Milfs Hunter

Beautiful Isabelle

I sent the classic opener:

“Hey Léa, that nose piercing is cool! You look like a rockstar. Drinks sometime?”

She replied within the hour: “Haha, thanks! Yeah, why not. Friday night?” Perfect.

Friday came. I showed up at the bar where she worked, dressed casual but sharp slim jeans, fitted shirt to show off my biceps without overdoing it. Léa was behind the counter, mixing cocktails with a forced smile.

“Cole? You’re right on time!” She gave me cheek kisses; her fruity perfume tickled my nose.

We chatted: she complained about her shitty job, dreamed of traveling Asia. I played the attentive listener, nodding at all the right moments. After her shift, we hit a nearby pub. Two beers later, we were making out in a dark corner. Her lips were soft, a little hesitant. No big deal she wasn’t the real target.

The next weekend, she invited me over for “family dinner.” Jackpot. I showed up with a cheap bouquet for Léa officially, but I knew it would score points with Isabelle. The house was classic suburbia: manicured lawn, rusty barbecue in the back.

Léa opened the door:

“Come in, my parents can’t wait to meet you!”

The dad let’s call him Mister Mustache (real name Bernard, but with that Magnum P.I. mustache, it was unavoidable) crushed my hand in a vise grip. “Cole, huh? Léa says you’re studying computer science. Not bad. But watch it my daughter’s no kid.” Gruff tone, not hostile yet.

Then Isabelle appeared from the kitchen, apron tied around her waist, sleeves rolled up on slim but toned arms. “Hi Cole! So glad to meet you. Léa won’t shut up about you.” Her smile was warm, blue eyes sparkling. Heat surged straight to my gut. What already had me hooked? Her husky voice, slightly breathless from cooking, and the way the apron hugged her t**s at least a D-cup, heavy and natural. “Thanks for the flowers,” she said, taking them; our fingers lingered a second too long. Instant electricity.

Dinner went smoothly. Steak and fries, light conversation. I complimented Isabelle’s cooking: “This is delicious, ma’am. You should open a restaurant!”

She blushed: “Call me Isabelle, please. And thank you, that’s sweet.”

Mister Mustache grunted: “Yeah, she cooks great, my wife. That’s why I married her.”

Léa laughed, but I caught an undercurrent of tension. Later, while clearing the table, I ended up alone with Isabelle in the kitchen.

“You’re such a nice boy, Cole. Léa’s lucky.” Her eyes lingered on my chest.

I grinned: “She’s the lucky one. But you… must get tired of these family dinners.”

She sighed: “Sometimes, yeah. Bernard can be… intense.” First hint: the marriage was rocky.

Weeks went by. I became a regular. I fixed Mister Mustache’s computer (porn virus, ironically), played soccer with Léa’s twelve-year-old brother Tim (Fortnite-obsessed kid). With Léa, we went out, f****d occasionally. First time was in her room, parents downstairs watching TV. She rode me enthusiastically but clumsily small ,t**s bouncing, soft moans: “Oh Cole, you’re so hard…” But I was thinking about Isabelle, picturing her wider hips, her seasoned p***y. I came fast, eyes closed.

The big break came on a Wednesday night. Léa was working late, Monsieur Moustache at a union meeting. Isabelle called:

“Cole, the washing machine’s leaking everywhere. Can you come over? You’re so good with this stuff.” My heart raced.

I was there in ten minutes, tools in hand. Isabelle greeted me in tight leggings and a loose t-shirt no bra, n*****s faintly poking through.

“Thanks for coming so fast.” She led me to the basement where the machine really was malfunctioning. I got on my knees to check the hoses; she bent down beside me, cleavage plunging right in my eyeline. Her t**s were magnificent: pale, lightly veined, wide pink areolas. My c**k went rock hard instantly.