Milfs Hunter

Mister Mustache

“See anything?” she asks innocently.

Oh f**k yeah. I mumble, “Yeah, a loose hose.” But my eyes are glued to her.

She notices, blushes, but doesn’t pull back. “Cole… are you checking me out?”

I look up: “Sorry, Isabelle. It’s just… you’re beautiful.”

She laughs nervously: “Beautiful? At my age? With two kids?” I slide my hand onto her thigh: “Especially with two kids. It makes you… irresistible.”

The air crackles. She leans in and kisses me hard. Her mouth is hot, her tongue skilled tasting like coffee and pent-up desire.

I pin her against the still-vibrating washing machine. My hands drop, kneading her round ass through the leggings. She moans into my mouth: “Oh God, Cole… we shouldn’t.” But she spreads her legs. I slip a hand inside no panties, holy s**t! finding her p***y already soaked. My fingers sink into her swollen lips, feeling her wet heat, her hard c**t. “You’re dripping for me, Isabelle?” “Yes… for weeks. Finger-f**k me.” I plunge deep two, then three fingers her walls clenching around me. She gasps, her juices running down my hand. What drives me insane? The sheer weirdness of the place: damp basement, laundry detergent smell, the machine rumbling like it’s joining in.

She drops to her knees, yanks open my jeans. My c**k springs out veiny, pre-c*m beading at the tip. “You’re big, kid,” she whispers before swallowing me. Her blowjob is heavenly: deep throat, tongue swirling, drool dripping onto my balls. I groan: “f**k, Isabelle, suck me just like that.” She speeds up, teary eyes locked on mine.

Suddenly noise upstairs! The front door! Mister Mustache is home early! “Isabelle? Where are you?” he bellows.

Panic. Isabelle jumps up, wipes her mouth. “Down here, honey! With Cole he’s fixing the machine.”

I stuff my still-hard c**k back in, heart pounding. Misterr Mustache thunders down the stairs, frowning.

“What’s going on? It smells weird down here.”

Isabelle improvises: “The leak, honey. Cole fixed everything.” He eyes me suspiciously:

“Yeah? Good kid, Cole. But watch yourself.” He stomps back up, leaving us alone.

Isabelle whispers: “That was close… but hot.” We laugh nervously, but the adrenaline makes me even harder.

We hook up again the next day at my place this time. Isabelle claims a yoga class. She shows up in a summer dress, t**s free underneath. No time wasted: I lift her onto the kitchen table, spread her thighs. Her p***y is natural hairy, pink lips glistening. I devour her, tasting her salty nectar, sucking her c**t until she comes shaking: “Yes, eat my p***y, Cole!” Then I slam into her, her heat swallowing me whole. She’s tight, scorching, her wetness making every thrust smooth. “f**k me hard like Bernard hasn’t in years!” I pound away, slapping against her ass, her heavy t**s bouncing. The twist? The pizza delivery guy rings the bell I answer with my d**k still out, her hiding behind the door, both of us cracking up.

Another close call: Léa’s little brother Tim almost catches us. One afternoon, Tim’s supposed to be at school. We’re going at it in the living room she on all fours, me behind, gripping her wide hips, her ass rippling against my groin. “Spank me!” she cries. I do hard, leaving red marks. Suddenly the door opens: Tim! “Cole? Mom?” He’s home sick. Total freak-out. Isabelle grabs a cushion, I snag a blanket. “Tim! What are you doing here?” “My tummy hurts…” He stares weirdly. We bullshit: “We were… playing hide-and-seek.” Tim shrugs: “Okay, but why’s your face so red, Mom?” Awkward laugh. He goes to play in his room; we finish quick in the bathroom she rides me on the toilet, muffling screams in my neck while Tim bangs on the door: “I’m hungry!”

Léa starts suspecting. One night after lame s*x with her (I’m barely hard, thinking about her mom), she says: “You’re distant, Cole. What’s wrong?”

I lie: “College stress.” But she snoops my phone, finds Isabelle’s text: “Thanks for yesterday, naughty boy.” Explosive fight. “My mom? You’re a pig!” She cries, slaps me. I play dumb: “It’s not what you think!” But it is. We break up, but Isabelle and I keep sneaking around.

Finally, Mister Mustache finds out via a forgotten thong in my car. Hilarious confrontation: he chases me with a fishing rod, yelling “You little s**t!” I escape naked out the window, landing in the bushes. End of the adventure, but what a memory. Isabelle divorces six months later not because of me, she says, but I like to think I helped.