down around your knees.”

They obediently complied and turned around awkwardly.  Some of them were soft, others hard.  She looked them over.

“I should call your mothers in here and tell them what you were up to – that I caught you having a circle jerk.  How would you like that?”

“No ma’am,” said one of the boys, almost in tears.

“Don’t worry.  I won’t do that.  But don’t let me catch you drinking again!  There will be no underage drinking under my roof!”

She turned and began to leave.  She stopped at the threshold to the garage, put her right arm up on the side of the entrance, lifted her right leg, and looked back over her shoulder at the boys, all of whom were staring at her ass in the itsy-bitsy, tiny white thong.

“If you’re good, when we have our annual Fourth of July party, maybe you’ll get something special that will make your bottle rockets pop.”  Then she walked away.

Three white triangles

[To Be Continued]