Sophie Sin's Classics #1 to #6 Page 2

  He put it to her mouth and pushed it inside. She moaned as it went deeper and coated her throat with jizz. It was uncomfortable, but going in. She could do this.

  Taking his cock in her hands, she put it in as far as she could. He put his hands on the back of her head and held it in until she was choking. It came out glistening and clean. She looked up into those black eyes.

  He smiled and nodded to Dick. She was going to keep her shop.

  “If you ever want to make a few bucks on the side sometime, let me know. I’ll pay for a second ride,” Dick said giving her his card.

  The others agreed and soon she had four different business cards sitting on her desk. She watched them leave. Four satisfied customers. She looked back at the cards. Maybe there was something to this. Why couldn’t she be a baker and get her goodies too?

  She grinned. That sounded like a very good idea indeed.

  Bonus Story 1: Milk and Coffee

  A very short standalone story not connected to anything.

  Starting Out Hard And Fast

  Where the date begins...

  She checked in the mirror. Red fabric stretched over abundant hips and a ton of cleavage up above. It was amazing what a little make up and feminine ingenuity could do for one’s appearance.

  She opened the door and welcomed his gaze.

  “Like what you see?”

  Round eyes surveyed the view (and what a view it was in her opinion). Tom had never been good at keeping his emotions in check. His hand shook slightly before he hid it in embarrassment in his pocket. Just what she had hoped for.

  “Umm… shall we go?”

  She motioned for him to come over.

  He stood obediently and quietly did so.

  “Oh!”

  Thick and ready. The poor boy must be biting at the bit.

  She was a generous date. A hand slid in and relaxed some tension in that blood filled mammoth.

  “Now?”

  She smiled. He was worried about messing up his pants. She could tell.

  She pulled his jeans down and let him free to find his peace in the air. She noted it contract and throb as she stroked and licked it. He was fast today. A few weeks of working that project 9 to midnight must have left him no time for ‘pursuing’ other activities.

  He tensed. His heals rose as she yanked violently on it. A white glob split the end of the little slit. She licked it away – just a little pre-cum. Nothing exciting yet.

  He started to thrust. She opened her mouth and let him use her head as he wished. Pounding deeply she felt it start to flow.

  A long ream of seed flowed down her throat. He held her there as he tensed and throbbed eagerly in her mouth. A big loud. She had to pull out.

  One last squirt coated her lips. She felt like she could have drowned in it with the amount she hastily tried to swallow flowing down her throat.

  Gulp, gulp. It took two to get it down. What a load!

  “God damn. I nearly drowned on it.”

  She wasn’t angry. In fact, she was ecstatic. Having a cum fetish was a hard thing with most men, where a second juicing meant a lighter load. That was why she loved Tom so much. His juice was always thick and filling.

  She wiped the rest into her mouth and relished the salty taste. A lot of woman didn’t like this, but she was the opposite. It was like the finest wine to her taste buds.

  He slumped down to the coach.

  “5 minutes ok.”

  He nodded dazedly.

  She went back into the bathroom. Things were already fantastic and they had a whole 5 more hours of anniversary time left. She wondered exactly what she could get up to in that time.

  The Date Continues

  The cafe was chic (sophisticatedly so). The booth secured them from the outside world like a bubble of peace in an otherwise chaotic world. Thankfully it was in the corner and open only to the bathroom, which with the minimal number of customers in tonight had been left virtually unattended.

  This had all started with her request for ‘some milk’ for her coffee. He had been about to call the waiter – foolish man. He had what she needed right here in his pants.

  She lazed side on as he spooned her from behind. Her inner battle not to cry out had led to his hand over her mouth. The guests next door chatted sweetly about their daughter’s success at university, unaware of the raw sex happening just next door.

  He took it slow and easy. Smooth strokes, lengthened for her pleasure, allowed minimal noise. There love making was hot and heavy, yet necessarily quiet.

  The intensity of the situation boiled deep in her pussy. Feminine parted lips accepted hard man meat willingly and with gusto as she boisterously ground her clit into submission.

  He pulled out and she sighed. Already?

  Tom had other plans. A pressure formed on her rear. Filthy man, what are you doing?

  A simple kiss was his only answer to her internal question. It slid in slowly. He was gentle, but insistent. This was going to happen here and now.

  His efforts culminated with his cock deep in her ass. Her butt was stretched to the max as he opened her rear for service. The smoky room blurred as the world receded into a heaven sent place she like to refer to as her “Fuck Place”.

  He took her then. Violently and dominantly he thrust – still long, but hard, pushing the boundaries of what the music would hide. She felt his insistence. Urgency filled her as she realized his excitement was leading to something more.

  She scooted off and grabbed his cock in one hand. Pumping, she waited in anticipation for him to unleash his pleasure into her waiting mouth.

  She watched as his face contracted. Soon. It was going to be a big one.

  The steamy load filled her mouth. She swallowed the first squirts. They were thick and tasty. Good quality well-cared for baby juice. She took his third and surprise fourth round and held it.

  He watched her as she stood up. Coffee cup under her mouth and cooling coffee waiting she stuck her tongue out and let it roll into the cup. The shock on his face was worth every moment of it. She sat down and hitched her skirt down. They were at a restaurant after all.

  He put his machine away and sat up.

  “You are one fucking crazy woman – you know that right?”

  She smiled. Clearly, she had outdone herself this time.

  A man clearing his throat made her look up.

  “I’m sorry, but I wondered if you might be interested in seeing the desert menu?”

  The waiter glanced at the half finished food.

  She took a sip of her coffee.

  “I have all I need right here thanks.”

  And she certainly did. Two mouth loads of cum, a well stretched ass and pussy, and coffee with more than enough cream. How could a girl be any happier?

  Bonus Story 2: Cheating With Her Mum

  (More MILF Book 1)

  This is a standalone short story and a part of the More MILF series. It contains a happy ending for the protagonist.

  Soft Cock City

  Frank Henderson, 25 years old, currently having the worst night of his life.

  Every man knows that the day his dick goes limp when fully and deeply in the wetness of a gorgeous woman's pussy is the day that his life has officially turned to crap.

  The gentle rolling shift of her trim hips are both arousing and soothing. There's the faintest swish of the naughty little red and black patterned skirt that she hasn't bothered to take off in our haste to get to the fun part. It licks over the skin of my thighs each time her hips roll forward towards my navel.

  Up top, things are bouncing in a delightful fashion. Her breasts are not small by anyone's measure of the word and the faintest hint of sex sweat is pungent in the air as a drop or two of clear liquid dribbles lazily down between her breasts to cross the trimness of her flat stomach to join the moisture at her crotch on this midsummer evening's night in my apartment in Florida's south.

  This gorgeous young woman of no less than 25 years of age –
only a month younger than myself – is my girlfriend Gemma and, my-my-my, is she one hell of a hotty.

  I mean, five-two, light brown eyes the color of cream-brown shoe polish, perfect white teeth and the genetics to be a super model (if a somewhat short one). She's everything a guy my age would and could want.

  Sad thing is: I don't want her.

  Not like she wants me to anyway.

  Her rocking slows and my double bed's creaking ceases for a fraction of a second. The faintest crinkle of her brown-blond tinted eyebrows signal that the game is up.

  I quickly bring my hands up to try and appease things by circling the finger tips of my middle and index fingers in long gentle strokes over her little button-rounds.

  For such big breasts, she sure does have tiny nipples. I push them slightly inwards, maybe a few millimeters or so, and those brown questing eyes of hers go to the white plastered roof – all sign of that considering frown gone – and a low restrained cry slips from between her red flushed lips.

  If only she wasn't who she is and was...

  I stifle the thought with rough efficiency. No point pining over something I can't have – something so forbidden, yet something I so desperately want, that even the thought of it sends little butterflies of desire through my firm lower stomach.

  Unfortunately at this point, down where it counts, I've finally crossed the point of no return. My dick has lost so much firmness that it's becoming truly obvious to all involved that I've successfully become a limp dick loser, as I'm sure my friends will call me if they ever hear about this.

  I'd always imagined myself as having a dick that was solid, strong, firm, upward pointing and masculine: All the good things that a dick should be. Today it's not living up to all that hype.

  Deep within the cave of Gemma's immaculate pussy, it is slowly receding in size like a balding man's hairline post-40. Soon it will be relocating itself among the tuft of trimmed pubic hair that cup the base of my shaft, relaxed in its rest against skin that is always faintly scented with a hint of good quality soap. This dick of mine is reliable – scratch that WAS reliable – but lately things have changed. It's her mo...

  “Are you getting soft?”

  My girl is on top. Her firm buttocks pat down on my thick and muscular thighs with soft and comforting slaps at a one-two count. Inside the warm and slippery nature of her inner body is pulsing and tensing and contracting on the edge of what I know is her first orgasm of the night.

  Yet my hardness is lagging.

  Disappearing.

  You see, a hot woman like this can't have an orgasm on a limp dick and, honestly, I'm already half mast.

  “Ah... damn... it's the stress, baby.” The typical excuse of all limp dicked men everywhere delivered in a stutter.

  Gemma's eyebrows come together in that cute way they do when she thinks I'm lying to her.

  “Stress?” There's a telling pause. “... like what?”

  An unfortunate shift of my hips has my dick flop out with a unattractive squelch to lie wet and moist against my hairless balls in a pose that I imagine is the fetal position for dicks that have done their owner wrong.

  My poor return is more question than answer.

  “Ah, work...?”

  For a time Gemma sits there atop of me breathing slowly and staring directly down into my blue eyes with a sharpness that makes my stomach queasy. As the silence stretches on I wish she'd say something, but the young woman doesn't. Instead she presses her hands down into the mattress and swings off to sit with her back straight and facing away from me. If there were prizes for stiff shoulders...

  I stifle a groan.

  “Honey?” exits my lips in a last attempt to save things.

  No reply comes. Gemma stands, her gorgeous ass popping right up in my face, and slips into the bathroom. 2 minutes later the gentle hiss of the shower wafts out the door. This is her way of telling me that I'm in deep trouble.

  Wrapping my thick arms around behind my head on my pillow and fluffing a little of my dark hair, I stare up at the ceiling above. Right now I'm wondering at how cruel the world is for giving me this 'affliction',

  You see, I'm hot for her mother. Not Gemma. Her mother.

  It's a real problem for me and I'll tell you that and there is no solution – no way, no how, no where. Zero ways to fix this.

  In a word: I'm screwed.

  The Mischievous Mrs. Johns

  Mrs. Johns, 45 years old, bored, horny and amused

  This young man that Gemma has been fooling around with certainly has a nice ass.

  That's what I'm musing to myself as he hoses down my bright yellow tulips with the long thick length of a his hose drawn around from the side of my large and stately home to the magnificent space of my backyard flower garden.

  As I watch on, Mr. Cute Ass slowly sways his hose left to right, making especially certain that every part of the flower bed receives equal treatment, I can't help but wish that he would come hose me down with the fat hose in his pants while he's at it. It would certainly be refreshing.

  The day is cloudless, blue and temperate for summer in these parts. As always I am enjoying my middle of the day martini, shaken with two olives and a tooth pick, out in our large yard while browning my curvy body on a fold out lawn chair.

  A gentle wind from the south plays through my long straight blond hair. It streams out to the side and ruffles a few strands over the smooth surface of the large round edge designer sunglasses.

  I pay it little attention.

  Instead, underneath those ultra dark lenses, my brown eyes are locked on his wonderful buttocks.

  “Such a fine ass,” I murmur to myself.

  My pink little tongue slides out from my full lips briefly to wets them slow, soft and seductively until slick and glistening. If I didn't know any better, from the way that he's looking back quite regularly, during his pounding of my tulips with their liquid nourishment from his long hose, I'd say he's interested in me.

  That, however, comes as no particular surprise. I might be a mother of two but I know how to take care of myself (like every woman of over or under 40 should). Many men have felt the same way.

  Unfortunately, just as the object of my attention is about to bend down to pick up a gardening tool from the pile on the ground at his feet, my concentration is temporarily ruined by my no-good, useless son stomping his feet into the lawn work with his usual dismal air of despair circulating freely like a dark cloud of sad that sucks the fun out of everything it touches from around the far corner of my stately home. He slides to a very sorry halt at the door and starts working through his ripped black jeans, which seem to always retain the must of wasted semen no matter how many times I tell the maid to wash them twice, and comes up with nothing.

  “Nice day, darling?”

  He mumbles something pointless about bad grades, a need to study and how mean some professor or another is being to him.

  I sigh quietly in disgust and inform him that the door is open and the cook left dinner in the fridge. We are having packaged lasagna and vegetables again because I hate the prudish woman and always send her home earlier.

  The waste of a good pregnancy slops off inside. The door clonks closed with finality and leaves me shaking my head in disgust. That one couldn't get a date if his life depended on it – much the same as his father at that age when we met – and will most certainly make a fine provider to some attractive, and devious, woman who knows the power of sex and how best to use it.

  Almost as soon as it closes the door swings open once more. This time it is my other child Gemma. Now this one might not be quite the beauty that I was at her age, but the young woman has a lot going for her. Long sexy legs, a fine tight little ass and a flat stomach but, sadly, not a devious bone in her entire body.

  My little princess stops beside me and gives my choice of refreshment a single long disgusted look which I believes is an attempt on her part to communicate to me that I should be more motherly and less rich so
cialite (as I see it) in the middle of the day..

  I have come to understand that Gemma has somehow grown into what most would consider a responsible young woman. The rumor mill says this is due to her having such a irresponsible mother, but I choose not to hear such words of discontent from whores who could not have found more faithful men.

  I raise my glass and toast her as she watches her young man at work.

  It comes to me as I admire her that, if I'm honest, Gemma, for all it is worth, is someone I could love if she wasn't far too sweet for words and far too prudish for comfort. It shames me to say it, but – clearly – none of my better traits have passed on to my children. This is something that is more saddening than I like to admit.

  “I'm going to Kimberly's.”

  I wave my martini at her, nearly losing an olive.

  “Lovely, deary. Shall I tell the young lad?”

  My daughter's eyes crinkle around the edges. Her lips then curl up and her nose rises an inch or two in what I believe might well be a hateful glare.

  Startled at this sudden change in demeanor, I sit up a tad straighter and raise both eyebrows from behind my black lenses.

  My first thought: Could there be trouble in paradise?

  If her expression is anything to go on, it seems so and, my-my, wouldn't it be interesting if there was. So many opportunities would...

  “No,” she interrupts, her voice crackling with annoyance. “Kim and I are going to have some girl time.”

  Oh. my-my-my! So there is some kind of trouble. That's interesting. VERY interesting...

  “Oh, I see. Well, have fun, dear, and do say hello to Mrs. Hobbs for me. I know she's been suffering since Luther left town.”

  My little girl confirms that she will and strolls off to the garage to collect her bicycle. As my eyes follow her, I think to the aforementioned gentleman.