Soccer Mom

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“You still trying to seduce my husband?” Mrs. Anderson whispered. “I thought I told you to fill up those cups with ice?”

Sara jumped. The older woman had snuck up right behind her, pinning her to the table without making a sound.

“I’m not – I’m not” Sara stammered. “Sed. . .” The thought had never crossed her mind. Mr. Anderson wasn’t just her husband’s boss. He was also an ugly and obnoxious old man. And if his ruddy features and breath were any indication, his fat, lazy, and domineering wife had driven him to the bottle.

“Don’t you lie to me bitch,” Mrs. Anderson said. Her pudgy fingers slithered over Sara’s thighs and stroked at the band of her thin tight nylon shorts. “I know your kind. You come out here in your hot pants showing off your long legs and tight little ass. You think I don’t know what you are up to?”

“I was – I was – hoping to run this afternoon.” However, the only running she had done was going to and fro from one of Mrs. Anderson’s tasks to the next.

Mrs. Anderson forced her hand down the front of Sara’s shorts, causing the young housewife to gasp and struggle in vain against the older woman’s advances.

“Such a tight little body,” Mrs. Anderson whispered in Sara’s ear.

“Stop it.” Sara pulled at Mrs. Anderson’s wrist, but only succeeded in pulling her own blonde pubes the old woman had firm grip on. She tried in vain to get her husband’s attention.

“Go ahead,” Mrs. Anderson said, while stroking a fat finger up and down the cleft of the young woman’s sex. “Call him over. Then you can explain to Frank – yes, to Frank and to your children what we were doing. I’ll be sure to tell them all the juicy details of our hot little affair.”

“We are *not* having an affair.” Sara’s voice was indignant at the mere suggestion. She had never had sexual thought about another woman. And even if she had, it wouldn’t be with a woman like Mrs. Anderson.

“Oh but we are,” Mrs. Anderson continued. “I’ve been coming over to your house every day – every morning after Frank and your little brats have left for school. I’ve been fucking you with all manner of vibrators and dildos. I’ve fucked you in the bed you sleep in with your husband. Then I let you eat my pussy while I watch the soaps. Sometimes I even bring friends over and we take turns sharing your talented tongue.”

“No,” Sara groaned. Not only was she losing the battle of wits with this vicious woman – her body was reacting the unwanted groping of her body.

“You can’t deny it,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Shhhh- listen to your pussy. Listen to those hungry wet sounds. You love it slut.”

“No.” It came out this time as a whisper. Sara knew she couldn’t stop what was happening, but she also knew she shouldn’t be enjoying it either. She should be repulsed by this older woman and she sure as hell shouldn’t be getting off on this very public humiliation with her husband and kids right there with her. But her hips were moving of their own accord, back and forth, fucking the finger embedded in her hot slit.

“Let’s see more of this hot little body you’ve been flaunting.” Mrs. Anderson gently tugged the thin nylon running shorts and even thinner panties down to Sara’s thighs. The young mother’s eyes darted around to make sure no one was watching.

“Oh God,” Sara moaned as her lower half was slowly displayed. The picnic area was secluded, yet. . .

“Nice.” Mrs. Anderson sat down beside Sara, her hand roaming over the young woman’s naked flesh, exploring her hidden crevices, and then spanking her bare bottom. “What do you say when someone pays you a compliment, slut?”

Sara’s head hung down, her bangs fell into her eyes. She refused to answer.

“You say thank you, you little dimwit,” balıkesir escort Mrs. Anderson said. “Now say it!”

“Thank . . .” Sara supported her weight with her hands. She could barely stand. Could barely breathe. Her thought flowed like molasses. “. . .thank you.”

“Your husband is watching slut. Give him a wave.”

‘Oh God,’ Sara thought. Frank was looking at her. By his expression, he was thankfully unaware of what was happening just out of his field of view. She forced a smile to her lips, waved, and pretended to go back to filling up cups with ice.

“That’s right slut. Give a nice wave.” Mrs. Anderson said, while she continued to finger fuck the horny young housewife. “Nothing happening up here. Just two wives getting to know each other. Very – very well.”

“Please,” Sara begged. “Please stop before-”

“Be a dear and hand me that spatula,” Mrs. Anderson said, completely ignoring Sara’s protests.

The spatula was greasy and covered with bits of charred hamburger and hotdog. Sara carefully picked it up by the handle and handed it to the older woman.

“You have a tight cunt Sara. Even after giving birth those two bratty monsters of yours, I can still feel your hungry cunt squeezing my finger,” Mrs. Anderson said, her finger a blur, in and out of Sara’s sex – fucking her – raping her hot hole. “Frank is a lucky man.”

Mrs. Anderson brought the spatula down on Sara’s firm bottom with a splat, leaving a red imprint with four white holes in the middle. Grease and bits of soot were left on the young woman’s firm ivory bottom. “What did I say about saying thank you?”

“Thank you,” Sara gasped. This couldn’t be happening. Not out here. In public. Her children and her husband in sight.

Mrs. Anderson probed at Sara’s asshole with a pudgy finger.

“And such tight little brownie too,” Mrs. Anderson said.

“Ugh – oh God – th- thank y-you.” Sara’s mind whirled. The finger poking at her rear hole made her quiver with excitement, yet she knew she shouldn’t be feeling that way.

“Does Frank fuck you there?” Mrs. Anderson asked. “I bet you love it up the ass. Slut.”

“No – no he doesn’t,” Sara stammered. She wasn’t that kind of girl. And Frank wasn’t the kind of guy.

“But you love it. You love it up the ass, don’t you Sara. Don’t you – you hot blooded slut?”

The pudgy finger wormed its way up her bottom. It forced the truth from Sara’s tightly clenched lips. “Yes. Yes – I love it up the ass.”

“Good girl,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Now you better get whatever thoughts you had about my husband out of your dumb little brain, you understand me girl? From now on, it’s me you’ll be looking pretty for. And these curly little hairs have to go.”

Mrs. Anderson tugged at Sara’s pubic hair, her nose wrinkling with distaste. “I like all my girls clean and fresh. And I want you marked as mine. Maybe a collar or a tattoo. I haven’t decided yet.”

Oh God no. How would she hide such a thing from her husband? This was madness. And yet she couldn’t deny how these thoughts – thoughts of being enslaved to this older woman turned her insides to jelly.

“I’ll be over tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Anderson continued, now with two fingers up the front passage of the young housewife, and one up the rear. “And I expect you ready for me. Perfumed and freshly shaved. Ready to fuck. Do you still have your wedding dress?”

“Ugh – yes. Yes ma’am.” Sara’s voice was raspy and thick. Her chest heaved. Tight nipples poked through the front of her thin form-fitting shirt. Her body sweaty and soaking through her clothes.

“I haven’t given you permission to come yet slut,” Mrs. Anderson warned. “Don’t you do it.”

“I can’t help it.” Sara couldn’t. Her body could not be denied.

“You better bear down and figure out a way.” Mrs. Anderson slowed her fingers, but she let up. Sara’s cunt continued making wet sounds with every thrust of the older woman’s fingers.

Reaching into the cooler of ice, Sara grabbed a handful and then cupped it over her sex. She prayed it would work. The cold was a shock. A painful shock. The need to come passed. She held the cold ice tightly to her sex and shivered.

“That’s a good bitch,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Now, as I was saying. When I come over tomorrow, I expect to find you in bed, wearing your wedding dress, legs spread wide, your pussy open and ready for me.”

“When – when will you be over?” It was an effort to force it out. Sara managed one word to each breath.

Mrs. Anderson pulled her finger out of the young housewife’s bottom and gave her a spank. “It doesn’t matter when I get there bitch. But when I get there, I better see you in bed and eager for me. And by eager, I mean I want to see wet fingers and a hot and ready cunt. And you better not come without my permission. Bitch, I mean it, you better not come.”

It was coming home to Sara. She would be a slave. She would be this older woman’s sex slave. The bed she shared with her husband, even the dress she wore at her wedding, nothing was sacred. She should say no. No way. No how. Fuck you, you old bitch. Yet, her pussy was hotter than ever before. She needed this all her life, yet she never knew it till this moment.

“Please,” Sara begged.

“Please, what?” Mrs. Anderson asked.

“Please ma’am. May I come now?”

“Not yet bitch,” Mrs. Anderson said. She removed her fingers from the young housewife. “What’s your answer slut? Are you going to be my bitch?”

“Oh God,” Sara groaned. “Yes – yes ma’am.”

“I’m going to test you. You have no idea how I’ll test you.”

“Yes ma’am. Please ma’am. I need to come. I need it bad.” Sara’s legs trembled. She ached with need. “. . .so bad.”

Mrs. Anderson rolled the young woman’s clit around with the tip of her finger. “Hand me that bottle of mustard,” she commanded.

Sara picked up the bottle of French’s mustard and tried to pass it back.

“Open it for me, you stupid slut.”

No, oh no! Sara suspected what was to happen, but no, Mrs. Anderson wouldn’t dare, would she? With trembling fingers she unscrewed the top of the plastic mustard bottle and handed it to the older woman.

“Good girl,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Now reach back and spread that beautiful bottom.”

Oh God, she was mad enough to do it. Worse, Sara realized her husband was watching. She waved at him again. Please oh please turn back around, she prayed. She dared not look at him or he would surely know something was happening. Looking out of the corner of her eye, she saw he finally returned to fishing. Sara reached back and spread the cheeks of her bottom.

“Such a cute little brownie,” Mrs. Anderson said. “I see it winking at me.”

“Thank you.”

“You close to coming? You ready to come for me little slut?”

“Yes.” Oh God. Hurry hurry hurry. Sara humped back. Willing her body to come before they were caught, yet it wasn’t quite happening.

“As for me,” Mrs. Anderson said, working the young housewife’s clit in a tight circle. She poked at Sara’s puckered hole with the conical tip of the yellow bottle. “I don’t like mustard. Does Frank? How about little Jake and Elizabeth?”

The older woman’s words hit home to Sara. It was bad enough that she had sunk to this level. But her family, her innocent family, they would also bear the consequences of her deviant desires. The worse part of it all, the mere thought of it, of having to watch helplessly as her family used the bottle of mustard – mustard that had been. . . It was too much. Sara succumbed to madness. Her orgasm hit hard and fast.

“Coming. Oh fuck I’m coming,” Sara cried. Her insides flowed like molten wax.

Mrs. Anderson plunged the yellow grooved cone shaped mustard tip into the young housewife’s ass and squeezed as hard as she could.

“Oh fuck. Fuck fuck.” The mustard was hot on her tender linings. Her ass bit down. Her cunt tightened with every contraction of her orgasm. It was a heavy orgasm that seemed to go on forever. No longer able to support her weight, Sara sat down on the bench next to Mrs. Anderson and weakly pulled her shorts back up to cover herself.

“Fuck,” Sara whined. “It burns.”

“Yes dear, it’s supposed to burn,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Now give me a kiss and thank me for your orgasm.”

The cooler blocked her husband’s view, but if her children turned around they would surely see. What is happening to me, Sara wondered, as she opened her mouth and kissed another woman for the first time.

“Thank you,” Sara said when they broke their kiss. “Thank you for my orgasm.”

“You’re welcome dear.”

“It burns.” The pain had lessened, but it was still there.

“Shush,” Mrs. Anderson wiped the top of the mustard bottle off with a paper towel and sat it on the table. Then she waved at her husband and Frank. “Lunch is ready. Hurry up. Everyone get over here. Let’s eat. You too kids.”

“Speaking of eating,” Mrs. Anderson said where only Sara could hear. “Has my bitch ever eaten pussy before?”

“No ma’am.” Sara shifted nervously in her seat, in part due to the burning in her ass. Worse, she had to hold her internal muscles tight to keep from soiling herself. “Never.”

The older woman stuck a shiny wet digit in her mouth and sucked it clean of Sara’s juices. “You’ll be doing quite a lot of it. I intend to see that you become very skilled at it. I even have some friends I plan on sharing you with.”

“Yes. Yes ma’am.” Sara wondered if she would be able to go through with it. What it would be like to be this domineering woman’s sex slave. She wondered how she was going to get through the afternoon without something mortifying happening even more.

“Good girl,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Now you just sit there, I’ve got this all under control. But tomorrow – tomorrow. . . I intend to get full my full measure.”


Alone in her bedroom, Sara looked over at the clock. Ten-thirty.

She looked down at herself. White heels. White stockings. A white veil pulled down which clouded her vision. Her satin wedding dress bunched up around her waist. A dress she had not worn since her wedding day.

Sara’s muscular legs were spread wide. Her mound was bare and a little red after having been shaved for the first time. Her sex was wet. Lips swollen due to being teased for over an hour. At first she hoped Mrs. Anderson wouldn’t show. Then she spent her time wondering what the older woman would think of her for following her every instruction. Maybe she had been joking?

And now? Now the hardest part was not coming. God how she wanted to. She ached for it. Teasing her self. Keeping her hot cunt wet. She wasn’t just wet, she was soaking. Pelvis thrusting. Thighs trembling. Fingers gripping handfuls of her sheets. She thought she heard the sound of the front door opening. The clacking of high heels walking up the stairs. Heart pounding, Sara realized there were two sets of heels.

‘Dear Lord,’ Sara thought. ‘She’s brought someone else.’ But it was too late now. Too late for anything but to go through with it. She reached down an obediently spread the lips of her sex. With her other hand she offered up the handle of a leash, a leash that ran to a collar around her neck.

This was her lot now, the lot of a slave.

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