Milfs Hunter

Bad habits

The school day was absolute torture. I had a busy morning at uni: advanced algorithms at 8 a.m., where the professor spent two hours droning on about balanced binary search trees. I was sitting at the back of the lecture hall, pen in hand, but my brain was elsewhere. Completely elsewhere. Every time I blinked, I saw Hélène again in black leggings, bent over the fridge, her ass perfectly molded, the curve of her hips begging for spanks. "You stare a lot like that, Cole?" Her husky voice echoed on a loop in my head. I'd gotten hard as a rock right then, and there, in the middle of class, I felt my d**k twitch under the table. I had to cross my legs so the girl next to me wouldn't notice, a redhead in her twenties who was already giving me weird looks.

At the break, I went out for a smoke – a bad habit I'd picked up again since the infiltration started, to relieve the tension. The campus was buzzing: students laughing, studying on benches, making out in corners. Me, I stared into space, imagining Hélène in a yoga pose, downward dog, and me behind her, slowly pulling down her leggings, exposing her bare skin, sliding my tongue between her cheeks before entering her in one thrust. f**k, Cole, get a grip. You have an exam in an hour. But nothing doing. The addiction was stronger than ever. Hélène wasn't just a target anymore; she was an obsession. A perfect MILF, frustrated, with an asshole husband who hit her. And I was going to save her. Or at least, f**k her until she forgot her own name.

The next class – computer networks – was even worse. The prof gave us a lab on TCP/IP protocols, and I spent the hour coding distractedly, making stupid mistakes. My partner, a geek named Max, teased me: "Where are you, Cole? You look like you smoked a joint." I laughed it off: "Nah, just tired." Truth was, I was exhausted from the waiting. Two months of infiltration, and still not a single physical contact with Hélène beyond brushing hands. Sarah, on the other hand, was satisfied: we f****d regularly, she said "I love you" every night. Me? I played the role, but my heart – my heart was for her mother.

At noon, the day finally over, I headed to the campus café to meet my buddy Ben. Ben's my best friend from uni. Twenty-three, bearded, always trying to pick up girls on Tinder without success, and a fan of craft beer. We sat at an outside table, under an umbrella, with steaming lattes. He started right in, as usual, no filter:

"Yo, Cole, where the f**k are you? It's been weeks since you disappeared. No more parties, no more beers with the guys. You're glued to your girl 24/7?"

I sipped my coffee, laughing to downplay it. "Sarah? Yeah, it's serious. She's cool, you know." Ben rolled his eyes, shaking his head like a disappointed father:

"Serious? Dude, you're twenty-two! You're supposed to be f*****g everything that moves, not playing the perfect son-in-law at her parents' place. What'd you become, a Mormon? Last time we saw each other was a month ago, and you spent the whole evening checking your phone to see if she'd texted you. That's not you. Before, you were the king of MILFs, the guy who'd pick up cougars at bars like nobody else. And now? You're domesticated by a nineteen-year-old kid?"

I grimaced inside. He was right about one thing: I'd slowed down the external hunting. No more forums to brag about my exploits, no more wine bars to pick up needy forty-somethings. All my focus was on Hélène. But I couldn't tell him. "It's not like that, Ben. Sarah's different. And her family... they're nice." He burst out laughing, slapping the table:

"Nice? Dude, you're at their place every day! You mow the lawn, fix the leaks, play with the kids. You're not her boyfriend, you're their butler! And for what? For vanilla s*x with a student who reads psych books? Wake up, Cole. You've had an addiction to MILFs for years, and now you're ignoring your nature to play the perfect couple? If it's for the mother, just admit it, f**k!"

I almost spat out my coffee. Ben knew me too well – we'd shared crazy stories on the forum anonymously, without knowing I was YoungBull22. "What? The mother? Are you stupid or what?" I stammered, laughing nervously. He shrugged: "Well yeah, that's your thing. You always said moms were hotter. If you're glued over there, it's not for the daughter. But seriously, man, live a little. Come out with us this weekend. There's a party at the bar, lots of divorced cougars hanging around." I vaguely promised: "Yeah, maybe." But inside, I was seething. He'd hit a nerve. I was losing myself in this infiltration. But stop? Impossible. Hélène was worth it.

We finished the coffee with stupid jokes – Ben telling me about his latest failed date with a girl who friend-zoned him in five minutes. "At least she bought me a beer." We hugged, and I headed straight to Sarah's. To her place. To Hélène's. The house had become my second home – or my first, given the time I spent there. On the way, I texted Sarah: "Be there in 10 min, baby." She replied with a heart and a kiss emoji. Cute. But my mind was on the mother.

I arrive around 3 p.m. The house smells fresh: Hélène must have cleaned. Sarah opens the door, in gym shorts and a loose t-shirt, hair in a ponytail. "Cole! You're early, great." She kisses me immediately, her tongue sliding into my mouth with a new urgency. She pulls me toward her room without a word. The kids are at school, Serge at work, Hélène... somewhere in the house, maybe getting dinner ready. Sarah closes the door, pins me against the wall:

"I want you, Cole. Right now."

She's hot as hell. Her hands go straight for my jeans, unbutton, unzip. I feel her palm on my d**k through my boxers. Normally, I'd be all the way there. But now... I'm half-hard. Half-hard, f**k. My mind is stuck on Hélène. On her leggings from yesterday, on her smile when she caught me staring. On the idea of surprising her in the kitchen, bending her over the island, pulling down her pants and taking her from behind while she moans softly so the neighbors won't hear. Sarah kneels, pulls down my boxers, takes my d**k in her mouth. She sucks with enthusiasm, tongue swirling around the head, hand stroking my balls. It feels good, objectively. Warm, wet, rhythmic. But I close my eyes, and it's Hélène I see: her plump lips around my c**k, her green eyes watching me as she swallows deeper, her throat contracting.

"You're hard... but not like usual," Sarah murmurs, lifting her head, a strand of drool at the corner of her mouth. She looks worried. I lie: "Tired from classes today. Keep going, baby." She resumes, harder, faster. I get a little harder, but it's forced. My imagination takes over: Hélène naked on the bed, her heavy breasts bouncing as I pound her missionary, her nails in my back, her hoarse moans: "f**k me, Cole, f**k your MILF." Sarah gets up, undresses quickly: shorts on the floor, t-shirt off. No bra. Her small, pointed breasts, n*****s hard. She pushes me onto the bed, sits on me, guides my c**k inside her. She's soaked, tight, sinks down in one go. "Oh yes..." she moans, starting to roll her hips.

I let her do it, hands on her thighs, but my thoughts drift. Hélène. Hélène in leggings, Hélène doing yoga, Hélène saying "You stare a lot like that?" with that playful smile. I'm harder now – not for Sarah, for her. Sarah speeds up, bounces on me, her breasts jiggling. "Cole, you like it?" "Yeah... keep going." She comes quickly, her body trembling, p***y contracting around me. I follow shortly after, coming inside her with a groan, imagining it's Hélène receiving my hot sperm. We collapse, her on my chest: "That was good... but you were distant." I kiss her forehead: "Sorry, uni's exhausting." Lie. The truth? I'm half-hard for you because I want your mother.

The rest of the afternoon passes on autopilot: we study a bit, watch Netflix. Hélène comes home around 5 p.m., with groceries. I go down to help, of course – perfect son-in-law. Our hands brush while putting away the bags. She smiles at me: "Thanks, Cole. You're indispensable." Serge arrives later, grumpy as usual. Family dinner: roast chicken. Palpable tension when he criticizes the salt. Hélène lowers her eyes. Inner rage: one day, I'll make you pay.

That night, in bed with Sarah, she snuggles up to me. "Round two?" I decline: "Tired." Truth is, I'm thinking about Hélène again.