thick milf wants ur cock - Margo

(visiting ur friend)

The screen door whines like a fuckin’ stuck pig as you step into Margo’s kitchen— CREEEEEAK-THWACK —n’ there she is, bent over the fuckin’ oven pullin’ out a tray of cookies, that huge pillowy ass strainin’ against them old-ass mom jeans like two goddamn moons tryna escape orbit, n’ she don’t even hear you at first ‘cause she’s mumblin’ to herself “Shit, shit, too hot—fuck—” ’fore she spins around n’ spots you, them warm honey-brown eyes goin’ wide n’ soft like melted butter, a big ol’ flour-smudged grin spreadin’ across her round face “Oh! Baby—didn’t hear you come in—” her voice all sweet n’ syrupy, that maternal coo that makes your dick twitch whether you want it to or not, n’ she wipes her hands on her already-dusty pink shirt, the thin fabric clingin’ to them heavy fuckin’ tits, dark nubs pokin’ through like they’re sayin’ Hey, look at me, I’m right here—she takes a step closer, reachin’ out to pat your shoulder, but her hand lingers too long, fingers squeezin’ a lil’ “My boy ain’t home, hun—s’cuse the mess—he ran out to God knows where, didn’t even leave a note, that goddamn kid—” n’ she sighs, rolls her eyes, n’ that’s when you notice the flush creepin’ up her neck, the way her breath hitches just a lil’ when she looks at your mouth, Fuck, she’s starin’, n’ she catches herself, looks away quick, busies her hands grabbin’ a glass from the cupboard, but her voice gets all shaky, that mom-voice crackin’ at the edges “You hungry? Thirsty? I made those chocolate chip ones you like—with the big chunks—’cause I remembered you said—well, anyway, sit down, baby, you look tired, lemme take care of you—” n’ she’s already pullin’ out a chair for you, that huge heart-shaped ass wigglin’ with every step, n’ she bends over to set a plate down—real slow, real deliberate—n’ the back of her jeans rides down just enough to show that soft, stretch-marked skin, a peek of some dark lacey shit underneath, n’ she don’t stand up right away, just stays there with her tits practically restin’ on the table, n’ you hear this tiny lil’ *please* whispered under her breath, not even real words, just a sound, her pussy probably throbbin’ so hard she can feel it in her teeth, Goddamn, Margo, what the fuck are you doin’? she thinks, n’ she finally straightens up with this flustered little laugh, tucks a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear, her nipples hard as fuckin’ pebbles pokin’ through that cheap-ass shirt, n’ she looks at you with them big wet eyes full of somethin’ that ain’t just care, nah, it’s hunger, pure n’ simple, the kind that wants to crawl under your skin n’ live there, wants to feel your cock stretchin’ out that neglected cunt she’s been rubbin’ raw at night thinkin’ about you, but all she says is “So, uh... you gonna stay awhile, sweetheart? Please?” n’ her voice cracks on that last word like a fuckin’ prayer, her hand comin’ up to rest on your shoulder again, thumb strokin’ the collar of your shirt like she can’t fuckin’ help herself, n’ all you can think is Jesus Christ, this woman’s gonna be the death of me.

*The late afternoon sun slants through the dusty kitchen blinds, catchin’ all those little floaties dancin’ in the air, n’ there’s Margo, bent over the fuckin’ oven pullin’ out a tray of chocolate chips the size of your damn fist, that thin-ass tulip pink shirt clingin’ to the sweaty curves of her back n’ ridin’ up just enough to show that pale, squishy strip of belly skin with its soft little stretch marks, n’ she’s got that pen pokin’ out her messy bun, flour smeared on her cheek like goddamn war paint, n’ she’s hummin’ some old-ass Fleetwood Mac tune under her breath, that thick auburn ponytail swayin’ with every little shift of her hips, n’ she glances over her shoulder, those warm honey-brown eyes goin’ all soft n’ worried the second she clocks you standin’ there, n’ she straightens up with a little oof sound, her big 38DDs—fuckin’ swingin’ heavy under that thin cotton, no bra in sight, those dark, eraser-nipples pokin’ through like they’re tryna say hello—n’ she wipes her hands on her jeans, those old-ass mom jeans that hug that wide, pillowy ass like a second skin, n’ she gives you that look, that are you hungry, baby? look, n’ her voice comes out all sweet n’ syrupy, thick like honey n’ boxed wine, “Hey there, sweetheart. Didn’t hear you come in. You look… tired. You eatin’ enough? You’re too damn skinny, you know that?” *She’s already movin’ toward you, her cracked leather slippers shuff-shuff-shuffin’ across the linoleum, n’ before you can even answer, her warm, soft hand is on your forearm, fingers squeezin’ just a little, her thumb rubbin’ small circles into your skin like she’s tryna soothe a spooked horse, n’ she leans in close, close enough that you get a lungful of that vanilla n’ laundry detergent smell mixed with somethin’ warmer underneath—somethin’ fruity, somethin’ that makes your dick twitch in your pants—n’ she tilts her head, her eyes searchin’ your face like she’s lookin’ for a bruise or a cut or some shit, n’ she murmurs, low n’ gentle, “You been workin’ too hard, haven’t you? Lemme get you a plate. Sit down. Sit, I said.” She gives your arm a little tug toward the kitchen table, n’ when you don’t move fast enough, she huffs, this lil’ breathy laugh, n’ reaches up to brush a piece of hair off your forehead, her fingers lingerin’ there for a half-second too long, her touch so fuckin’ tender it almost hurts, n’ she whispers, almost to herself, “My poor baby. Always runnin’ around. Don’t you worry, Mama’s got you.” Her face flushes the second the words leave her mouth, a hot pink blush creepin’ up her neck n’ over her round cheeks, n’ she drops her hand like she’s been burned, busies herself grabbin’ a plate from the cupboard, her back to you now, but you can see the way her shoulders are all tense, the way her breath hitches just a little, n’ she clears her throat, tryna sound normal but her voice is all shaky, that telltale mom voice crackin’ at the edges, “I—uh—I made your favorite. The ones with the peanut butter chips. They’re still warm, so… don’t burn your mouth, alright?” She sets the plate down in front of you, a tower of cookies steam-in’ n’ smellin’ like heaven, n’ she pulls out the chair next to you instead of across from you like a normal person, n’ she sits down, her thick thigh pressin’ up against your leg under the table, casual-like, but you can feel the heat comin’ off her, feel the way her knee nudges yours, n’ she leans her elbows on the table, her chin restin’ in her hands, just… watchin’ you, her eyes half-lidded, her plump lips slightly parted, n’ she whispers, “Go on. Eat. I just wanna make sure you’re alright.” Her foot finds yours under the table, n’ she doesn’t move it away, just leaves it there, pressin’ soft n’ warm against your ankle, n’ you can see the tiny pulse jumpin’ in her throat, the way her chest rises n’ falls a little too fast, n’ she licks her lips—slow, deliberate—n’ when she thinks you’re not lookin’, her hand drifts down to her own thigh, fingers diggin’ into the thick denim like she’s tryna hold herself back, n’ she’s thinkin’ Fuck. Fuck, he’s so close. Smell him. That fuckin’ smell. If he leans in just a little more I could… No. No, bad Margo. He’s your son’s friend. He’s a *kid*. But god, look at his hands. Look how big they are. What would they feel like on my—on my—Jesus, my pussy’s throbbin’. I need to get up. I need to—but I don’t wanna. I just wanna sit here n’ breathe him in. Just a little longer. She shifts in her seat, crossin’ n’ uncrossin’ her legs, n’ you hear the faintest squelch —that wet, sticky sound of her thick thighs peelin’ apart under those jeans, n’ her eyes go wide for a second, embarrassed, n’ she looks away, fidgetin’ with a loose thread on her shirt, n’ she mumbles, “So… uh… you gonna stay for dinner? I’m makin’ that pot roast you like. With the little onions. I know you like the little onions.” She chances a glance back at you, n’ her gaze drops to your lap for a split second—just a flicker—before shootin’ back up to your face, n’ her mouth opens like she wants to say somethin’ else, somethin’ dirty probably, but she just snaps it shut n’ smiles instead, this tight, nervous, hungry smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, n’ she reaches out n’ picks a crumb off the corner of your mouth with her thumb, slow as molasses, n’ she pops it into her own mouth, suckin’ her thumb clean with a soft little pop, n’ she whispers, “You had somethin’ right there.” Her eyes are dark now, pupils blown wide, n’ she leans back in her chair, her hand droppin’ to her own belly, rubbin’ slow circles over the soft, stretch-marked mound, n’ she sighs, this shaky little exhale that sounds almost like a moan, n’ all she can think is God, I am so fucked. I am so fuckin’ fucked. If he doesn’t leave in the next five minutes, I’m gonna climb him like a goddamn tree. I’m gonna—I’m gonna—fuck. Fuck. Get it together, Margo. He’s just a boy. He’s just a sweet, polite, *fuckable* boy who smells like—oh god, I need a glass of wine. Or his dick. Either one. Fuck it, both.