Mrs Miller: Mother’s Day

Surprise,

I was guilty, no doubts

So, as it was Sunday morning and Mother's Day, I decided that because I had returned to the nest at nineteen, after a year of trying to live with my mates in a rented house — all of us failed — I would reward my stepmom.

I had returned to youthful stamping ground because life was too easy home-based.

Besides, my stepmom, Lillian, or my occasional childhood reminiscence, Mrs Miller, was a fabulous, caring mum who looked after me from age five.

She was always way too good for my dad, now long gone.

So, it was payback time for her kindness to me. The least I could do was get her breakfast in bed.

Boy, I slaved in the kitchen.

I concentrated on getting everything right. I organised smooth vanilla yoghurt and a few strawberries and blueberries. I freshly squeezed the orange juice and went through a learning curve as a male novice in the kitchen with the juicer.

But man, it looked good.

This brekkie was a labour of love.

The coffee was fine; self-interest operated with that machine every morning.

I knew I was out of my depth trying to flip two eggs, grill a sausage and cook two pieces of toast simultaneously, but she needed something hot and warm and filling.

The wobbly eggs had me thinking of breasts.

Soon enough, I loaded the stable table and headed up the stairs to her room. I smiled, proud of my effort.

Then I realised on the landing, I was still in my tiger-print boxers and a red T-shirt.

My usual nightwear.

Oh well, she won't notice my attire; the focus is on her — and the genuinely fantastic spread in front of me.

My hands supported the edges of the tray, so I didn't do the polite bedroom door knock.

Instead, I just pushed her door and let it swing back.

Nothing prepares a young man to see a mature woman on her bed, facing away, her head in her plush pillows, her bum cheeks pointing to high heaven, her brunette trimmed slit stuffed with a whirling carnation vibrator, reverberating at what I took to be maximum speed.

Plus, her fingers through her legs stimulated her own jellybean-sized pink clitty.

Talk about hot.

She flushed in sexual release.

So close to a frickin intense orgasm.

It was a compelling sight: boner-inciting.

My hard-on poked straight out of my boxer slit. The tray couldn't hide my pecker stiffness seeing her clit boner!

I was about to turn around and leave.

I'd knock loudly. I'd attempt to think of last night's rugby game to get my cock down.

I suppose I'd hear her finish.

But, God, she groaned as her assured climax approached.

"Ooh, oh, ooh, oh, yes, yes, yes!"

Suddenly a mother's intuition or a woman's feeling she is being watched or that sixth sense reaction that a cock is at hand led her to open her eyes.

Well, whatever it was, she rolled over, her legs splayed.

So there loomed her glorious spread womanhood on the bed.

Whilst the vibrator seriously whirred, ready to go in again when she looked: she saw my boner, then my eyes, then breakfast.

"Oh, Brad, honey, don't be shy. You're such a sweetie. Come here, and you can have breakfast, too."

She remained unembarrassed, unlike me.

Geez, I was cunt struck dumb.

I thought she meant to share the yoghurt and eggs or the sausage.

Any thought of breasts being eggs disappeared.

Instead, Mrs Miller's hooters released were massive milk jugs.

Fucking fresh, plump Yorkshire dumplings.

Snuggle puppies!

Knockout Juggernauts!

"Oh quick, you randy bugger, eat me out, have breakfast in bed."

She could see my eyes, mind and dick were cunt fixated.

I know my cock took over from there.

My brain caught up later.

The tray was down.

I lunged onto the bed.

My tongue took the lead, and boy, was she pungently musky between her legs. Her body exuded wetness and lust for sex. It was the easiest, slickest, moistest lick out I had ever given.

Her stiff clit popped so sensitively to my sweeping tongue. Her pussy secreted her sacred fem-sap.

She was through foreplay already; I delivered bonus attention, her Mother's Day treat.

"Your sausage, give me your hot cock, ram your dick into me, you wild tiger," she pleaded as she bounced up and spread herself doggy.

My pecker eased straight into her warm, sopping, inviting coochie. It was breathtakingly satisfying.

I thrust between her quivering thighs.

Her bum cheeks squashed into my pummelling pelvis. We created a combination of the ages. Fantastic sex with an older woman, a stepmom in her forties.

Mum, Mrs Miller was still so hot.

My man club slid into home base.

She pulsed a superb clenched cunt grip.

Super skilled, so experienced with a cock inside her.

I manfully did my boyish best to keep pumping her pussy. I engaged in every marvellous stroke I was able to muster.

Hell, I lasted longer than I thought, given the divine cock workout I received between her legs.

My hands fondled her hooters. Believe me, at sea, she wouldn't need a life jacket. Instead, nature gave her two natural buoyancy aids.

"Fuck me harder. Yeah, Harder. Just like that. Make mummy cum!"

"Orrgh," I went, "I'm gonna…," I warned her.

Mummy dearest turned swiftly and snaffled my baby batter between her sweet, accommodating lips.

My stud gel dribbled down her chin.

An excess of pole spunk swirled around her tongue sweet as yoghurt.

A surfeit of man gravy slid down her throat.

Now that was the Mother's Day surprise!