Milfs Hunter

Threesome

I now spend more time at Sarah's place than in my own apartment. Three, four nights a week. Sometimes even the whole weekend under the pretext of "studying together." In reality, I'm there for Hélène. I don't say it out loud yet, even in my head, but it's the truth: I'm addicted to her presence. To her scent of vanilla and sweat after her yoga classes, to the way she tosses her hair back when she laughs, to the curve of her hips when she leans over to take a dish out of the oven. Every time I walk through their door, my heart leaps. And my d**k too.

Serge, he tolerates me... barely. He shakes my hand a little harder every time, like he's testing if I'll crack someday. His steel-gray eyes pierce through me:

"You're here a lot, huh, kid?"

I always answer with the same polite smile: "I really like your family, sir."

He grunts, pours himself another whiskey, and heads back to his TV. I can feel that he senses something. Not exactly what I really want yet, but he feels there's something off. A predator recognizes another.

The kids, they love me. Theo, eight years old, latches onto me as soon as I arrive:

"Cole, wanna play FIFA?"

Lucas, thirteen, more reserved, finally cracks when I give him tips for picking up girls on Snapchat. Sarah is over the moon: "You're so integrated, baby..." She calls me "baby" now. It feels weird. Almost tender. And almost guilty.

One evening in mid-February, after a particularly tense dinner (Serge had yelled at Hélène because the roast was overcooked), Sarah and I go up to her room. She closes the door, sits on the bed, knees tucked in, and says in a low voice:

"You know... sometimes, when I was little, dad used to drink. A lot. And he... he would hit mom."

The silence falls like an anvil. I stay frozen, jaw clenched. She continues, eyes shining:

"She stayed for us. So we could have a family. She always said it wasn't that bad, that he'd apologize afterwards... But I remember the bruises. On her arms. On her ribs."

I feel the rage rise, hot and brutal. In my head, it's spinning a mile a minute: What an asshole. What a f*****g asshole. I should go downstairs, smash his face in. Make him choke on his lame apologies with punches to the throat.

And then reality catches up with my anger: the guy is two heads taller than me, a hundred and ten kilos of old muscle and current beer. He'd flatten me like a pancake. I've seen how he lifts Theo with one hand when the kid acts up. I can already see myself in the hospital, jaw broken, explaining to Hélène that I tried to play the hero. But fuck... how dare he lay a hand on her? My sweet Hélène. My Hélène who smiles even when she's hurting. My Hélène who deserves to have her groceries carried for her, to have her shoulders massaged, to be f****d until she forgets her own name.

I hold Sarah in my arms without saying anything. She cries a little against my chest. I stroke her hair, but my mind is downstairs, in the kitchen, where Hélène is doing the dishes alone while Serge snores in front of a game. I silently swear to myself: one day, I'll make you pay, asshole. Not today. But one day.

In the meantime... I need to decompress. Really. Having an "official" girlfriend is practical for the cover, but it cuts into my usual momentum: I don't have the drive to play the perfect boyfriend for another girl just to hook her mother anymore. Too many roles to manage. So I change my strategy: I'll hunt directly. Places frequented by mature women alone, no husbands around. Supermarkets on Saturday mornings, Sunday yoga classes, literary cafes, and especially... downtown wine bars on Thursday nights. Divorced forty-somethings or those on a marital break show up in packs, rumpled suits, high heels, a look that says: "I need someone to remind me I'm still fuckable."

That's where I meet Sandra. Forty-two years old, executive at an insurance company, divorced for two years, toned body, fake t**s but well done, plump lips and a raucous laugh. She's at the bar with her best friend, Valérie, forty, zumba instructor, round ass and predatory gaze. They spot me right away. I play the polite but confident young guy: "Next round's on me?" They burst out laughing. An hour later, we're at my place.

I didn't even need to pull out all the stops. They were starving. Violently starving.

I lock the apartment door, turn on a dim red light (I invested in an LED kit specifically for these occasions), and watch them undress each other, laughing. Sandra wears a burgundy lingerie set, garters included. Valérie, a fishnet bodysuit that hints at pierced n*****s. I stay in my boxers, my d**k already taut as a bow.

"Come here, little one," Sandra says, approaching, voice hoarse with wine and desire. She pushes me onto the bed, Valérie straddling my face in two seconds. Her ass is right above my mouth, smelling of musk and expensive perfume. I dive my tongue directly into her already soaked slit.

She lets out a deep moan: "Oh f**k yes, lick me hard..."

Meanwhile, Sandra pulls down my boxers, grabs my d**k with both hands: "Look at that, Val... he's huge."

She takes me in her mouth without foreplay, straight to deep throat, drool running down onto my balls. I moan into Valérie's p***y, who rubs herself against my face like a woman possessed.

We switch positions. I want it dirty, something new. I put Sandra on all fours on the bed, face in the pillow. Valérie lies on her back in front of her, legs spread. I enter Sandra with one sharp thrust, feeling her hot, tight walls engulf me. She screams into the pillow. Valérie grabs Sandra's head and shoves it against her p***y: "Eat me, whore." I pound Sandra rhythmically, slapping her ass which reddens visibly. Each thrust shakes the bed. Sandra licks Valérie greedily, tongue out, obscene sucking sounds.

I pull out of Sandra, and go straight into Valérie's mouth, who swallows me to the hilt, tasting her girlfriend on me. "You're a real b***h," I growl. She smiles, eyes bright: "And you're a good little stud."

Another twisted idea. I take the silk tie I keep in the drawer for these occasions, tie Sandra's wrists behind her back. Valérie, excited by the game, kneels beside. I make them kiss, tongues out, drool flowing, while I finger them both at the same time, three fingers in each p***y. They moan into each other's mouths.

I want to make them come together. I lie on my back. Sandra impales herself on my d**k in reverse cowgirl, back to me, her ass bouncing violently. Valérie sits on my face again, but this time in reverse 69. The bed creaks, bodies slap, insults fly: "f**k me harder, you little prick!" "You like it when I fill your mouth, huh?" They come almost at the same time, Sandra first, her p***y contracting in spasms around my d**k, then Valérie flooding my mouth with her juice. I pull out, make them kneel side by side, and I come on their faces in long, hot spurts. They kiss afterwards, licking my sperm off each other, laughing like crazy women.

We collapse, sweating. They stay over to sleep. The next morning, they leave, giving me their number: "Get in touch whenever you want, handsome." I delete them immediately. No need for complications.

But even after that night of debauchery, when I'm in the shower, the image of Hélène comes back. Her soft voice when she says "it'll be okay." And the rage comes back, the rage. I turn off the tap, look at my reflection in the foggy mirror. One day, I'll make you pay, Serge. One day, Hélène will be free. And on that day, she'll be mine.

In the meantime, I keep playing the perfect son-in-law. I fix Serge's printer, I play Switch with Theo, I make Lucas laugh with stupid jokes. And every time I go through the kitchen door to help Hélène clean up, our eyes meet for one second longer. One day, soon, I can feel it, our hands won't just brush in the sink anymore.