The Soccer Mom
By Couture 2005
"You still trying to seduce my husband?" Mrs. Anderson whispered. "I thought I
told you to fill up those cups with ice?"
Sara jumped. The older woman had snuck up right behind her, pinning her to the
table without making a sound.
"I'm not - I'm not" Sara stammered. "Sed. . ." The thought had never crossed
her mind. Mr. Anderson wasn't just her husband's boss. He was also an ugly and
obnoxious old man. And if his ruddy features and breath were any indication,
his fat, lazy, and domineering wife had driven him to the bottle.
"Don't you lie to me bitch," Mrs. Anderson said. Her pudgy fingers slithered
over Sara's thighs and stroked at the band of her thin tight nylon shorts. "I
know your kind. You come out here in your hot pants showing off your long legs
and tight little ass. You think I don't know what you are up to?"
"I was - I was - hoping to run this afternoon." However, the only running she
had done was going to and fro from one of Mrs. Anderson's tasks to the next.
Mrs. Anderson forced her hand down the front of Sara's shorts, causing the young
housewife to gasp and struggle in vain against the older woman's advances.
"Such a tight little body," Mrs. Anderson whispered in Sara's ear.
"Stop it." Sara pulled at Mrs. Anderson's wrist, but only succeeded in pulling
her own blonde pubes the old woman had firm grip on. She tried in vain to get
her husband's attention.
"Go ahead," Mrs. Anderson said, while stroking a fat finger up and down the
cleft of the young woman's sex. "Call him over. Then you can explain to Frank
- yes, to Frank and to your children what we were doing. I'll be sure to tell
them all the juicy details of our hot little affair."
"We are *not* having an affair." Sara's voice was indignant at the mere
suggestion. She had never had sexual thought about another woman. And even if
she had, it wouldn't be with a woman like Mrs. Anderson.
"Oh but we are," Mrs. Anderson continued. "I've been coming over to your house
every day - every morning after Frank and your little brats have left for
school. I've been fucking you with all manner of vibrators and dildos. I've
fucked you in the bed you sleep in with your husband. Then I let you eat my
pussy while I watch the soaps. Sometimes I even bring friends over and we take
turns sharing your talented tongue."
"No," Sara groaned. Not only was she losing the battle of wits with this
vicious woman - her body was reacting the unwanted groping of her body.
"You can't deny it," Mrs. Anderson said. "Shhhh- listen to your pussy. Listen
to those hungry wet sounds. You love it slut."
"No." It came out this time as a whisper. Sara knew she couldn't stop what was
happening, but she also knew she shouldn't be enjoying it either. She should be
repulsed by this older woman and she sure as hell shouldn't be getting off on
this very public humiliation with her husband and kids right there with her.
But her hips were moving of their own accord, back and forth, fucking the finger
embedded in her hot slit.
"Let's see more of this hot little body you've been flaunting." Mrs. Anderson
gently tugged the thin nylon running shorts and even thinner panties down to
Sara's thighs. The young mother's eyes darted around to make sure no one was
watching.
"Oh God," Sara moaned as her lower half was slowly displayed. The picnic area
was secluded, yet. . .
"Nice." Mrs. Anderson sat down beside Sara, her hand roaming over the young
woman's naked flesh, exploring her hidden crevices, and then spanking her bare
bottom. "What do you say when someone pays you a compliment, slut?"
Sara's head hung down, her bangs fell into her eyes. She refused to answer.
"You say thank you, you little dimwit," Mrs. Anderson said. "Now say it!"
"Thank . . ." Sara supported her weight with her hands. She could barely
stand. Could barely breathe. Her thought flowed like molasses. ". . .thank
you."
"Your husband is watching slut. Give him a wave."
'Oh God,' Sara thought. Frank was looking at her. By his expression, he was
thankfully unaware of what was happening just out of his field of view. She
forced a smile to her lips, waved, and pretended to go back to filling up cups
with ice.
"That's right slut. Give a nice wave." Mrs. Anderson said, while she continued
to finger fuck the horny young housewife. "Nothing happening up here. Just two
wives getting to know each other. Very - very well."
"Please," Sara begged. "Please stop before-"
"Be a dear and hand me that spatula," Mrs. Anderson said, completely ignoring
Sara's protests.
The spatula was greasy and covered with bits of charred hamburger and hotdog.
Sara carefully picked it up by the handle and handed it to the older woman.
"You have a tight cunt Sara. Even after giving birth those two bratty monsters
of yours, I can still feel your hungry cunt squeezing my finger," Mrs. Anderson
said, her finger a blur, in and out of Sara's sex - fucking her - raping her hot
hole. "Frank is a lucky man."
Mrs. Anderson brought the spatula down on Sara's firm bottom with a splat,
leaving a red imprint with four white holes in the middle. Grease and bits of
soot were left on the young woman's firm ivory bottom. "What did I say about
saying thank you?"
"Thank you," Sara gasped. This couldn't be happening. Not out here. In
public. Her children and her husband in sight.
Mrs. Anderson probed at Sara's asshole with a pudgy finger.
"And such tight little brownie too," Mrs. Anderson said.
"Ugh - oh God - th- thank y-you." Sara's mind whirled. The finger poking at
her rear hole made her quiver with excitement, yet she knew she shouldn't be
feeling that way.
"Does Frank fuck you there?" Mrs. Anderson asked. "I bet you love it up the
ass. Slut."
"No - no he doesn't," Sara stammered. She wasn't that kind of girl. And Frank
wasn't the kind of guy.
"But you love it. You love it up the ass, don't you Sara. Don't you - you hot
blooded slut?"
The pudgy finger wormed its way up her bottom. It forced the truth from Sara's
tightly clenched lips. "Yes. Yes - I love it up the ass."
"Good girl," Mrs. Anderson said. "Now you better get whatever thoughts you had
about my husband out of your dumb little brain, you understand me girl? From
now on, it's me you'll be looking pretty for. And these curly little hairs have
to go."
Mrs. Anderson tugged at Sara's pubic hair, her nose wrinkling with distaste. "I
like all my girls clean and fresh. And I want you marked as mine. Maybe a
collar or a tattoo. I haven't decided yet."
Oh God no. How would she hide such a thing from her husband? This was madness.
And yet she couldn't deny how these thoughts - thoughts of being enslaved to
this older woman turned her insides to jelly.
"I'll be over tomorrow morning," Mrs. Anderson continued, now with two fingers
up the front passage of the young housewife, and one up the rear. "And I expect
you ready for me. Perfumed and freshly shaved. Ready to fuck. Do you still
have your wedding dress?"
"Ugh - yes. Yes ma'am." Sara's voice was raspy and thick. Her chest heaved.
Tight nipples poked through the front of her thin form-fitting shirt. Her body
sweaty and soaking through her clothes.
"I haven't given you permission to come yet slut," Mrs. Anderson warned. "Don't
you do it."
"I can't help it." Sara couldn't. Her body could not be denied.
"You better bear down and figure out a way." Mrs. Anderson slowed her fingers,
but she let up. Sara's cunt continued making wet sounds with every thrust of
the older woman's fingers.
Reaching into the cooler of ice, Sara grabbed a handful and then cupped it over
her sex. She prayed it would work. The cold was a shock. A painful shock.
The need to come passed. She held the cold ice tightly to her sex and shivered.
"That's a good bitch," Mrs. Anderson said. "Now, as I was saying. When I come
over tomorrow, I expect to find you in bed, wearing your wedding dress, legs
spread wide, your pussy open and ready for me."
"When - when will you be over?" It was an effort to force it out. Sara managed
one word to each breath.
Mrs. Anderson pulled her finger out of the young housewife's bottom and gave her
a spank. "It doesn't matter when I get there bitch. But when I get there, I
better see you in bed and eager for me. And by eager, I mean I want to see wet
fingers and a hot and ready cunt. And you better not come without my
permission. Bitch, I mean it, you better not come."
It was coming home to Sara. She would be a slave. She would be this older
woman's sex slave. The bed she shared with her husband, even the dress she wore
at her wedding, nothing was sacred. She should say no. No way. No how. Fuck
you, you old bitch. Yet, her pussy was hotter than ever before. She needed
this all her life, yet she never knew it till this moment.
"Please," Sara begged.
"Please, what?" Mrs. Anderson asked.
"Please ma'am. May I come now?"
"Not yet bitch," Mrs. Anderson said. She removed her fingers from the young
housewife. "What's your answer slut? Are you going to be my bitch?"
"Oh God," Sara groaned. "Yes - yes ma'am."
"I'm going to test you. You have no idea how I'll test you."
"Yes ma'am. Please ma'am. I need to come. I need it bad." Sara's legs
trembled. She ached with need. ". . .so bad."
Mrs. Anderson rolled the young woman's clit around with the tip of her finger.
"Hand me that bottle of mustard," she commanded.
Sara picked up the bottle of French's mustard and tried to pass it back.
"Open it for me, you stupid slut."
No, oh no! Sara suspected what was to happen, but no, Mrs. Anderson wouldn't
dare, would she? With trembling fingers she unscrewed the top of the plastic
mustard bottle and handed it to the older woman.
"Good girl," Mrs. Anderson said. "Now reach back and spread that beautiful
bottom."
Oh God, she was mad enough to do it. Worse, Sara realized her husband was
watching. She waved at him again. Please oh please turn back around, she
prayed. She dared not look at him or he would surely know something was
happening. Looking out of the corner of her eye, she saw he finally returned to
fishing. Sara reached back and spread the cheeks of her bottom.
"Such a cute little brownie," Mrs. Anderson said. "I see it winking at me."
"Thank you."
"You close to coming? You ready to come for me little slut?"
"Yes." Oh God. Hurry hurry hurry. Sara humped back. Willing her body to come
before they were caught, yet it wasn't quite happening.
"As for me," Mrs. Anderson said, working the young housewife's clit in a tight
circle. She poked at Sara's puckered hole with the conical tip of the yellow
bottle. "I don't like mustard. Does Frank? How about little Jake and
Elizabeth?"
The older woman's words hit home to Sara. It was bad enough that she had sunk
to this level. But her family, her innocent family, they would also bear the
consequences of her deviant desires. The worse part of it all, the mere thought
of it, of having to watch helplessly as her family used the bottle of mustard -
mustard that had been. . . It was too much. Sara succumbed to madness. Her
orgasm hit hard and fast.
"Coming. Oh fuck I'm coming," Sara cried. Her insides flowed like molten wax.
Mrs. Anderson plunged the yellow grooved cone shaped mustard tip into the young
housewife's ass and squeezed as hard as she could.
"Oh fuck. Fuck fuck." The mustard was hot on her tender linings. Her ass bit
down. Her cunt tightened with every contraction of her orgasm. It was a heavy
orgasm that seemed to go on forever. No longer able to support her weight, Sara
sat down on the bench next to Mrs. Anderson and weakly pulled her shorts back up
to cover herself.
"Fuck," Sara whined. "It burns."
"Yes dear, it's supposed to burn," Mrs. Anderson said. "Now give me a kiss and
thank me for your orgasm."
The cooler blocked her husband's view, but if her children turned around they
would surely see. What is happening to me, Sara wondered, as she opened her
mouth and kissed another woman for the first time.
"Thank you," Sara said when they broke their kiss. "Thank you for my orgasm."
"You're welcome dear."
"It burns." The pain had lessened, but it was still there.
"Shush," Mrs. Anderson wiped the top of the mustard bottle off with a paper
towel and sat it on the table. Then she waved at her husband and Frank. "Lunch
is ready. Hurry up. Everyone get over here. Let's eat. You too kids."
"Speaking of eating," Mrs. Anderson said where only Sara could hear. "Has my
bitch ever eaten pussy before?"
"No ma'am." Sara shifted nervously in her seat, in part due to the burning in
her ass. Worse, she had to hold her internal muscles tight to keep from soiling
herself. "Never."
The older woman stuck a shiny wet digit in her mouth and sucked it clean of
Sara's juices. "You'll be doing quite a lot of it. I intend to see that you
become very skilled at it. I even have some friends I plan on sharing you
with."
"Yes. Yes ma'am." Sara wondered if she would be able to go through with it.
What it would be like to be this domineering woman's sex slave. She wondered
how she was going to get through the afternoon without something mortifying
happening even more.
"Good girl," Mrs. Anderson said. "Now you just sit there, I've got this all
under control. But tomorrow - tomorrow. . . I intend to get full my full
measure."
*************
Alone in her bedroom, Sara looked over at the clock. Ten-thirty.
She looked down at herself. White heels. White stockings. A white veil pulled
down which clouded her vision. Her satin wedding dress bunched up around her
waist. A dress she had not worn since her wedding day.
Sara's muscular legs were spread wide. Her mound was bare and a little red
after having been shaved for the first time. Her sex was wet. Lips swollen due
to being teased for over an hour. At first she hoped Mrs. Anderson wouldn't
show. Then she spent her time wondering what the older woman would think of her
for following her every instruction. Maybe she had been joking?
And now? Now the hardest part was not coming. God how she wanted to. She
ached for it. Teasing her self. Keeping her hot cunt wet. She wasn't just
wet, she was soaking. Pelvis thrusting. Thighs trembling. Fingers gripping
handfuls of her sheets. She thought she heard the sound of the front door
opening. The clacking of high heels walking up the stairs. Heart pounding,
Sara realized there were two sets of heels.
'Dear Lord,' Sara thought. 'She's brought someone else.' But it was too late
now. Too late for anything but to go through with it. She reached down an
obediently spread the lips of her sex. With her other hand she offered up the
handle of a leash, a leash that ran to a collar around her neck.
This was her lot now, the lot of a slave.
