Unlikely Tryst: When Sloan Met Sally

To be perfectly honest, Matthew Sloan knew nothing of real hate.

Really, how could he? Deep down, he knew he never really experienced the rush, the heady obsession that was unadulterated hatred for another person. At no point in his short and altogether pretty normal life did he have a chance to swallow the venom of true loathing. Perhaps it was just that, that he was so young, barely a young adult.

When you are in high-school though, everything seems magnified, when you're young everything seems more important. So it was with Matt Sloan, and he had no problems saying to himself:

'I fucking hate Percy-fucking-Jackson.'

While he didn't know real hate, it was true enough that young Matt didn't like Percy Jackson at all, and that he thought about it enough to be easily mistaken for complete, obsessive hatred. It got so bad, his already subpar schoolwork was slipping, his grades threatened, his participation limited by passing slanderous notes and scrawling rude messages on bathroom sinks.

Matt thought that he had seen the last of that Jackson kid years ago, when they were at that fruity, alternate program toilet. It wasn't the worst place his parents had sent him to, but it sucked just as much as any school could suck. He wasn't doing nothing and then that Jackson 'tard blew up the gym or something. Everyone else forgot about it or something, but he didn't. That shit was freaky and he wasn't going to just let it slide.

So, while he blew off the remaining sentence at that fucking hippie prison, he would tell everyone who'd listen, and people listened to Matt-fuckin'-Sloan, that Percy Jackson probably was somebody's bitch in juvie or something. Or he blew himself up. And clearly he had hallucinated the part where some blonde babe decked him.

It was a lucky punch anyway… a sucker punch… and she probably had brass-knuckles on, if he remembered right… and she was imaginary, just a hallucination.

But, soon enough, Matt's report came back and Meriwether College Prep couldn't be cool with it anymore, so his dad dropped a dime to fund their Language program and they wrote Matt Sloan down as 'Incomplete' instead of 'Failed'. Dammit, he didn't even think they gave failing grades at Meriwether, how badly did you have to screw-up to..? Either way, after that, both mom and dad put him on a little 'break' for him to 'find himself', and during that 'break' Matt Sloan found he really, really didn't want to go to military school. He liked to think he was tough, but… he liked to think he had limits.

AKA, he wasn't that tough, not when chips were down.

So, when Matt started his first week at Goode High School, he thought that maybe things were finally looking up again. Everything seemed to be stacked just right, like dominos lined up, waiting to be pushed. His dad had hired a real hardass tutor for him over the summer, he actually read the required texts, and everything he heard about this school hinted that it was normal. Not as easy to pull shit as there was at Meriwether, but not as big a punishment as military school. At the very least, it was co-ed. Some of the bitches here were pretty smoking.

Plus, there were plenty of punching bags, like the poor kids, the ugly girls, or the third-strike delinquents who couldn't afford to start shit no matter how hard you pushed them. It was a nice way for Matt to stretch his muscles, spread his wings while he got a read on this new school.

But then he made a very grave mistake, and had an even worse discovery.

Really, all things considered, he was having a really good day a first, right up until that English class. The teacher was named Blofis… honestly, fucking 'Blows-Fish'. There was no way that couldn't be funny. So he wrote, in bold-letters, 'THIS GUY BLOWS… FISH' on a scrap of paper and began the time honored tradition of passing along a note. Just like he expected, it got a few muffled laughs. Well, it got three laughs, and that was it. Because on the fourth guy, the killjoy read the note and snorted, crumpled it up disdainfully. Come on…

"pst! What the fuck's your problem?" Matt hissed, a little more loudly than he intended.

In fact it was loud enough that several people, including Sir Buzzkill McPussy and the teacher, looked over at him.

"Is there a problem Mr. Sloan?"

"N-no sir. None at all."

"And you, Mr. Jackson?"

And that was when Matt Sloan knew that his life would be fucked worse than normal. Just when things were starting to go so well too.

There was Percy-fucking-Jackson, in the flesh, and looking like the fucking pyro didn't spend the last few years of his life getting reamed up the ass by crazies in some juvenile detention facility. If anything, the asshole looked like he had taken up being professionally handsome, like a movie-star or something. Even sitting down in class, Matt could tell that Jackson was taller than him now.

Life was so fucking unfair like that.

"No Paul, I'm good. Mr. Blofis, sir." Percy corrected, smiling slightly, and completely ignoring Matt Sloan. Like he was just an annoyance.

It never occurred to Matt that Jackson forgot all about him. That was ridiculous, you didn't grow-out of Matt Sloan. Fuck no.

And what was the deal with calling his teacher by the first name? What the fuck was that?

"Oh good," Mr. Blows-Fish nodded. "I was worried that there was a problem. All the same, why don't you and Mr. Sloan take seats up front?"

Cursing under his breath, Matt did just that, mood foul and trying to size-up Percy Jackson while the class went on… and on… and fucking on. It put him in such a funk that he blew off his next two classes and got a detention for it. Like… fuck.

Still, while in detention (he'd make sure his parents never found out) he had the good sense to do some recon on Jackson.

At least three things were clear now. First off, Jackson could probably kick his ass, the guy got built like crazy in the last few years. Second thing, no one seemed to care that he was an arsonist-slash-crazy person, like he didn't blow up a school gym. Like, what was up with that?

But third thing, and most important of all… how did he know that teacher, and how did he know him well enough to call him by his first name? That seemed like the most important detail of all, and thankfully Matt Sloan had at least enough high-school clout by virtue of expensive clothes and his own car to get answers from the numerous student gossips and lowlifes.

His current source of information was some stoner and pervert who he'd probably be friends with until senior year, or until he could find someone who sold cheaper or better weed. Mathias 'Munch' Defray was a complete and total burnout, known for selling weed under the bleachers and sampling his own product. Besides smelling like marijuana, Munch was put in detention after the softball coach found him inside of a locker in the girl's changing room. He said he just got lost, and judging by how out of it he normally was, Munch might have been telling the truth. But whatever, he still got detention.

The important thing was that Munch was, even if he did take one too many tokes, a fountain of school-wide news and everyone's personal business. Just a few minutes of 'talking' to him, which really was Matt Sloan just saying a few generic statements and letting the talkative burnout babble on and on, and it was clear that his near constant cloud of oblivious didn't affect his knack for snooping out dirty laundry.

"-what? The Jackson kid and Mr. Blofis? Yeah, whatever man, he's dating Jackson's old lady, so they're like tight ya'know? Really buddy-buddy, so you know that she must be given it up like hard. Saw her at a bake-sale once, she had blue-cookies for everyone, and she looked pretty fine dawg."

"Gross dude," Matt muttered, copying notes for the classes that he had missed. "That's someone's mom." Correction, that was Jackson's mom, and he owed that shithead nothing. Maybe he'd take a look at Miss Jackson himself.

The rest of the detention he spent doing (subpar) work on his assignments, and brooding over past slights, real and imagined, involving Percy Jackson. In his mind, it was Jackson that got him in detention, who riled him up so bad. Jackson escaped punishment for blowing up that shitty gym. Jackson might have killed him and he was walking around scot-free?! With his mom dating, probably humping, their teacher. This wouldn't stand, Matt Sloan didn't take things like this lying down. Maybe he'd find a way to report dear Mr. Blows-Fish, or maybe a frame-job that could get Percy kicked out, reopen up his old records and put that shit in prison where he belonged.

Though first, he needed to see something for himself. So he stuck around after detention was let out, and waited. Waited on the curb, watching the faculty parking. It was a longshot but…

Yes.

Sure enough, there was Mr. Blows-Fish, and he was talking with a curly-haired brunette lady. And then they kissed, and when she turned around to walk back to the curb, she pulled her phone out of her purse to make a call. Sharp-eyed, Matt saw a glint of metal fall out and hit the concrete. Her car keys… Well, that was just perfect.

He powerwalked over to snatch them up just as she was getting to her car, a beat-up looking model, if it were anymore 'mom' it'd be a minivan. She paused, talking on the phone (Matt was certain she was ordering a pizza or something) and rifling through her purse looking for keys that she wouldn't be able to find.

This gave him the perfect chance to scope out the assets. And his newest best-friend the burnout got something right; she was pretty hot for a mom, a hot mama. There were one or two grey roots in her hair, but it was wavy and over the shoulders in a messy sort of ponytail most girls couldn't pull off. She was maybe a little taller than him (Matt had taken to wearing shoes with lifts his freshmen year), and a nice even weight. Maybe one-hundred twenty, one-hundred forty pounds soaking wet?

And yeah, he was picturing her absolutely soaked right now. He cleared her throat when it looked like she was going to go back, probably to her… ugh, fiancé. "Hey? Looki… something wrong?" He asked, casually, trying not to jingle her keys in his pocket.

"Oh, I just can't find my keys. Swear I had them right…" She dug through her purse again, biting her lower lip nervously.

She had some wrinkles, mostly around the eyes. His mom generally had Botox for that or something. Some people called them 'laugh-lines', but Matt thought that was pretty dumb. It was a good look for her though, reminded him she was… well, real. Not some video-screen 'actress' pretending, this was a very normal, average woman. Probably wore mom underwear and didn't bother shaving her pits, not unless she and the teacher had a little nookie once a week.

Probably was a pent-up freak in bed, who didn't mind a little name-calling and flexibility. Would be a very lucky guy who could find that out. Maybe get a peek under the hood and see how the engine ran…

"Maybe… yeah, I could give a hand. Check under the car, maybe they rolled a bit." Idiot. Like keys could roll. Dammit, commit to this you stupid like shit- "I'll check over here?"

"You're a peach." Ms. Jackson smiled. Matt gave a grin that showed off his chipped tooth and 'looked' around at the ground where he was, hands in his pockets, glancing noncommittally at the asphalt. Meantime, he cast furtive but focused looks to Ms. Jackson's fine posterior. She had a definite 'mom-butt', wide and not very high, but in the jeans they didn't look saggy. And it was much better than a flat butt. He leaned over when she got on her knees, bent under the car to look behind the front tire. He had expected, and hoped for, anything besides plain black or beige whale-tail when her shirt rode up. Maybe some off-white cotton blend, or a pink or even red bikini-cut underpants poking out over top. He didn't expect blue, or a thong, but there it was peeping out over the top of mom-jeans with tiny lace trim.

Very, very nice. Matt dug through his pockets, turned around, jingled keys. "Are these the ones?"

"I expect so!" She sounded so happy. Well wasn't that just perfect. He tossed her the keys and she caught them, and she smiled at him, which made her look younger. Definitely young enough to pull off a matching push-up bra with those panties she had going. "Thank you for being such a gentleman."

"I'm Matt." He nodded. "You're..?"

"Sally. Paul… Mr. Blofis' fiancée." She showed off a ring, looking deliriously happy, and Matt Sloan felt something building up in his chest that was much closer to real hate than he had ever felt before.

Right. Because she was dating… engaged to Mr. Blows-Fish. As well as being Percy Jackson's mom. Completely unavailable.

He said goodbye to her politely as possible, headed to the bus, and worked on tracing the indent her house-key made in his hand when he gripped it tightly. Later he would visit a locksmith and blow six weeks allowance getting an exact copy made, no questions asked.

Why though? This was a bad idea, and he had plenty of bad ideas to compare it with, and trespassing was real-time big-crime. If he was caught, his parents would definitely cut him off. His dad was threatening mom with divorce again, and she was still pushing all the buttons. Bitch definitely needed to get her rehab on.

So he just went home, and put the key in a drawer by his desk under a pack of wadded up gum-wrappers.

But he still thought about what it would be like to fuck Percy Jackson's, and Mr. Chalk-hands Blows Fish's fiancée, Sally Jackson. Everything about their first meeting stuck in his head, from her smile to the nail polish she had on, and especially that blue thong.

It had gotten so bad was starting to affect his 'alone time' at home. And that was saying something. If there was one thing that the irreverent and disrespectful little shit that Matt Sloan cherished, it was his 'alone-time'.

Cougar skank

Matt Sloan stared at the resulting internet searches, and was dissatisfied that most of it was blonde obvious born-to-porn stars with fake tits and blown-out blow-out blow-job lips. More silicon than sexy. So he tried again.

Mature freak w. teen

… And that led to some gay stuff, great. Maybe if he had Cinemax this wouldn't be such a fucking problem, but he didn't have easy access to his skin-flicks so no, now he did actually have a, well fucking problem. Honestly, wouldn't be so bad if it was a mother-fucking problem.

That got him to snigger, and feeling a touch hornier again he typed up a new search.

Mother fucks cucks w. teen loves it

Now that was more like it. A couple dozen amateur MILF videos logged into the spank bank and he was set for the rest of the week. Would be easier to get through detention if he could more thoroughly imagine Sally Jackson's lips around his cock, or if he pictured her ass bouncing in his face while stodgy salt-and-pepper Mr. Blows-Fish went on about some bullshit in glass.

Percy Jackson didn't factor into his imagining at all, honestly Matt Sloan thought maybe he'd be expelled or run-off or dead before the year was done. Seemed like a fair guesstimate…

So Matt Sloan slept, and had some very interesting dreams… one with specific interest.

In his dream (his fantasy), built up by watching oodles of mature and MILF pornos online with almost exclusively brunette housewife types, it started right in the parking lot where he first saw her ass squeezed into those deceptively frumpy-as-fuck 'mom jeans' and that first tantalizing glimpse of blue thong underwear. She would still be bent over, at the waist, maybe still looking for her keys. Or maybe she knew he was looking, taking in her whale-tail, and getting off. That thong was probably, no definitely, getting a soaking.

"You horny slut," Matt Sloan, panty-dropper maestro, purred. He would punctuate his bit of perverse praise with an insistent grope, digging into the back pockets of her jeans and squeezing.

In his head, Sally Jackson had a firm fine derrière, and flexed it instinctively, frightened and excited by his unexpected touch. "What are you doing-?"

-and she wouldn't ask that like that ungrateful bitch he took to homecoming (Merritt, Meredith..?) did when he put a hand down the front of her dress. That was more of a "what do you think you're doing?" accusation.

No, not slutty sultry 'waiting for a real man to make her feel young again' Sally Jackson, no. When she'd ask, voice small and breathy, it would be confused and a little scared, like she was wondering if it was all a dream. Of course this was something she dreamed about, touched herself to thinking of, fantasizing about fit younger guys with hands all over her. Of course Matt Sloan would be just the stud to make all those illicit dreams come true.

"I'm reading all the signals you're throwing my way," briefly he wondered if he should give her a nickname but that seemed a stretch even for his 'private time' so he'd settle for, "Ms. Jackson. I know you want it, it's up to you to show me how bad."

She'd stand up straight, startled and coltish, and he'd spin her around so she was facing him, one hand on her hip. His other hand would grab one of hers and show it where it needed to get to work, right against the front of his shorts. Of course she'd gasp in surprise feeling the hard-on he had waiting for her, and that expression did wonder for her dick-sucking-lips. "Oh my..."

There'd be plenty of time to put those lips to work sucking his dick. To get started though, Matt Sloan would initiate a bruising, forceful kiss. Sally Jackson was close to his height, and when she would arch her back to press her whole body into his and instinctively go on her tiptoes, he'd feel all of her from tongue to tits. His hands slide out of her back pockets while her hands try to work his shaft when they're so close together that there's barely any room for a finger-space between them. Then he had one hand fishing into his pockets for the keys he had taken off the ground while the other one slide under the waistband of her jeans to cup bare butt and barely there lace. He'd look forward to peeling that lace down her thighs. She muffled a squeal into his mouth, tongue fighting tongue, when he squeezed her ass and lifted up. Toned legs wrapped around his waist and he carried her haphazardly to her mini-van mom-mobile, not breaking the kiss or letting up his assault down her panties. Fingers exploring down the seat of her pants while her legs kept widening, exposing, felt those enticing strips of lace growing warmer and damper.

With minimal difficulty, for a practiced player like him, he got the door open and flung her across the backseat, where she gave a surprised, "oopmf!", bouncing on the seats. It was gorgeous, he'd have to admit, her face a mix of blushing confusion and flushed, playful excitement. Dark hair, he didn't think she dyed it or had any grey hairs to hide in the first place, was tousled maddeningly like cover of a soft-porn paperback novel and the hem of her shirt had ridden up to show off her smooth stomach.

"We shouldn't be doing this," she half-heartedly protested, making no move to close her legs. Sometime during their making out and mutual fondling, the top button if her jeans had popped loose.

He pressed advantage where it presented itself, unzipped her slowly, climbing on top so that he straddled one of her thighs. "Yeah, so? How does this feel?"

"Big," she admitted distractedly, her hips gyrating almost on their own accord so she could get a better idea of his cock pressed against her leg. Realizing she said that aloud, she blushed and tried to backtrack, "I mean-"

"No more talking unless I say so," Matt Sloan demanded, fighting back a lascivious grin. He needed to see the bra she was wearing, badly, and tore her shirt-blouse-whatever top down the middle.

That got her to sit up in surprise, looking offended (and sexy in the matching blue number that made melons out of her nice firm handfuls). "Hey-" she started to protest.

"What did I say about talking?" Couldn't, or wasn't going to, have that when everything was going smoothly. Matt Sloan decided to shove her roughly back on the car seats, looming over her as he crawled on in, slamming the door shut behind him.

She shut her mouth, blushing and wide eyed, breasts heaving in their lacy confines. No further protests when he cast her shredded top on the floor either. It was a good look for her, but glancing down from tits down smooth stomach (he was grateful she didn't have a C-section scar or something, that'd not have been sexy) right to her unbuttoned jeans he got an idea how to make her look even better. "Turn over slut."

"Yes sir," she answered, meeting his gaze properly for the first time. He could tell by her playful expression she was going through motions, not expecting the hard fucking he was planning on giving her. She did seem like the type to think of it as 'making love', so he'd have to set the record straight; Matt Sloan wasn't going to make love to Ms. Sally Jackson, Matt Sloan was going to make Mr. Blows Fish's woman cum hard like she fucked a freight train.

So he grabbed her hair and tugged it cruelly. "What did I say about talking?"

"Ow, please-!"

"What did I say slut?" She was squirming to try to get out of his grip, but he was practically on top of her anyway and there wasn't a whole lot of room in the backseat of the mom-mobile for maneuvering. Fine by him though, thrusting in and out was all the movement he needed.

"I'm sorry sir!"

He pretended to think about it. "I'll forgive you this once." And without further ceremony or consideration he yanked the jeans down her waist, tugging them down past her thighs to bunch up at her knees.

Mmm, just like he imagined, her blue thong did wonders for her ass.

Which he smacked, hard enough to leave a red handprint on the right cheek, admiring both the way it jiggled (but not too much, Ms. Sally kept it tight) and the way she squealed. Perfect mix of surprised, pained, and excited. Yeah, now she was getting a better idea of the pounding she was in for.

Best part though was the faint but definitely there 'squelch' of soaking wet panties.

"Undo your bra," Matt demanded with his voice extra husky, leaning over her to whisper in her ear. It let him grind on her, the perfect prelude to some raw doggystyle fucking. Plus he didn't want to embarrass himself fumbling like a klutz with a clasp he could figure.

She did her best to do it one-handed, one arm still bracing herself up on the backseats. The effort caused her to move up on her knees so she had ass in the air like an animal, her thong's silky strip of light blue fabric disappearing, flossed between the globes of her butt. Fuck that was hot...

Hot spelled H-A-W-T. Worthy of a Tex Avery style wolf-whistle, which Matt Sloane let out. It was very loud inside the mom-mobile.

"Glad you like-" the MILF of the hour gasped when he smacked her ass again, then let a sigh of relief when she finally got the bra undone.

Not able to wait any longer, Matt fished his best little fat friend out of his shorts and leaned in against her ass, almost falling all the way on top of her. In her 'bitch in heat' pose he could reach up around her sides and slip off her bra, attacking her freed tits with both greedy, sticky hands. His dick was getting its own special treat, hot-dogging between firm and bouncy butt-cheeks with only a thin, sticky wet pair panties keeping him from paradise. He couldn't keep in a groan as he humped her roughly, but with his fingers twisting her tipples and her core getting worked over by lacy wedgie and his fat cock sliding close she was pretty much panting. A true bitch in heat, and she was his. Just needed to hear her say it.

"Tell me you want it," he demanded, squeezing both her breasts. "Say what you want or I leave right now, slut." The windows were fogging up, but they both could see faint reflections of him bent over her with her on knees and elbows, completely naked with nipples sticking out from between his fingers. "Come on slut, whose bitch are you?"

She seemed to hesitate, or maybe she was catching her breath after a particularly heady moan. Maybe she was caught up in watching them dry-hump. How wrong it was even when it felt so good. "We shouldn't be doing this-"

Yeah, Matt Sloan knew how wrong all this was, he was in high school getting ready to fuck the brains out of his teacher's girlfriend in the school lot. A grown woman who was getting ready to get married, who had a son who was his age. If he was a different sort of person he might even feel bad about all this.

"Shouldn't be doing what?" He asked, pulling her panties to the side so he could catch a glimpse of glistening pink. He had thought about ripping them off but he genuinely liked the thong on her, and was considering peeling it off her when he was done as a souvenir. Maybe he'd keep them at home to jack-off to Ms. Jackson, or keep them in his locker to show off to anyone who asked... or leave them in Percy Jackson's locker, or in front drawer of Mr. Blows Fish's desk. He could do whatever he wanted with them, just like he could do whatever he wanted with her. He slammed his cock all the way in, getting her to scream outright at the sudden fullness. "We 'shouldn't be doing' what, slut?"

"Ohohfuck-" was all she could manage back as an answer, which wasn't going to do. So he gave her another slap on the ass, which made her shudder and clench around him even tighter than before. And she was tight, tighter than he hoped for and just dripping down his balls with how horny she was, practically strangling his cock with desperate MILF pussy.

"Whose bitch are you?" He demanded again, pulling halfway out to slam right back on in again, slapping her ass for good measure, tweaking her pulled-aside thong just to hear the satisfying 'twap' of elastic snapping back. All that smacking of skin on skin and added moaning she could barely hold back made for the perfect new soundtrack for his spank bank.

"Me," she gasped, "whatever you want me to be just don't stop, ah-" she flexed terrifically, arching her back and pushing her hips back against him to take in more, to get him inside her even faster. Windows were definitely fogged up now, and she left a handprint against one to brace herself for another punishing thrust, shaking like she was about to explode and sweat dripping all over the backseats.

Matt had to admit, he wasn't too far behind coming himself; he tried to think of things other than sex like calculus or soccer, but it was harder than that. Plus it wasn't just thinking about how her breasts felt in his hands or wondering how they might look to anyone passing by if he pressed them up against the foggy car windows. No, he thought about how he was a literal mother fucker, bareback in his douchebag teacher's fiancée, ball's deep in that human skid-mark Percy Jackson's hot as hell MILF. Was there a different acronym for a mother you liked fucking? Mother I Enjoy Fucking? Mother I'd Fuck Again? MIEF..? MIFA? No wait, Mother I Like Fucking. Still 'MILF'.

Huh. Neat.

He imagined what it'd be like in a proper bed where they could really stretch out and bounce. Or fucking in the shower where he could suds up her ass for some slippery and steamy anal action. He thought about cuffing her hands behind her back so he could grab her hair and steer her head, working her mouth on his cock with a no-hands blow-job. Or tying her up so he could keep her spread open while he sucked and fingered her clit, until she was begging him through a ball-gag. Or spanking her while she wore nothing but a thong (maybe the same blue number she had on now, or a cotton candy pink, or a crazy new thing) with a plug up her ass to get her set and ready. Most of all, and most impossibly, he imagined the look on Mr. Blows Fish's face as he walked in to see his woman sucking the steamy goodness out his pipe, or Percy Jackson's repulsed and gobsmacked expression if he could see his mom riding Matt-fucking-Sloan reverse cowgirl and absolutely loving it. Or maybe they wouldn't find out at all, and he'd keep it going until they were set to get married and he'd fuck her up until the wedding (maybe once with the white dress hiked up all the way up to her ears) and leave a handsome nine-month present for the happy couple.

But all that could wait 'cause right now he was so fucking close-!

"I'm almost there babe," he groaned congratulatory, gripping her hips, settling on his knees to piston like a jackhammer. Jackhammering Ms. Jackson, his own personal sex-slave slut for life. "I'm getting so fucking close-!"

"I'm there," she gasped, voice cracking. "I'm c-cu-co-oh-ooh-ohohfuck! Fuck me, fuck meeEE-!" And the rest was a short, high pitched scream and gasping as she shivered, shuddered all down her spine right into her ass. Cheeks were vibrating together and his cock was getting a high speed massage deep in her while his balls were practically getting firehosed in her squirt.

It was beautiful music and he had to join in. Squeezing that wonder butt and pulling her thighs further apart so he could really start to bring home the sploosh, he sped up his thrusts so he could finish balls-deep just like an experienced slut like her deserved--

Matt Sloan blinked, staring nonplussed up at the... what the fuck color was that? Kaki? Some sorta beige? Why didn't he pay attention in art class?

He glanced around, seeing the surrounding walls were the same forest green of his bedroom. He remembered, the same color as his old army men.

(It was probably weird that Matt Sloan still liked playing with toy soldiers when the most effective threat his father could make was sending him to military school, but it made some sense; he always preferred to play tough than be though, it was easier.)

Yeah, painters could paint the walls of his bedroom that color, but not the ceiling, they had to leave that shit... taupe. Ugly and boring as wrinkly balls taupe.

They could paint the walls, not his ceiling though. He remembered that much... "Aw shit."

And now he remembered where he was, and how that didn't add up with what he thought he was doing. His sheets were sticking to him from the sweat, and a cursory inspection under the covers, in his boxers...

Yup, he had painted the inside of his boxers a sticky off-white with his sploosh. Great, just what he needed to start the day.

Come to think of it, what was the time..? Clock said 4:37...

4:37 am. Fuck.

Bitterly reflecting that there hadn't been a Sloan who washed their own laundry in three generations, Matt surreptitiously rinsed out his soiled boxer-shorts in his bathroom sink before tossing them in the hamper for the maid to get while he was at school. He missed the hamper by a wide margin despite only being a yard away at most, and the soaked shorts went 'splat' on bathroom tile.

"And that's why you're not on the basketball team, isn't it?" Matt muttered furiously, leaving the boxer shorts where they lay and stalking back in his room to try to get back to sleep.

That had been... an intense dream. Suddenly that impulse buy to duplicate the house-key he found with the rest of Sally Jackson's ring-fob didn't seem like such a waste of money. If it was even a house-key, and not like to a lawnmower or sprinkler system... but what was he talking about? Lawns and sprinklers? In NYC? Plus if school contact information was right, the Jackson's lived in an apartment building.

He actually looked it up. Between that and the key he had made, shit, this was getting into creepy stalker territory. Like something out of an original "Lifetime" original movie.

Didn't take him too long to turn it around though; Matt Sloan was a black-belt in blame-shifting judo. Wasn't like she didn't know what she was doing, right? She knew what signals she had been sending, practically twerked the way she shook that ass in the parking lot. And why wouldn't she try to snag a hot young guy for one more wild and crazy bang if she was facing down a future of blowing Mr. Blows-Fish once a week living on a teacher's salary? One crazy fling before she got tied down to a loser, but she'd be wrong if she thought she'd only get one screw out of Matt Sloan and be satisfied. No way, she'd be coming back for more on her hands and knees one way or another once she got a taste of him.

And impossibly, after he was sure his balls had been emptied after that wet and wild dream, well he was hard as a statue in a blizzard. Shit she really was in his head.

It was practically charity, for her own good really. She seemed nice enough, deserved a good fuck.

The biggest appeal though was the thought that for every detention, every lecture he had to put up with in Mr. Blows-Fish's class would be worth it if he could sneer at him and think 'I fucked your woman better than you ever could, dipshit'. That it was Percy Jackson's mother, on top of everything else? There wasn't a better revenge since... ever.

So it was settled, and since he wasn't going to get back to sleep Matt Sloan dressed in the dark and prayed to any god that'd listen for some help fucking with Percy Jackson by fucking his MILF, sexy Sally Jackson.

Last thing he ever would ever suspect was that there was actually god out there listening who hated Percy Jackson even more than he did.

Cutting class wasn't anything new to him, and skipping detention was a breeze, but this was the first time Matt Sloan took off to go and play 007 following a pair of double-O-D.

Well probably C's if he was being honest with himself, but hey, a guy could dream. Plus he was planning on finding out for himself soon enough anyway.

Finding the Jackson residence wasn't hard, especially since he was smarter than people would guess. He copied the key, got the down low from a locksmith after greasing his palms with a good Benjamin, and then it was a question of if it was a townhouse or apartment key. Looking up Jackson the, ugh, phonebook gave him lots of results but narrowing it from NYC and then apartment, definitely an apartment key, in Queens, yeah he got it.

By the time he got down there, he had called in with a 'family emergency' to the nurse's office, called in to leave a message with his dad telling him not to wait up (not that he ever did), and when he found a parking spot a good block and a half away, he triple checked the net to make sure he was in the right ballpark.

Yup, yep, and yes. This was the place.

He pulled up his collar and tugged down a Mets baseball cap, power-walking up to the door, once to see if they had a buzzer. They did, dammit, but that was a setback easily rectified. One stop at a newsstand, thumbing through an out of date Maxim magazine since the owner kept glaring at him when he didn't look like he was going to buy anything, and by the time he got to the TV star centerfold he saw someone heading up the stoop.

"Hold the door," he called, taking steps three at a time to jam a foot between the thresholds. The old guy didn't even bother to turn around to make sure the door had closed, just hurried his way to the elevator.

"Asswipe," Sloan muttered under his breath, slipping in to take the stairwell instead.

This was the nightmarish part, getting to the door and fumbling with his copied key. If the key didn't work, if this was like to a golf-cart, lawnmower, or a sprinkler system or something. But Sally Jackson wasn't rich, and this was NYC where you had to be rich to own potted plants, let alone lawns and tee-time. But what if the key still didn't work and he ended up paying extra to that sketchy-ass locksmith for nothing? What if the key broke in the lock and then they knew someone tried to get in, tried to copy their key and they found out about him and tried him for breaking and entering, B&E as an adult wasn't nothing to sneeze at-

click

The key fit and the door unlocked, smooth as a fresh fish fillet. Fucking-A.

He crept inside after checking to make sure there weren't any neighbors being nosy snoops, and locked the door behind him. Moment of truth though, to triple-check and make sure this was really the place and he didn't just break into some stranger's bachelor pad. After making sure nobody was napping on the couch or tidying up in the kitchen, he looked for photos on the shelves or on the refrigerator.

Sure enough, there were plenty of photographs of Sally Jackson and her psychospawn Percy. Playing at the beach, what looked like a trip to the aquarium, mushy stuff he didn't pay attention to, just as long as he was in the right house. Plus, could've been she a Blows-Fish were living together, or worse, he gave her a key to his place.

No, this looked like it was all Jackson residence. Perfect.

After some quick recon, he got a general layout of the apartment, four rooms, not counting the living room/foyer; kitchen, bathroom, one room that had a lot of blue that he knew had to be Percy's, and slightly bigger bedroom with its own bathroom tucked away and a half-made queen-sized bed. His attention immediately went from rumpled bed to the dresser and drawers alongside the opposite wall.

AKA The (Mother-Fucking) Treasure-Trove.

Quickly, mouth going dry, Sloan rifled through the drawers one by one.

Top left drawer. He did t bother to hold in a bit of victorious, lecherous crowing, holding up some barely-there scrapes of lacy/silky/cotton treasures his fists. Just like he thought, not a pair of granny-panties to be seen or sniffed, Sally Jackson was lady in the streets and freak in the sheets rocking the slutty, sexy underpants beneath those sensible mom-jeans. No blue thong though, he tried not to be too disappointed about that, he had his pick of trophies in the here and the right now.

No need to get greedy.

'Yet,' he amended, smug smirk tugging at his lips. Panty-sniffing would tide over until he got a shot at that sweet MILF ass. And those tits bouncing in his face.

Speaking of, now was his chance to check out the Sally Jackson collection of bras. First he picked (and he ended up picking out more to feel up) was a delicate sea-foam colored lacy number.

32C. Not bad, not bad at all.

Fighting the urge to victory dance like a lunatic, Sloan busied himself arranging the underwear to his liking, laying out his favorites on the comforter so he could get the best look. By Sally's bedside, atop some history books and artsy looking coffee-table reads, there was a framed picture of herself at the beach. Wasn't exactly Playboy or even Maxim material, just her sitting on a beach towel in a plain off-white sundress with seahorse patterns, smiling shyly at whoever was holding the camera as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear.

Didn't matter though, she was smiling and looking willing in the picture, and he had his personal favorites out of all her lingerie out on the bed's comforter.

Smiling, he unzipped his pants and started to stroke himself, standing over the picture and the lingerie. Together like that he had very little problem imagining her wearing it. Hell, his imagination was kicked into overdrive.

Thanks to the picture he was imaging them heading back from the beach, or at least getting off the train from Coney Island. In that sundress a stiff breeze was all it took to just plaster the fabric all across her body when they walked together, sometimes him leading her so he could look back smugly at all the jealous bastards seeing him with a genuine MILF on his arm (and under his thumb) and other times him walking behind her so he could take in the view. Just like he remembered from his long look at her in jeans, Ms. Sally Jackson was working some fine assets... which he couldn't keep his hands off.

"Stop it," she would giggle, playing coy while they were in public, swatting his hands away before they could creep any further up the dress. Still, she bent a little more at the waist while she fiddled with her keys, and he began the game all over again with hands greedily inching up the back of her thighs to rake and bunch the dress further up to her rear. She only let him get as far as the very tops of her thighs, just before he got a glimpse of tantalizing ass-cheeks and enticing panties, before she 'found' the right key and opened the door just enough to duck inside in mock-fright.

"You're not getting away that easy," he'd growl, forcing his way in with his best Jack Nicholson smile. Perfect blend of lecherous and dangerous, kicking the door shut behind him as he cornered her ducking into the kitchen. No escape for her there.

A minute of her kicking off her heels to better try to duck and weave around him, with him not affording no her any mercy, and then she was pinned against the refrigerator with his hands hiking that sundress up around her waist. Not satisfied (but sure as hell getting there) he would hoist her knees up and wrap them around his hips, while biting and tonguing at her collar.

She squirmed, barely getting words out for all the moaning. "Hm... ah, oh cold cold cold!"

"Feels pretty hot to me..."

"Fridge-" she protested, yelling as he purposefully ground harder into her very hot thighs and forced her barely covered ass against the chilly stainless steel surface. It better be stainless otherwise that squeaking of wet panties on the fridge door would lead to a funny story to tell guests. "Oh God Mattie please-" But he could tell her shivering had to do with more than the cold.

He backed away from the refrigerator though, center of the kitchen, and she insistently, desperately kept her legs tightly wrapped around his waist. "Get off," he commanded, breaking off a greedy and especially sloppy kiss. When her feet were back on the ground he resumed the kissing, with renewed energy to his tongue and his hands, feeling her up, paying special attention to her firm ass and needy, almost dripping wet-with-want pussy. She moaned more appreciatively, but that gave way to muffled protests when he hiked her sundress all the way up around her armpits, showing off smooth stomach and lacy bra to his satisfaction.

It doesn't take much for her to realize what he wants, just slight pressure to her shoulders and she goes down on her knees easily. Like someone who had plenty of practice. She winced though, as she fumbled with his zipper.

"I'm getting cold." She punctuated her pleading with a shiver got her breasts bouncy in the bra. If it wasn't for goosebumps popping up around her neck and shoulders he might even think she was playing coy games with him.

But he knew that wasn't the case, 'cause (in his own head) Sally Jackson was too big a slut for his cock to play-act at being shy. She was just too impatient to get to the real deal, but not today; she'd have to earn it.

"Want me to warm you up?" He teased her, tweaking an earlobe, watching with relish as her nose scrunched in annoyance.

"Please?" There it was, her begging. Seeing and hearing her beg was the best thing in the world.

Well, second best. Nothing could compare with actually fucking her.

"You know you gotta get me warmed up first," he reminded, fiddling with but not actually tugging the zipper of his jeans. He needed her to do that herself, to admit defeat. "Show me how much you want it...show me how you'll work for it."

No disguising her want, how much she was dying to get him inside her one way or another. She licked her lips, probably on reflex, and tugged down his zipper with thumb and index finger, grip steady as a surgeon. That same steadiness faltered when she pulled his cock out from his boxers and he had to hide a wince as the sides of little Matt Sloan brushed against the sharp zipper teeth. Then he could see her hands were shaking a bit, stroking his cock and licking her lips slowly.

"See something you like?" He rocked his hips a bit, enjoying the way his dick bounced in place and how her eyes followed the head. Heh, like he was a sorta snake charmer with his magic trouser snake.

She nodded with a dizzy sort of smile, stroking from tip to shaft down to zipper, looking like she was hypnotized. "I think I see something tasty."

He grinned, putting hands behind the back of his head and stretching pelvis towards her. "You think so?"

"Mm, well one way to find out." She licked her lips again but this time they were close enough to his cock that she brushed around the head with a very hot and wet tongue.

Even if he wanted to he couldn't hold back an embarrassingly high pitched moan, thrusting his hips forward towards her face. That got her to giggle, which couldn't have been easy with a surprise mouthful of dick. "Mm..." She popped him out of her mouth with an audible suction-cup smack of her lips, and pink tongue flicked out to catch a drop of near-transparent pre-cum at the slit. "It's not half bad."

"Not half bad? Maybe you just need more." He inched his hips a little closer, almost rocking onto tiptoe. "See if you can get it more than halfway."

"But it's so big," she mewled doubtfully, tugging at the root of his dick, where boxers and zipper of his jeans were pinching uncomfortably.

"I believe in you and stuff, just get to it."

"What's the magic word?" She snapped loose the button of his jeans, the sudden freedom made his cock feel much better.

"Fuck..."

"Mmm I'll take it," she hummed with glee. Then she licked her hand, and before he could object to tell her to focus on licking what mattered (specifically him), she gripped as much of his turgid length in her slicked palm and squeezed.

He moaned his appreciation, rocking on his heels to get some further friction of her grip on his skin, and she stroked his cock intently, looking deep in concentration. No more complaints about how chilly the kitchen was, now slutty sultry Sally was on a mission measuring him up.

It didn't take her that long, though it sure seemed long to him in his current state of mind, that she got the measure of him just right for her to lean in and take the purplish head of his cock in her mouth.

Such a tight, talented, hot wet mouth she had on her. He groaned, annoyed at how shaky and high-pitched it was getting but not enough to stop enjoying Sally Jackson's expert (clever fucking whore probably had plenty of practice) ministrations. She swirled tongue around his shaft before leaning in to take him deeper down her throat. Soon he felt her chin graze his rapidly tightening balls, an additional and pleasurable friction through his boxers.

Such a tight, talented, hot wet mouth she had on her. He groaned, annoyed at how shaky and high-pitched it was getting but not enough to stop enjoying Sally Jackson's expert (clever fucking whore probably had plenty of practice) ministrations. She swirled tongue around his shaft before leaning in to take him deeper down her throat. Soon he felt her chin graze his rapidly tightening balls, an additional and pleasurable friction through his boxers.

"Oh fucking hell yes," he groaned appreciatively, leaning back on his heels, hands resting behind the back of his head like a boss.

Encouraged by his praise, Sally Jackson increased her efforts, doubling her speed of swirling her tongue around the head of his cock down to the base of his shaft. Once she got her rhythm down, she took her hands away from his dick to focus on pulling his balls out of his boxers, at one point pausing to press her chin against the sack with a satisfied-sounding hum. Then she reached her hands behind her back for the clasp of her bra, sliding the straps off her shoulders. It was worth Sloan craning his neck to peer down and take in the sight of Sally bobbing back and forth topless with his dick in her mouth. Almost made him wish he could take the time to ditch his jeans and feel how those tits pressed tight on his thighs when she took his whole root up.

Meh, he'd have another shot to do that later anyway. Slutty Sally the MILF Jackson was addicted to his cock already and hadn't even gotten a proper taste of his Sloan-special sploosh-induce-man-juice. Once she had gotten a swallow of that love formula she'd be hot and bothered whenever he so much as quirked an eyebrow, he was sure of it.

He just had to make sure to keep a tight grip on her short leash.

"Hey, quit that," he ordered, seeing her right hand slide down into the front of her panties. That was his job after all, she needed to be a good bitch and learn fast.

With him all in her mouth she couldn't muster up a really articulate vocal plea but she sorta whimpered around his cock, fingers sawing in and out of her underwear. The soft, faintly wet sounds she made playing with herself was almost hot enough for him to forgive her.

But not enough. Bitches needed to learn early, after all.

In a show of dominance he placed both of his hands on either side her head, thrusting his cock down her gullet until his balls were slapping almost painfully against her chin. Drool spilled down across her chin lewdly as she was forced to take his entire length over and over again like a good cockslut.

"Yeah, that's... oh fuck that's it..."

Soon though he spied her hand dipping back into her underwear again.

He pulled her off his dick harshly, and reluctantly. "That's mine, you cunt. You don't get to play with it unless I say so, got it?" When she didn't answer, just stared up at him with makeup running like a used whore and drool down her chin like an idiot with a concussion, he pulled her hair back sharply. He liked that a lot, the pained cry she gave and the feel of her hair in his fingers and tits pressed against his thighs.

"I asked you a question slut. Did you hear me or do you get off on getting punished?"

"Y-yes," she managed to gasp.

"What was that? 'Yes', what? What I asked, did you hear me?"

"Yes."

He tugged her hair again. "So do you want to be punished?"

She looked up, the corners of eyes (and her mouth) watering from the pain. "Yes."

He gave a wide, chipped-tooth grin. Any sort of droop to his hard-on vanished pretty quick at the thought of some real fun tearing that ass up. "That's what I like to hear."

Wrapping her hair around his fist, Matt pulled her up off her knees, relishing the cry of pain and maybe even a bit of excitement she gave out. Oh yeah she wanted it, wanted him, real bad.

Soon as she was on her feet, he pulled her onto his shoulder, hoisted her up in a fireman's carry which was perfect for putting a hand on her ass. Fucking perfect ass, just the right amount of firm bounce and jiggle, nice and wide. Fucking perfect ass that was perfect, just perfect enough for fucking.

Maybe he'd risk rushing things and go for anal. If he felt like it. She was into being treated like a cheap slut anyway.

Wasn't that clear by the way she practically invited him in while her fiancé was out? The way she dressed like such a horny skank under her housewife frump-chic? She knew what she needed, and exactly what he wanted. She was a grown woman and he was a teenager. If anything she was the predator, she was the fucking deviant, and a pervert like her deserved the hardest reaming his cock could give her ass.

It was a delicious-looking ass. He threw her off his shoulder onto the bed, and as soon as all of her stopped bouncing he flipped her over so he could look at that ass again with the sea-foam green underwear starting to floss up those bootylicious cheeks.

"Fucking hell you got a great ass," he praised breathily, putting both hands up on that prime cut meat and giving her a thorough squeeze.

"Mmm, thank yo-OOH-" she moaned when his thumbs teased the fabric of her panties, tickled her right in the sweet spots.

Yeah he was definitely going to go have to go for that backdoor VIP entry. If not now than later...

Why wait?

She even came with her own lub. Such a considerate slut.

"You have any idea what you do to me?" He growled, pawing at her thighs, up to finish with slaps on her ass, before grabbing at her hips. "Huh?"

"Do I drive you crazy?" She simpered, wiggling her hips, and she had to know how that made her asscheeks juggle just right.

"Yea huh..." Matt Sloan looped fingers around the elastic of her panties, dragging them down her legs. She lifted her hips to help him out, incidentally flexing her butt. Someone didn't skip leg day. Or maybe she was into yoga...maybe hot yoga. Though actually he didn't know what made one different from the other, it was all hot to him.

She raised herself up onto her knees and elbows after he whipped the panties down and off her ankles with a flourish. Peered back over her shoulder to see him take a whiff of the damp lace and satin that so ripe with her desire it was overpowering. "You drive me crazy too...I'm so wet, and I feel so empty without you inside me. Don't make me beg because I'll beg. I'll beg for it, gag for that big, hard cock...whatever you need me to do for, or whatever you want to do to me, just fuck me. Fuck me please."

He leaned down and like a weird butt vampire took a bite of that juicy ass, hard enough to leave a mark. His mark, hard enough so that they'd be able to read his fucking dental records off her keister, and if she so much as mooned Mr. Blows-Fish he'd be able to tell she was stepping out on him and offering up that awesome ass for a real man who knew how this slut wanted to be treated. She'd have to make boring missionary love to him under the covers with the lights off for... well for as long as Matt mother-fucking Sloan decided.

Emboldened he gave another love-bite on the other ass-cheek, getting harder than he thought possible when she gave another pained, anticipatory moan.

Oh yeah, she fucking wanted him.

He'd oblige, that was the kinda nice guy he was. "Turn over," he demanded, punctuating with another open-palmed booty-smack.

She did of course, with a giggle and flounced onto her back, arching hips to avoid her bruised ass touching the sheets. That made it too fucking easy to slip fingers in the cleft of her thighs, probe her quivering pussy, her tight walls clenching around his fingers begging for the real thing. Her breasts all shaking and nipples hard with anticipation. Anticipation for penetration, from the very best she was ever going to get. The anticipation was definitely the best part... well, definitely second-best.

"I think," he whispered, "that I could really get in the mood if you went on begging."

"I want you," she insisted, begged. "I want you so bad, I'll just die if I don't get some of that thick cock, please, I'll do anything you want, be whatever you want me to be-"

Her pleading, and the squirming, was definitely doing it for him right now. "Did you like sucking on my cock? You like how that tasted?"

"I loved it, I need it again," the pathetic cougar moaned. "I need you to fuck me until the bed breaks, I need you so deep inside me right... there..."

Her squirms broke into spasms, and her moans turned into a keening gasp of overwhelming pleasure. With clever fingers spreading her lower lips apart, breathing hot right on her clit, he could see just how moist she was getting, pink walls flushed almost saffron with want. "Wow you really do need it."

"I need you," she insisted breathily, trying to take his fingers in, gyrating her hips as best she could with her legs spread wide like only a professional whore could manage. "Please."

"Prove it," he demanded. "Prove that it's not just any cock that you need nutting up in you, that you're fucking mine when I'm inside you."

"Whatever you want," she insisted, sweating, hands gripping the comforter, sheets unraveling off the bed with all the fuss she was making.

"Gimme your ring," Sloan demanded. "Now, slut."

She started, hesititated, whether because of the demand or because of the name-calling, Sloan wasn't sure and didn't care. He forcibly pushed fingers up to the knuckle into her sex, hard enough to hurt, getting her even wetter and louder. She shakily pried the engagement ring off her finger, practically tossing it to Matt's general direction. He caught it, smooth as a player like he could be, and slipped it on his moistened pinkie.

"I'm your man now. The only man for you." Licking his lips, he arranged himself at her entrance, and thrust into her entirely with an impatient stroke. "And you..." he panted between hammering away at her, "are my... bitch."

"Slut, bitch," Sally gasped, "yes, yes yes, I'm all yours!"

"Get to screaming," Sloan ordered, picking up the pace, feeling himself getting close. He took another wiff of her panties, relishing the scent on the lace and on his fingers, purely her before any jizz got into the mix. With a wicked grin, he shoved the panties into her mouth when her screaming started. They barely were substantial enough to cover her crack, so they didn't do so much muffling, but he got used to seeing her mouth full. It got him, and this was unbelievable, even harder.

He groaned, thrusting deep and harder, gripping the back of her knees to keep her spread wide for him, but she was still so deliciously tight and hot he knew he'd not be able to hold off much longer. After a particularly vocal scream she gave off through her lacy gag, and tight squeeze her walls gave around his cock, he didn't bother holding off the floodgates, and then came the sploosh-

"F-fuck..."

Matt Sloan gasped, knees buckling, grasping the dresser for support.

His pants were undone somewhere past his knees, boxers and all, and he was certain he had never cum so hard in his life before this day with Sally Jackson's panties wrapped around his cock, nothing but his spit for lube.

Well holy shit, the panties he picked out started a soft teal but now that they were filling up with his cum the color was going a dark blue, almost turquoise as they soaked him up. Felt like he emptied both nuts and a half in those cheekie underpants.

"Damn Sally J..." He'd have to take some of these panties for the road, maybe a bra she wouldn't miss. It wasn't a sustainable system, and he knew this itch wouldn't be scratched by a few more jerk-off sessions but he had to do something.

First though, he had to hide. Only place to hide was under the bed, there wasn't more time.

Someone was unlocking the front door of the apartment, right now.

"Shit shit shit..."