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Five more different stories, five more different sexual situations, five more different mothers whom are caught by five more different sons doing things that moms should not be doing! This contains the second five books of Caught By My Son. This collection is offered for less than purchasing the books individually. 6. Blowing The Boys! Kim was raised by hippies, and she has always enjoyed teaching ballet- especially to boys. Her husband, a gruff refinery worker, dismisses her interests as liberal hogwash. Little does he know that she teaches more than dance in her studio- and little does Kim know that her special technique is about to discovered by her son! 7. Bowling Alley Bang! When Vanessa left New Jersey, she did not realize how much her life would change. The former waitress discovered a knack for real estate in the Volunteer State, even if she couldn't find the right man. When a client invites her to visit his new club in an old bowling alley, little did she know what she was getting into, or that her son was going to be getting into her! 8. Bred By Blacks! Bridget lost her first marriage when she gave birth to her obviously mixed daughter. Relocating to Utah, she has rebuilt her life as a Mormon wife. Her husband believes the lie that she is part Indian, and has no idea about her past. When he can't give her another baby, she decides to get bred by Black men. Problem is, her oldest son walks in on this- what will he demand for his silence? 9. Bribing A Cop! Jasmine doesn't like White people. When her husband left her for a White woman, it wrecked her life- she was forced to move back to Valdosta to try and keep her son out of trouble. This time, though, money isn't going to make his bond- how far will this Black mom go to save her son from the clutches of a racist Georgia cop? 10. Brutally Fucked! Ellen is the definition of kindness- as a special education teacher, her life revolves around helping others. Her secret? She wants to be taken, brutally fucked, and not by her soft spoken husband. When an online stranger orders her to a motel room, she accepts- but she soon discovers that he is not some stranger at all, but her son! Contains: Barely Legal, Bisexual, Black Woman, Breeding, Creampie, Dad Daughter, Dirty Cop, Dominant Man, Dominant Son, Forced Incest, Foursome, Gangbang, Group Sex, Interracial, Masturbation, MILF, Mom Son, Older Woman Younger Man, Pregnancy, Role Reversal, Spanking, Submission, Submissive Mom, Swingers, Swingers Club, Teacher Sex
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Liczba stron: 373
CHAPTER ONE Blowing The Boys!
CHAPTER TWO Bowling Alley Bang!
CHAPTER THREE Bred By Blacks!
CHAPTER FOUR Bribing A Cop!
CHAPTER FIVE Brutally Fucked!
CHAPTER SIX Other Books
Blowing The Boys!
Chapter One: Ballet On Ice
Everyone comes from a different family background.
Some people, like my husband, are born into very conservative families.
Scott was raised by parents who believe that Communism is the greatest threat to society (even today). My in laws are convinced that Russia is still the USSR, that the Democratic Party is run by a combination of Marxists and Anarchists, and that the reason the governor of their state was nearly recalled was due to some secret conspiracy between a coalition of greens, reds, and minorities. To them, the turbulence of the sixties was due to people simply wanting to get out of the responsibilities of life- and to them, these people now are the reason why society has problems. They see a bearded commie under every rock, and a foreign agent under every tree. Since they live in Wisconsin, they see a lot of these agents.
My parents, on the other hand, came from across the bay- and from a completely opposite tradition.
Just as Minnesota and Wisconsin share a border and a climate, but little else, the only thing our families seem to share is being of northern European ancestry.
My grandparents even supported Henry Wallace in his bid for the presidency, and my grandfather voted proudly for McGovern in 1972- as did my parents, who at the time were living on a commune in eastern Oregon. That’s where I was born- into that generations attempt to rebuild the structure of society in a more equal image. Though the commune, like most similar attempts before it, collapsed eventually and I moved home with my parents right before I began school, they have never abandoned their basic philosophies. They say that Germans, like my husbands family, are stubborn- well, we are Swedes, and we are just as stubborn in our own, opposite way.
I wasn’t raised in a world of church on Sunday and “sin” the rest of the week, I was raised with the idea that people are basically good. What makes people stray from this is not some dark conspiracy or being, but the idea that things are more important than other people. As I grew up, I can’t say that I didn’t have the normal arguments that all children have with their parents- that would be a lie- but I can say that our arguments were not full scale verbal and mental assaults. I never could accuse my parents of being hypocrites, then or now- they wanted the best for me, like all parents want for their children, but they did not expect me not to discover the world on my own.
I discovered early on that in addition to wearing tie die, and supporting every liberal candidate of my childhood from Carter to Dukakis, my parents truly did their own thing. They were never heavy duty drug addicts- my father always said that drugs that came from a factory were just as bad as weapons- but they did openly smoke pot. They still wore beaded clothing, even when Reagan was busy with the conservative “revolution” of the eighties, and they didn’t turn into yuppies like so many former hippies did.
The biggest thing, though, that really stuck out, were my parents were swingers. I didn’t know the word at the time, but I did know that they had parties sometimes where “friends” would stay over for a weekend or three days. None of my parents friends ever did anything inappropriate towards me- it wasn’t like that- but something always seemed a little strange about this. When I was in high school, and I started finding out about sex, I finally put two and two together. Both my father and my mother would sometimes have guests that joined them in their bedroom, and I even walked into their room once and found them in bed with another couple. They weren’t having sex, just sleeping, and I didn’t see anything physical between them, but I did notice that my mother was sleeping next to the other guy, and my father was sleeping next to the other woman that had joined them in their bed.
The biggest argument we had wasn’t about when I started dating- both of my parents told me that I was free to make my own choices when it came to things like boys and sex- but it was when I brought home Scott.
I was seventeen then, almost eighteen, and though I had been messing around with him for three months, I hadn’t yet introduced them.
In those days, Scott grew his black hair long, he wore a lot of leather, and he had a motorcycle.
He was different from most of the other boys in school. The first thing I noticed wasn’t his bike- it was his hair. It was long and unkempt, and it flowed behind him like a dark mane. He wasn’t one of the worst troublemakers in school, but he rejected the whole idea of trying to fit into the whole clique system of high school. He acted like he didn’t care what other people thought of him (something that made him similar to my parents), and he was genuine. I accepted a ride back from school on his bike, and soon we were “going steady.”
Bikers, like hippies, are “rebels”, but that doesn’t make them friends. Both don’t want anyone else telling them how to run their own lives, and both also don’t try and tell other people what to do, but that is where the similarity ends between the two groups- well, maybe that and the guys in both groups grow their hair long. Hippies may smoke pot and have parties too, but hippies are not obsessed with material things- bikers may live in a trailer and drive a thirty year old minivan, but their bike is usually their prize possession.
I am not saying that everyone who owns a bike is a bad person- I married a man who loves being on a motorcycle more than anything else in the world. What I am saying is that while both my parents and my husband believe in living by their own code, my husband’s personal views contrast with those of my parents (and those of myself).
Now, my husband isn’t a full time biker- he isn’t a member of some gang, though he does participate in a club (made up of people that get together and do runs). He works in the local oil refinery, a good paying job, and he has since he graduated from high school. The town we live in has been losing population for years- some of it is because of the brutal weather, and most of it is because of the lack of good paying jobs- but we are fortunate enough to not have to worry about the financial future. People will always need oil products, and though the refinery is one of the smaller operations, the asphalt it produces will always find a market.
I myself work two part time jobs. One is at a local bar- I work there about twenty hours or so a week, and while it does not make me a millionaire, it does allow me to pursue my other passion in life.
I love teaching dance- ballet mostly- and that is my main interest in life.
My parents encouraged this interest, and though I have never gone past the level of local performance myself, I have established my studio as a place for all the locals who want their children to learn one of the oldest forms of high end artistic expression.
I say children, because although ninety percent of my students are girls, I do encourage boys to get involved.
There has always been discrimination against males who love to dance, especially males who want to be in the ballet. True, many professional male ballet performers are gay- but not all. People seem to think that if a boy or a man has an interest in something like ballet or music, that he is something less than a man is supposed to be.
This, of course, is bullshit- people should be free to enjoy whatever it is that they like, irregardless of their gender or other characteristics. Even though most of the people in this area would consider themselves politically on the left, old ideas about female and male roles still affect their views of society. People may encourage their daughter to go to college herself and get a degree, but the same people seem aghast at the idea that their son would rather dance than play hockey.
In our marriage, this too has played a role.
My son, like most boys that are born and raised in the Great Lakes region, has always loved hockey. I didn’t really want my son to play this sport- though the injuries are usually not as bad as those in football, nonetheless, plenty of even the youngest players do lose teeth and break bones.
My husband was adamant that his son would get involved- maybe Scott doesn’t find much time outside of work to do anything but tinker around with his old Harley, but once Shane started playing on the ice, he suddenly found more time. My husband has never missed a game, whether it was in the Pee Wee League, or when my son was playing for our local high school team.
The one condition I had when I agreed to allow Shane to play, was that he also was going to be involved in ballet. He didn’t like the idea at first- and his team mates did make fun of him a little bit- but I refused to budge on this. If he had time to play a brutal sport in which violence was considered by many to be the best part of the game, than he could find the time to be involved in something that is graceful and artistic. I may not go so far as parents now who refuse to call their boy a boy, or who make their girls play with trucks, but by exposing my son to a completely different side of sport, than he would be able to decide for himself what he really likes and wants.
The other reason I pressured Scott into this, and Shane as well, is because ballet does need males to be involved. Since fewer and fewer males are willing to be in ballet, the quality of performances has decreased. This is why the best ballet in the world- the Bolshoi- holds it’s position at the top. Russia, a nation which also plays hockey and has a very aggressive culture, also loves ballet. If that hockey playing nation can embrace it, than our hockey playing region, can too.
My son, as he grew from a boy into a man, definitely preferred hockey- but the ballet lessons paid off for him.
They call Shane the “Graceful Giant”- granted, he was not the biggest one on his team (even though he stands a full six three and weighs a good two hundred twenty pounds of solid muscle), but learning the special techniques of ballet did help my son become a better skater. One of the best, in fact- hockey does have a lot of fights, and a good hockey player must know how to use his weight to his advantage, but skating ability is also a requisite. This is why my son is going to be playing for our local university in the fall- brutes can always be found, but a player who can literally skate circles around the other team is able to score with impunity.
I know that my sons’ size- which didn’t come from me or my husband, maybe from my grandfather- is a large part of it, but I like to think that the reason my son may eventually play in the NHL is because of my insistence in teaching him how to dance. Even Shane has privately admitted to me that he is glad I forced him to participate in my studio- the boys who laughed at him are now young men who are not going to college on a full ride scholarship like he is doing.
There is another reason I like having boys in my class- a reason that has nothing to do with sports, but with my own secret interests.
Chapter Two: Blessing Boys
I love to suck young cock.
Maybe I should be ashamed of myself- after all, I am a married mom, I am forty four years old, and known across the city- but nothing feels better than having a young man’s dick in my throat.
I don’t feel bad about it though, not at all- even though I am cheating on my husband, I still can’t make myself think that this is somehow morally wrong.
To me, true morals are pretty basic. Treat people the way you want to be treated. Maybe you think this is hypocritical- after all, my husband does not know what I have been doing for the last few years- but if I found out that Scott was getting a little action on the side, I can honestly say it would not bother me.
Everything else- from telling people that they must behave a certain way, or that it is wrong for consenting adults to choose their own life and sexual partners- is bullshit. What is even worse is not that so-called social conservatives believe this, but that a lot of people who claim they are liberal still subscribe to this idea. They want to tell others what to do, too- they may support gay marriage, for example, but that is because they think that everyone should follow the traditional path of monogamy.
Maybe it is because I was raised differently.
Even though a fair number of people now are swingers- a lot more than were in the time when I was growing up- still, most people think that there is something wrong with people who openly have sex with others. They think that because a person admits to enjoying more than one person sexually, than that person is somehow lacking as a human being. My in laws somehow figured out that my parents were swingers, and while they never said anything about it to them directly, they had no qualms about letting my husband know that they consider my mom and dad to be perverted. Never mind the fact , of course, that my father in law had an affair for years with a woman who lives over in Oulu, Wisconsin.
First of all, sex and love are not the same thing.
Despite our differences, I do love my husband. I will never leave him. He has gotten older, and he has put on weight- his long black hair is now a fringe around his bald head- but I am not the girl I was when I married him either. Yes, being with someone for decades is trying- not only are two people always different, over time these differences can become more and more obvious. I still think that I chose right to marry him, and I have no intentions of divorce or separation. He really is the only man that I love in a romantic way, though he has his faults- as do I.
When it comes to sex, that is a whole different thing.
For the first ten years of our marriage, I was as faithful to Scott as I think he is to me- he was only the second man I had been with, but I did what a wife is supposed to do. Yes, as he spent more and more time at work, and as I spent more time working at the bar, I was approached by many men of different ages. I looked- anyone who says they don’t look is lying- but I never touched. It was fun to flirt with other guys, and I am sure that when I am not there, my husband does the same thing.
If you eat even the best steak every night, after a while, the taste of it gets bland in your mouth.
Scott is not small in the cock department- a good solid seven and a half inches, maybe not some porn sized dong, but more than enough to make me feel like a woman when he is fucking me. Yes, we don’t have sex as much as we used to, but we still manage to fuck at least two or three times a month. I have looked at the surveys, and this is a lot more than most people who have been together for a quarter of a century. I can’t say that our sex life is terrible. I don’t always get off with him, but that’s normal- some women never get off with their partner.
So why did I start cheating on him, if you want to call it that?
Women cheat for a variety of reasons- sometimes, it is simply a desire to try something that is different (such as being with a Black man, or maybe with a man that is much older), other times it is because the husband is no longer interested in sex. There are just as many men who lose their sex drive over time, as their are women who lose interest in physical passion. Many times, it is because of romantic issues- a woman who feels unappreciated in her relationship will seek reinforcement from someone else.
With me, part of it was boredom, and part of it was wanting something different.
Being with only two men, I always wondered what it would be like to try someone else- I think this is a natural desire. Scott claimed he had been with five girls before me- maybe this is true, maybe not (men tend to exaggerate the number of their conquests)- but I had only been with one man before him, and that was simply a one time incidental thing that just seemed to happen randomly. I didn’t feel jealous that he got to be with more people, as much as I wondered what it would be like to try other guys.
The first time it happened was right after I started my dance studio.
I was closing up for the night, when my first male student came to me with a question.
Like me, he was from a liberal family- and unlike my son, he really did have a natural interest in ballet on his own. His mother hadn’t pushed him into it, it was something that he wanted to try. He was good at it- the productions I put soon came to depend on his natural male strength, and he was the keystone of the show half of the time. He was planning on moving to Chicago for college, but if he wanted to be a professional, there was a chance that he may succeed.
That said, he was being picked on by his classmates across the bay when they found out where he was spending three evenings a week. At eighteen, he had never had a girlfriend- and as he opened up to me, in the little office that was at the back of the gym, he told me he was convinced that it was because it was well known that he was a dancer. The guys he went to school with called him gay, and even some of the girls thought that he must be if he put on tights and pirouetted around a gym in his free time. Lastly, he was convinced that he was deficient in the size of his cock. Maybe it sounds weird that a male student would talk to me like this- but dance is an intimate expression of one’s feelings, and as a teacher, a lot of my students feel more comfortable in talking to me about things than they do with any other adults/
Many women always think that they are fat, even when they are not- and many men are convinced that they are lacking in what they are carrying between their legs.
I knew that this was bullshit- the costumes that ballet require make little effort to hide a man’s private parts. He was an okay looking kid- maybe a little on the short side, and maybe a little slight in build- but having a small dick was not one of his problems. As his teacher, I did not want to come out and say it like that- I would be crossing a line by doing so- so I simply told him that he was going through the same thing all boys go through.
He was convinced of his own inadequacy, though, and though I knew it was wrong to let the conversation go to this level- even though he was an adult- I felt a need to reassure him that he was perfectly normal. Anyone who was considering throwing away natural talent, simply because some asshole had something smart to say, needs to be reassured before they abandon their skill. When he was not convinced, after ten minutes of this discussion, I finally told him to show me his cock- I was an older woman, as I told him, so I would know if he was normal or not. Though I had only seen two cocks before, he did not know that.
He not only was far from small, the young piece of man meat that he carried was simply huge- a full eight inches and thick, with a large pinkish-purple head. I stared at his cock for a long moment.
This was not a student, or some boy that stood before me, but an eighteen year old who was hung- and as my eyes took him in, from the base of his shaft to the very tip of his dick, and his two large swollen balls, my interest was no longer in simply convincing him that he was normal and should remain in my class. Without another word on the subject, I knelt before him, and I took him into my mouth.
That was how I started doing what I love doing- sucking off young men- and since that first time, boys who stick with my class and prove that they are both trustworthy get a very nice surprise from me once they turn eighteen. While I have not succeeded in convincing more than a handful of males over the years to join my class, those who have almost always find out why mature women are known for appreciating a cock.
I have never let any of these boys actually fuck me- with each new one that I take into my mouth, the thought does cross my mind, and sometimes I really do have to fight the urge. I limit myself to oral pleasure with them. Of the dozen or so that I have pleasured this way, only two have insisted on returning the favor. I love having my pussy eaten, but it is more than just the act of feeling a young cock in my mouth that turns me on so much.
It is the feeling of ultimate control, of the fact that I am making a young man feel sure of himself while I am molding him like putty with my hands, tongue, and lips. A woman who does not like sucking cock does not know what she is missing. Some women say that it is demeaning, that there is something wrong with submitting to a man in such a way- they do not know that when a man’s dick is in your mouth, you are the one who is in complete control.
So far, none of my activities have come back to bite me in the ass.
It can be dangerous to mess around with barely legal boys- yes, as long as I know that they are eighteen, I do not have to worry about the legal consequences, but young men are not always the most reliable when it comes down to keeping their mouths shut. This is why I have not given head to all of my male students- I make sure that the young man I am blessing is someone that is mature enough to keep a secret a secret.
Luckily, nobody except me and them has known what my secret to retaining male students has been all these years. Not all the boys that pass through on their way to becoming men love ballet as much as I do, true, and maybe some only stick around because I suck them off, but so what?
I have a need of mine fulfilled- the need to suck cock, and the need to be something between a lover and a teacher- and they too get the reassurance they will need as they leave home and go on to wherever their lives end up taking them. A man needs confidence above everything else, and that is the greatest gift that I give these lucky students of mine- a blowjob at most lasts a few minutes, but having self assurance lasts a lifetime.
Chapter Three: Dancing In The Gym
“Ok, class, very good,” I said, dismissing my group of students- seven girls and one boy- by tapping my instructor’s wand on the railing of the old gym, “That will be enough for today.”
This year’s advanced class- a group that was made up mostly of soon to graduate students- was a little smaller than I liked. Granted, I did manage to have one boy in my class- Bobby- but he was not a boy that I would have trusted to give my specialized instruction to. Plus, from what I could tell, Bobby was into the same thing I was into- being a male in a group of females quickly shows where a guy’s interests lie, even without any words being spoken. A straight man would dominate, or at least attempt to dominate, the group and waste a fair amount of time flirting- whereas a guy who was not straight at all was going to be the biggest chatterbox in the gym. Alas, Bobby fit this second category, so even if I thought for a moment that he could keep his mouth shut, I doubted he wanted what I had to offer.
After the last of my students left, I looked around the old gym floor.
My studio was located in an area of town that had been in a long process of decline- our city had reached the apex of it’s population a century ago, and since then, it had been dying a slow death on the vine. In my class, five of my eight students had already mentioned that they were attending various colleges out of state- the other three still had more years to decide, but if even one of them chose to stay here, I would have been surprised.
I kept the lights on in the studio through my class fees, but the money I made all went back into keeping the place up. Though my rent hadn’t been raised in a decade- the landlord wanted to keep me as a tenant- everything else does go up in price. Even the cleaning service that I hired to keep the place spotless was now charging twice what they did when Obama was still president. I hadn’t started this studio to become a millionaire- performance art, like all art, exists not for money’s sake but for that of it’s own beauty- but I did not like the fact that the only money I actually had came from my tips at the restaurant, not from my business.
Scott kept telling me that maybe it was time to consider throwing in the towel, or at least stop accepting new students.
My husband has never appreciated any type of art, and he tolerated my interest more than supported it- he may not attack me for being a ballet teacher, but it was obvious in the look in his face and the tone in his voice that he considered this as important to life as the price of tea in China. Thanks to his attitude, I was even more adamant that I was not going to let my little studio shut it’s doors- as long as I had any way to keep it afloat.
After I shut the door, I sat down in the little office with it’s two old grey steel filing cabinets, and an equally battered desk that had been bought from an estate sale- yes, tonight Scott was working a double shift. The little fire at the refinery had been played off in the media as being far less damaging than it actually was, but my husband was a key employee and he told me the truth. The company was facing a federal investigation, and the Canadian owners were going to have to make some upgrades or find yet another buyer for the plant. Scott would be busy tonight in one of the many safety courses that everyone was forced now to take.
Really, it’s too bad about Bobby.
It had been a year since I had been able to indulge in my other hobby- since the last trustworthy boy had graduated, and left to pursue his future in the North Dakota oilfields- and tonight would have been perfect for some fresh young cock. Yes, my husband would be busy until one or two AM, and my own son was off enjoying his last summer before he too started college- I was glad that he was choosing to go to school across the bay, and not somewhere across the country, but for the summer at least I had the house all to myself. It isn’t fun being alone when you are a social person, and it isn’t joyful to have a craving that you cannot fulfill.
A craving for the feeling of some hard young dick in my mouth.
I sat down in the soft brown leather office chair- a relic of the building, it had been here like the cabinets when I moved in, and the old upholstery stunk of both cigars and male sweat. No amount of perfume, of air freshener, or anything else could remove decades of soaking in cigar smoke and sweat from a man’s body. Before this had been a dance studio, this gym had trained underground fighters- street kids from Chicago and Milwaukee who were sent up here to both learn how to fight, and to keep their mouths shut in public. It’s a pretty bleak forecast when even the organized crime people decide to abandon a city.
That didn’t mean that we didn’t have criminals, of course- the bridge ensured that some of more enterprising criminals made their way across daily, and what once had been a busy commercial street was now home to many people of various stripes. Not all are bad of course, and this isn’t a big city, but if you left your car unlocked, there was a good chance that it would be stolen. Even if you left it locked, there was still a fair chance that someone would smash a window to see what they could grab from you.
I sound like one of these hard on crime people.
Funny, the states with the harshest laws, still have the most crimes, isn’t it?
There are better things to think about then all the world’s issues- I still wish things were better for all people, but the idealism of youth is tempered both by experience and wisdom (the result usually of making bad choices). I can’t change the world, or even the fact that this city is declining, but I can still teach dance to those who are interested.
And I can still make young men look at me.
Well, as long as they weren’t men like Bobby!
At forty four, I think I have aged well.
I am five foot eight, on the taller side for a woman, and even though I am a mother, I managed to lose the “baby weight” that comes with pregnancy. Yes, I am not a size three like I used to be, but I haven’t blown up, either- maybe I am 135, maybe 140, but I can still fit most of my clothes from ten years ago with ease. I am not bone thin anymore like I was when I was a younger woman, but the weight I have gained has added to my body in the right places- maybe I am not big breasted, but my girls have held up well, two solid B’s in size, and having a little more meat on my backside does seem to draw more male attention.
When I serve tables in the morning, I see guys that are from eighteen to eighty looking at me- no, I am not a beauty queen, but I like to think that the fact that I practice as well as teach ballet has something to do with it. Dance may not bulk a person’s body up, but it does require grace- and having proper grace requires having strong, limber legs and arms, even if they are not wide like those of a field hockey player or a volleyball star. My body fills out my tights and leotards well, and when we do have recitals, I have noticed that some fathers have trouble paying attention to their own little star of the show.
My face does show that I am no longer a girl. Unless you have the right amount of money, nobody can avoid all of the natural affects of aging- a slight wrinkle in my brow here, a little mark of tiredness under my eyes when I have had a long day- but I like to think that I am still considered pretty. I don’t have to try and pretend to be thirty- yes, like all women, there are things I might alter or change slightly (that is why I dye my hair a shade of platinum blonde, even if my dark roots still show)- but I think I have grown into my womanhood well. I am happy, mostly, with how I look.
Rising from my place behind the desk, I decided to do my own nightly routine- a special workout that isn’t ballet, as much as it is grinding and moving intensely to loud rap music.
I turned on the speakers- in another two hours, the noise ordinance (a result of having a “law and order” mayor), would demand that I keep it down, but for right now, I could enjoy the rythmic beat as loud as I wanted. Once the sounds of Biggie Smalls filled the old gym floor, I began my routine.
First, I begin my routine by doing something similar to a short run- dashes from the south end of the gym, to the north end. I don’t really call it running laps, more like short sprints, but this loosens me up, and gets the blood flowing. I took off my Salvatore Ferragamo flats- a gift last Christmas from my husband- and I started by running in stockinged feet, careful not to slip and skid across the smooth floor. Running in stockings is an art into itself- you have to keep from falling, as silken fabric was not designed to interact with wooden gym tiles.
After ten such bursts, back and forth between the two walls, I was dripping with sweat, as the dead New York rapper discussed a drug deal gone bad. Grabbing my towel from the railing, I wiped the sweat off my brow, and I looked myself in the mirror.
My nipples were pressing against the blue fabric of the lacy dress-like costume I wore- today we had been rehearsing parts for our annual rendition of Swan Lake, and I was wearing the outfit that I wore when we would hold the performance. I enjoyed the looks of the male members of the audience, but the show was not about me- I wanted the collection of parents and other relatives to realize that this was high art, not just a group of secondary school students mimicking professionals in Chicago or Cleveland. Plus, some of the women in the audience- usually the more unattractive ones, but not always- gave me an attitude because they were jealous of my thin built frame. As much as I liked the idea of their husbands lusting after me- and as much as they may be the ones who really benefited later on in the evening, when their husbands went to be with them- making enemies of people who write the checks is not a good policy.
I looked in the full length mirror than ran the wall of the gym- yes, I was soaked, and the fabric of the garment now clung to my body almost as tight as any standard Lycra leotard would have done. I was definitely going to have to get it dry cleaned, but still, getting it even wetter and dirtier was probably not a good idea- modern cleaners can work miracles, but even they have their limits.
The last thing I need is for it to smell like that old chair- and I can’t afford to replace it right now.
I still wanted to keep working out- the next part of my routine, a collection of special stretches that kept my legs toned- was very important, but this garment had to come off.
Nudity was not something that was ever condemned in my family, but living with Scott, I quickly learned that not all people are so comfortable in their own skin as my parents were. Even when our son was too young to know the difference yet, Scott had told me to put a shirt when I breastfed him- or when I walked around the house. The off chance that some random person could see me naked was so off putting to him, that he harangued me about being topless so many times that I finally caved in. When I was at home, I didn’t even leave the bathroom without being fully clothed.
Here, though, I was alone- my last class was gone, and nobody but the mice maybe that lived in the walls would see me naked. I wouldn’t have cared if anyone did, really, but society tends to favor Scott’s ideas about nudity over my own.
I pulled down the straps of my dress, exposing the sweat glistened flesh of my neck and shoulders, and with a sigh, I stepped out of the blue garment completely. I wasn’t fully naked- I still wore my white silk stockings, with their dirty feet, that rose from the tips of my toes to right underneath my belly. They were called undercover stockings, and while they were not made to truly be underwear (the lips of my shaved pussy pushed clearly against them), wearing just the stockings would be considered risque to say the least. Especially since my breasts were now exposed, my two B sized girls, with their large pink nipples that were hardened from the exercise.
My hands involuntarily clutched them for a moment- my nipples were like little rocks, and as I fondled my flesh between my fingers, I felt a tingling in my pussy.
Yes, I wish I had some hard young cock right now.
Wishes don’t make things true- people wish all the time to win the lottery, and it doesn’t happen. While I was wishing for some tasty dick to suck, in the meantime, I had a workout to finish. Sighing again, I let go of my chest, and I turned from the mirror.
I nearly did a double take- their stood a former student of mine, Oliver, and another young man, who had somehow walked in without me noticing!
Chapter Four: Eating Double
“I told you, she is something else,” Oliver said, his eyes looking me over like a piece of meat.
Oliver had been one of my special students.
Like my son, he played hockey- and he also was a former student of mine.
Unlike my son, Oliver had not decided to go to college- instead, never being an academic, he had skipped over the preliminaries and had earned himself a spot on one of the many minor league hockey teams. Not on an AHL team- some third or fourth level team in the northeast, if I remember correctly- but that was still an accomplishment. Maybe he would make it up the ladder eventually, maybe he would not, but I liked to think that part of the reason he was getting paid to play his favorite sport was due to the four years he had spent in my studio.
And the year he had spent as one of my “boys”.
I looked at my former student.
Two years as a minor league hockey player had added some weight to his frame- he had left school on the thin side, and like a lot of men, he still did some growing between eighteen and twenty. Now his frame- an even six foot- might have weighed in at two hundred pounds. He was not a hulking prescence, as he stood before me, but under his jeans and jersey shirt I could see that he had put all the extra ounces on as muscle.
For some people, it is hard to lose weight- for Oliver, it had always been a struggle to gain it.
His cock had plenty of weight- a meaty shaft that was nearly a full eight inches, but super thick, so thick that it barely fit in my mature mouth.
In addition to gaining weight, I noticed that one of his front teeth was missing, and another one was clearly chipped- yes, two seasons had not only made him bulk up, but the fights had their affect on him as well. He was still not a bad looking young man- he smiled at me, messed up teeth or not, and I saw a familiar glint in his light blue eyes.
“I see you walked in on my exercise routine,” I said.
Being half- naked in front of these men did not make me suddenly bashful- Oliver was well acquainted with my secret habit- and the fact that he had brought along a friend did not change this. Oliver, unlike Bobby, was completely trustworthy- his mother had thanked me for broadening his horizons, with not a hint that she knew anything about what that included!
“So,” I said, looking at the second young man, “Does it surprise you to see a naked woman?”
This second man was a little shorter- maybe five ten- but he had the same build that Oliver had when he was my student, more on the rangy side, and the same light blue eye color. They did not look like brothers exactly, but I could tell that they were related- and that this young man did not go to the high school here on this side of the bay.
“Kind of,” the second youth said, “Not really something I was expecting…”
Wow, you are acting very casually mature for someone your age.
“Ms. Kim,” Oliver said, “This is my cousin, Lucas.”
“I can see the resemblance,” I observed, “So what can I do for you- for both of you?”
I was hot and sweaty from both my workout, and from the fact that I really wanted some hard young cock in my mouth- maybe these boys would be willing to provide me with what I needed?
I had always kept my dalliances one on one- it was hard enough getting one boy in each class, and with the exception of when my son was in my classes, I had never been blessed with two.
This can be a lot of fun, Kim.
A mental picture, of me kneeling before them like some wanton porno queen slut, with a cock in each hand filled my vision.
Two hard, young cocks, at the same time.
Would cousins taste the same- would Lucas be just as big as Oliver?
“I was telling Lucas about your classes,” Oliver said- this was no longer the lusty senior that he had been, but a man who was experienced enough that being around a sweaty topless woman did not make him miss a beat, “Lucas is a hockey player, like me, but he still has some trouble with skating.”
“Ballet is excellent for balance,” I said- just show me those cocks already!
I licked my lips- but before I committed myself to sucking off this stranger, I had to be sure that he would be able to keep my secret.
“You see how easily I run across the floor in stocking feet,” I said, “Of course, being on skates is different, but it still is a little more challenging than simply walking. So how much have you told him, Oliver?”
“Well, Ms. Kim,” Oliver said, “I did tell him about how you, ugh, liked to suck my cock. I know, you said I can’t tell anyone, but me and Lucas are more like brothers.”
If Oliver had told him, who else had he told?
I dismissed this natural concern- I glanced at his jeans, and I could tell that his cousin had an obvious erection. Maybe not a full on boner, but he was excited enough that his shaft stood clearly underneath the fabric of his pants.
“Well, Lucas,” I said, “Your cousin is right. I do love to suck the cocks of my male students. But only the cocks of my students. Normally I don’t start off like this, I like to get to know you first before I do that. Are you wanting to take ballet because you really want to learn how to move better, or just because you need a blowjob?”
No matter what he said, I was willing to suck his cock- but I don’t like being lied to. If he just wanted to feel my lips on him, than he needed to tell me.
“Really,” Lucas said, “I do want to learn.”
“Good,” I said, “I have room in my older beginners class- how old are you?”
Rules are rules, and whether they make sense or not, I wasn’t going to take the chance of ending up like so many women had been recently- losing their careers and their lives for doing something with an underage man. I say underage man, because most of the time the male in question was more than old enough to know what he wanted from a female, but the law sees it differently. Wisconsin is more conservative- and Minnesota, as in other things, is more realistic- but no matter what, I won’t go anywhere near someone who isn’t eighteen.
“Eighteen,” Lucas said- if he was lying, I would have been able to tell, but I knew that he said that with truth in his tone.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I asked.
For purposes of sex, that did not matter to me- I do have a husband, so what did I care if they had a girlfriend- but boys without girlfriends sometimes can get overly attached. I didn’t need him to think that simply because I was sucking his dick, that I was in love with him. This had only happened once, and fortunately, the boy involved had moved away with his parents across the country.
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