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When my marriage split up I met an attractive, supposedly single, man who not only widened my horizons, but changed my life-situation by introducing me to a word of fantasy, before merging it with reality.
I was shaking with apprehension. No . . . Tell the truth. I was shaking with fear. I even checked, holding my hands out above my thighs, as I watched him walk away through the darkness, across the sparsely populated car park towards the lights of the country pub. Yes, even in the dim light I could see my fingertips shivering uncontrollably. I dropped them to my thighs to steady them, immediately becoming aware of the hot skin above my stocking-tops and the shortness of my skirt.

I watched him walk up to one of the windows and check the pub interior before turning towards me and lifting a hand – our signal – before entering the premises. Five minutes; I had to wait five minutes before following him inside.

I never imagined the real thing would feel like this. It had always seemed so erotic, so exciting, when he would begin whispering the fantasy in my ear when we’re in bed together and he’s warming me up between my legs with his fingers. Christ, many a time I’d be creaming and bucking against his grip before I had even reached the pub doorway in his narrative. By the time he had me sitting beside one of them at the bar and slipping a hand up my skirt, I was on my third or fourth orgasm. It was too late by then, I just wanted his cock up me, pumping me into orgasmic oblivion as my own fantasy took over—no matter what direction his story had gone.

I slipped the fingers of my right hand between my thighs and felt reassured by my wetness, even though it was just an application of massage oil to keep me lubricated. No panties, of course, beneath my black silk-like skirt, which displayed just the right amount of flounce when I walked. His instructions had been to sway my hips as I sashayed in through the doors; to flaunt myself.

Good God, I’m a forty-year-old schoolteacher, married—okay, divorced—with two children. Am I off my fucking head? It seemed like no time ago I was so naïve; the first time I heard the word I didn’t even know what it meant. In fact, who knows how many times I’d just wiped it from the whiteboard in total ignorance of the existence of the acronym—or of why there would be giggles from behind me in class as I was doing so. In fact, that’s probably why they had become bolder, going so far as to write "Mrs Sanders is a MILF" in letters so big that I couldn’t miss or ignore them.

Yes, it was my new partner, Simon, who’s just a little older than me, who explained the meaning of the term to me. He laughed at some of my complaints about one or two of the older boys in my classes, whistling and making anonymous double-entendre comments when my back was turned. He tried to calm me, pointing out that they were just doing what hot-blooded young men normally do when in the throes of sexual arousal. In fact, it seems the idea of young men lusting over me in school turned him on so much he enthusiastically quizzed me about it, explaining that I should relax and take such attention as a compliment.

Indeed, that was the first night he incorporated me being sexually exploited by pupils into our pre-coital fantasies. At first I just went along with it—I’m as sexual as the next girl, and who isn’t immune to admiration? The awareness of being desired and lusted after from a distance, whether by lorry drivers, bricklayers or even vicars—I know, as I’ve been approached by all of those previously—is thrilling, even if you just brush it off at the time. But this was new to me and became an insidious awareness.

It was as if wherever I looked around the school, I would see snippets of graffiti, some old and faded, some fresh, and too often with MILF and my name linked. How could I have lived in ignorance of this for so long? In a perverse sort of a way, I grew to find it flattering.

Maybe, as Simon expanded our bed-time fantasies into more bizarre scenarios, and had me screaming for a good fucking, I admit that I started to play up to it a bit. In fact, now that I think about it, you might say I began unconsciously acting out the role.

I found myself paying more attention to my appearance before school, especially if I was taking the upper-sixth classes. Sometimes, I might look at myself in the mirror before leaving home and even ask Simon if I was showing a bit too much thigh. Of course, once the weather improved and my bras became flimsier, I wondered if my nipples were protruding too much. Like the Big Bad Wolf, Simon would just grin and lick his lips, and assure me that my appearance was perfect and that it would provide plenty of wanking material for the boys when they got home. Strangely, before long, even his comments such as this were beginning to turn me on.

But now, the five minutes were up. It was time to go. After checking my makeup, I stepped out of the car and straightened my light overcoat and fine black scarf just so that my heavily exposed cleavage wasn’t too noticeable when I walked through the pub doors. I clenched my fists, pressed the remote-locking key and set off.

Though we had fantasised about such a possibility in tipsy, erotic discussions previously, Simon had arranged this meeting, without telling me, by advertising online. Just a secret, erotic adventure, he said.

He showed me the ad title: "Startlingly Sexy MILF, recently-separated, requires discreet attention from two young well-mannered attractive men". He included a real, though anonymised photograph of me holding my naked breasts in a 'what-you-see-is-what-you-get-type' offering-pose, one of a number he had taken of me early in our relationship. It was a terrific photo, I must admit. When he showed it to me and told me his plan I made suitable enthusiastic noises, despite having reservations. But, it was what he wanted—it turned him on, and turning him on, turned me on. Fundamentally, though, I must admit it made me horny just being aware that the image was out there on the web being ogled by thousands.

We were inundated with offers from single males, male/female couples and even a few lesbians—but no pairs of younger guys. So he ran the advert again, being more specific and requesting that any single guys might mention if they would have a friend they might introduce, so to speak. This was only slightly more successful. Obviously, younger men don’t like to admit to their friends that they answer these sort of adverts.

Finally, we settled on two. Their photos were good—no tattoos or piercings—I can’t stand those. The pair we chose were both early twenties, both single, and lived over fifty miles away (being a teacher, I couldn’t run the risk of being recognised). Simon even set up a one-way video with them on Skype—I could see and hear them, but they could only hear me.

This didn’t seem to matter to them though. They responded well to the sound of my contrived husky voice as we talked dirty, while encouraging them to let me check their cocks out on-screen. I went along with their urgings to bring myself off as they wanked themselves dementedly. It was a magnificent feeling of control, giving these young men orders while painting a word-picture for them of being buried up me. When I did orgasm I didn’t actually see them shoot, as by this time Simon was pounding deep inside me as I screamed to completion.

But at least I knew what they looked like, and as I approached the pub doorway I mentally shook myself with the reassurance that I was the drop-dead gorgeous MILF that they’d been drooling over. I was older. I was in charge. And, most importantly, I was safe, since, unknown to them, Simon would be watching over me from a distance.

Immediately I entered I saw them, and noticed their wide-eyed reaction. Yes, they were impressed. I walked straight up to them in the quiet corner of the bar where they had agreed to meet and addressed them by their first names: Jim and Pat. They separated, offering me a stool at the bar between them.

“You’ve kept it warm for me, I see. Thank you,” I said to Jim, who had been sitting on it.
He glanced down at my legs and my short skirt which now allowed glimpses of my black suspenders and stocking-tops to peek out. “Of course, we wouldn’t want you to be cooling down too much in that department, Lizzie,” he said with a big open smile, before turning to the bartender and ordering me a drink.

A bit cheeky, I thought to myself. But hey, they’re possibly going to be a lot more intimate that that before long. They bought me drinks as we chatted and they did as much physically as they could get away with in the barroom setting. They took turns furtively feeling me up, using the other as cover; stroking my breasts, arranging themselves around me so that I could give them mini-wanks through the cloth of their trousers. They were bursting to get down to business, and, as they were two good-looking young men, I could feel their enthusiasm mirroring wetly between my legs.

The agreement we had was that we would meet face-to-face in the pub, and if we hit it off we could go out to my people-carrier and have a session in the back seat. Let’s face it, who doesn’t like a fuck in the back of a car?
All this time, Simon was just a little further down the bar, still within hearing distance, but studiously ignoring us. Then Jim excused himself to go to the loo. By now, I’d had a few drinks and was feeling quite tiddly, so I stage-whispered to him, “Just do what you need to do when you’re in there, Jim. I don’t want you getting too excited, beating off and wasting any. Remember, I want the full bukkake this evening.”

I almost shocked myself – a month ago, this was another term I’d never heard, nor knew what it meant. However, having strangers ejaculate onto my tits, face and hair, was now a standard theme in Simon’s fantasies and I’d learned to anticipate it with erotic excitement.

As Jim leaned back to whisper, “You are one dirty fucking whore. I can’t wait till you’re jiggling on the end of my cock.” He stuck the fingers of his right hand deep into my now soaking cunt, withdrew them and stroked the side of my face with his wet fingers, before walking off.

Alone with Pat now, I noticed he had a quizzical look on his face that I hadn’t noticed before. He leaned forward, his hand on my bare thigh. “Lizzie, what’s your second name? What do you do?”

“That’s one thing you don’t need to know, sweetie.”

He was staring at me differently now. “Yes, sorry,” he said. “But it was just the way, and the tone of voice you used with Jim. You ordered him—and it all came back to me. A sexy teacher I had when I was late-teens. A Mrs Sanders: she taught English down in Robertson High School. I only had her for a short time, but every boy in the school fantasised about her—so she was pretty unforgettable.

I said nothing, just dismissed his comment with a shake of my head.

He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “No . . . I’m sure now . . . Lizzie, it is you—you are Mrs Sanders!” He had nailed me, and he knew it when I started to stutter from embarrassment.

I continued denying it, of course, just his word against mine. Until Jim came back—turns out he had spent time in my school as well. I never taught him, so I didn’t know his face. But once he heard the name Sanders, his eyes lit up in realization.

Suddenly, Jim took control. “Let’s go, Lizzie Sanders.” He took me by the elbow; his strength surprising me as he eased me from the stool and they escorted me out, arm in arm.

“We’ve wasted enough time here, Lizzie, and although we agreed on Skype to take it a step at a time, maybe have a session in the back of your car—I think as old school friends we could move on from that a bit. I’ve got a flat about five miles down the road. Let’s go down there and get down to some real fucking before we drop you back later.”

I felt as though I was being frogmarched out, though Simon later told me that I looked as though I was being perfectly amenable. I didn’t dare turn around to look to see what he was doing as they led me to their car. Jim drove, telling me to get into the back with Pat in the meantime. By the time we were out of the car park Pat was mauling my tits and exploring my vagina with his fingers, all the time, exclaiming in amazement that here they were, after all these years, going to spend the night fucking the arse off the gorgeous Mrs Sanders. They whooped and hollered in this fashion until they drew up at a small apartment block. They warned me to be quiet till we got inside, they didn’t want to disturb the neighbours. “Just yet,” Jim added, with a laugh.

So, as quietly as I could, I clip-clopped in my high heels down the side of the building in the semi-darkness—almost tripping over two big chromed brutes of motorcycles parked in the shelter of the upper stairway. Jim opened the last ground-floor unit at the rear and ushered us in.

He took my coat and stood back to evaluate my now-dishevelled condition. “Never seen anything sexier or dirtier in my whole life!” he said to his friend. I caught a glimpse of myself in a thin three-foot wall mirror, and was torn between agreeing with him and concern. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. They were to fuck me either in the car or on the bonnet and say "wham bam, thank you, Mam" while Simon watched it all from the bushes and we all went our merry way. When Jim walked over to the kitchen I wondered why he hadn’t offered me another drink, but all he returned with was a roll of transparent cling-wrap.
“What’s that for?” I just managed to say, when Pat grabbed me from behind and Jim expertly slipped it over the bottom of my face, covering my mouth. He stuck a breathing-hole in it, explaining, “Just so you don’t make too much noise!” before pushing me and Pat into the bedroom where we all landed on the bed.

It wasn’t rape. I enjoyed every minute of it. The build-up had been long, and my cunt was streaming before we even left the pub. Pat was the first one in me and the first one to come. Then Jim rode me—and rode me—and rode me. Just before he climaxed he pulled out and grabbed my clingfilmed face and shot a glutinous load all over it. By now the only clothes that were still on me were my ripped stockings, my suspender-belt and high-heels (I wasn’t allowed to take those off). I was beginning to feel more in control now that the two boys had emptied themselves. I thought I’d tease them a bit before they left me back to the car.

I lifted a finger to my plastic gag and ripped it enough to be able to converse, yet not too much to ruin the erotic bondage element of it that had turned me on. “How much longer will I have to wait for the full bukkake I was promised?” I croaked.

Without an answer, Jim wrapped the film around my wrists and fastened them to the top of the bed. Again, this wasn’t unduly alarming, but I was wondering what Pat was doing when he left the bedroom. I didn’t have long to wonder; the front doorbell went dingdong. At first I thought, Simon? But the sight of two six foot something biker giants standing at the foot of the bed, eyes popping, answered my question.

“Let me introduce you to an old teacher of ours,” Jim said to them with a laugh.

“Whoa, man! How did you get her?”

“She found us, believe it or not, guys! Advertised online for young guys to fuck her . . .”

Pat interrupted. “Can’t understand it! When we were at school, there’d be a line around the block dying to ride her . . .”

“Maybe she’s done them all, already!” the most heavily tattooed biker said. He leaned over the bed, placed his hands between my knees and spread them. He slipped a handful of fingers into me. “In that condition, it would be like sticking my dick up a flooded alleyway,” he sneered, grabbing a sheet and swabbing me dry between my legs.

Things had now changed—I had a strong distaste for everything this man symbolised: tattoos, piercings, obesity, motorbikes and bad manners. If this went any further—now this would be rape.

The other biker, who must’ve been about fifty, had already opened his trousers and was pumping away at his highly decorated appendage. As it grew, I could see it had been designed as a Chinese dragon with glittering studs around where its teeth would be. Spikes stuck out from the top of the base. Jesus, it would rip a clitoris to bits!

He addressed the young men, “What about the rear entry? Anybody lubed her up there?”

“No!” I shouted through the film. “I don’t do that! You’re going too far! I didn’t agree to this! Take me home!”

“Calm down, Mrs Sanders! We’re only giving you what you requested—a fucking night to remember! And one thing you need to remember is that we’ve got plenty of phone photos of you enthusiastically fucking and being fucked. And you wouldn’t want those finding their way into any of your student’s hands, would you?” Jim said.

“Maybe that would be right up her street!” Dragon Dick laughed. He turned and left the bedroom, returning a moment later with a half-empty plastic bottle of washing-up liquid. “Turn her over,” he ordered the boys. “I’ll get you a new bottle in the morning.”

Freeing my wrists, the three of them manhandled me onto my front with ease despite my struggles. They had me on my knees and elbows as I felt him position himself between my thighs. His rough jeans and chains rasped against my tattered stockings as I felt the plastic nozzle stuffed into my anus and he squeezed. My muffled protests were being ignored.

“Relax, Lizzie!” he warned. “You don’t want Puff the Magic Dragon ripping your arsehole out, do you? Just suck him in and go along for the ride!” His big hand smacked viciously across my rear as he plunged it in. He grabbed my suspender belt like reins and started to ass-rape me.

“Ride her, cowboy!” “What a fucking goer!” Take it up you, Lizzie!” and a million other exhortations and phone flashes peppered the next few minutes as the brute emptied his balls up me. As he pulled out, he literally threw me from him, onto my face. I sank into the bed with relief, my anus feeling strangely stretched and numb but otherwise fine.

“Good, for a first-timer,” he said to the others. “Make sure you’ve got a good stash of photos and video on her. I look forward to turning her into a real biker-slave over the next few weeks.”

“Don’t worry, Puff. She’s ours . . . nobody else knows where she is or what she’s doing.”

I had to speak. “But . . . I need to get home . . . my babysitter is expecting me back. She’ll be worried if . . .”

Puff guffawed. “A Fucking babysitter! Wouldn’t mind splitting a tight young babysitter, right now. Maybe we should throw her on the back of the Harley, take her home and have babysitter cunt for dessert!”

They all laughed as if this was uproarious. I felt embarrassedly middle-class.

By now Pat and Jim were standing by the bed either side of me, stroking themselves.

Jim said, “Some other night, Puff. We promised to take her back to her car after we gave her the good cum-facial she’s been gagging for. Though after watching you ream her out, I think I’ll ass-fuck her instead—if she’s not too raw after you!”

“Knock yourself out, Jim-boy. Her arse can take it, especially as I powdered my dick and her arsehole with some coke—she’ll be feeling no pain!"

I was still on my knees, as Jim knelt on the bed behind me and stuck his cock in, gripping my hips and pulling me onto him like a boot. Puff was right. There was no pain, just a not-unpleasant fizzing sensation as Jim started to ride me. He pulled my hair, which had been hanging around my face, into a sort of ponytail, stretching my head back. The others gathered around pulling at my tits or stretching down to my cunt as they wanked themselves towards me. As he pumped me, I could feel Jim building to climax; Jesus, I could even feel my own excitement building. I started to scream and felt Jim wrench harder on my hair and my cling-film gag as we both erupted into orgasm together, quickly followed by spurts of ejaculate on my face, hair and shoulders as the others started to shoot.

Boy, was I a mess as the two guys dropped me back to the car? I desperately needed a shower and couldn’t risk being seen with the state of my clothes, stockings and hair. My mascara-streaked face made me look like a member of the Alice Cooper Band. On top of that, I had been totally compromised.

They had checked my driver’s licence, and so had my address, used my phone to call theirs, so that they had my number, and even sent me photos of being fucked every-which-way, including one of a Chinese dragon entering my asshole. I didn’t know what to do. As they drove away, I staggered over to the car, blipping the remote. Before I reached the vehicle, Simon appeared from the bushes in front of his car, which had been parked beside mine.

I stopped as he approached, and opened my coat to reveal my condition, and watched his eyes widen like saucers. He ran to me and stopped short, holding me away to check the damage—or so I thought. No, he was feasting his eyes!

He grabbed my hand and pulled me over to where he had been concealed. He threw my coat onto the bonnet and leaned me over it, face down.

“I don’t know where you’ve been you whore, but you’ve certainly been enjoying yourself. It’s my turn now!”

As he bent me over he saw the state of my ass, lubricated in washing-up liquid and semen.

“You even let them fuck you up the arse!” he cried. “You wouldn’t let me!” At which point he stuck his cock hard into my ass, gripping my hair as Jim had done, and started to ass-rape me. No-one was more surprised than me when I started to orgasm before he did.

I waited in my car until Simon paid the babysitter and left her home. By the time he got back I had showered and thrown on a loose summer frock. After applying a little lipstick I thought I looked reasonably presentable. He was angry, of course. He thought I had just abandoned him; he’d been looking forward to watching me being fucked. To him it had been largely a waste of time, witnessing nothing and just being forced to imagine what I was enjoying. Though he did admit to being really turned on by my disastrous appearance when he saw me.

The truth of the matter had him verging between horror and excitement, as I related the night’s events. He couldn’t believe what he viewed in the photos that I showed him. But the bottom-line was that I had been exposed.

“What are we going to do? These people know who you are, where you live.”

“I don’t know what we can do. They promise they won’t say anything if I play along . . .” I stuttered.

“Play along? What does that mean?”

I shrugged. “Fuck them, I suppose.” I don’t know why I laughed as I added, “Puff plans to train me as his biker-slave. Says that once he breaks my anus in properly, I’ll really enjoy being fucked with cocaine stuffed up there.”

Simon sat speechless. The last hour’s conversation was making me think that he was more concerned that he had missed the most erotic evening of his life, rather than my entire professional world was being compromised.

I leaned forward and said quietly, “They’re coming over on Friday evening after the kids go off to spend the weekend with their dad. You can ask them yourself, then, if you like.”

“What! They’re coming here—all of them? Are you mad?”

“What can I do about it? I’ve no choice,” I said, tears pooling in my eyes. “To them, I'm effectively a biker-slave!”

Simon launched himself at me with madness in his eyes, toppling me onto the carpet.

“You’re my fucking slave, you cunt!’ he shouted. Pinning me to the floor, he ripped the dress top open, tore the light cotton pants I was wearing off me and, before I knew it, he was fucking deep and hard up my cunt.

I gripped him and egged him on, goading him with how I was going to drain the bikers’ balls with my anus while the young guys pounded my face and cunt.
“When they’re finished—maybe I’ll let you have a wank over me,” I spat at him. “But only when they’re finished!”

That’s when I broke into the most stupendous orgasm I’ve ever had. It started as a low scream building inside my loins, forcing Simon to pull a cushion over my mouth, escalating to near-epileptic spasms as I sucked him up me, ripping his back with my nails, as, in turn, he riveted me to the ground with the hammer-pound of his ejaculate.

Exhausted, we helped each other up to bed. What an evening, I thought as I snuggled in to sleep. Back to work tomorrow; upper-sixth class first thing, I remembered. As I drifted off I wondered what I might wear that might be sufficiently titillating without being too over the top. After all, I now knew for sure what absorbed most of these young men’s attention when I was addressing them in class. Yes, they wanted to fuck me—and as I slipped into dream world, I could think of a couple where the feeling could just possibly be mutual.


2017-03-17 15:17:52
I don't know if is the good story or the good writing, but I hope there are more stories to come. Thanks.

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