A Middle-aged Fuck-pig


Our bodies change as we hit middle-age, with bumps splodging out and heading south, and while I know I can still turn heads, and my fiancé thinks I’m gorgeous, I’m a size 10 and my body is pretty nifty for over fifty, my middle-aged body just isn’t as firm as it used to be. The idea of being body-shamed by younger, prettier women is something I fantasize about, as is my sexuality being seen as an amusement by younger men, especially my daughter’s ex-boyfriend. I love the idea of being the whole world to my fiancé and an objectified fuck-pig to men who fuck me while holding me in contempt for being their owned desperate slut. This story explores some of these themes. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do fantasizing about it! xxx


I: A little bit of background.

II: From texting to sexting while on the train to Cambridge.

III: Presenting myself as a trashy middle-aged slut for my two young stud muffins.

IV: Behaving like a middle-aged slut while out for a meal out with my two young stud muffins.

V: My humiliation at the Six Bells.

VI: Itty-bitty-titty taser torture.

VI: Middle-aged fuck-meat, literally!

VII: Filming the fuck-meat.


I: A little bit of background.

A few weeks ago, I had to travel to Cambridge to do a piece of consultancy work and as my son’s friend ‘Mr C’ only lives an hour away, I texted him and I had a lovely meal out with Mr C and his friend ‘Popeye’.

Now the thing is, while we’ve known each other for years in a sort of surrogate mother-son relationship, there are aspects of each other that we really don’t know. For example, while Mr C is always respectful and pleasant whenever we meet up, I know he has a darker side that enjoys comedians like Frankie Boyle, which really shocked me by its ugliness when I watched it with my fiancé one night when Mr C had left the DVD at our house:

“What’s the difference between football and rape? Women don’t like football.”

“I live in a flat with 3 women, I call it surround sound. I keep the ugly one behind the sofa as a woofer.”

“What sounds better the more you beat it? My wife, ‘cos she shuts the fuck up.”

“What do you tell a woman with two black eyes? Nothin’! You told her twice already!”

“My Gran said to me, “Young men of today just aren’t as polite and charming as they were when I was young”. I had to explain, “That’s because they aren’t trying to fuck you now.”

“A 66-year-old woman has become the oldest new mum in Britain after giving birth to a baby boy. I’m amazed she needed to have a caesarean section though, you’d think at 66 she would have needed some masking tape down there just to stop it falling out.”

Now, I’m in my frisky fifties and after watching Mr C’s DVD I began to wonder if Mr C ever thinks or talks about me the way those comedians talk about women; so disrespectful and full of contempt.

Whilst in real life I have an adoring and respectful fiancé, I love the idea of being the respectable career woman, mother and partner in one part of my life and Mr C’s objectified middle-aged fuck-toy in the other. The hate and contempt towards women in those jokes has such a visceral power that really makes my pussy tingle.

That’s what I didn’t know about Mr C. The thing Mr C doesn’t know about me is a quirky little thing I did for a while when he used to date my daughter (and before I met my current fiancé). It began one morning while I was gathering the dirty washing to put a load on before work. I was in my daughter’s bedroom stripping their bed wearing my red work sweater which has ¾ length sleeves. I had pulled the sheets off and was carrying them down to the washer in a big bundle when I felt a cold goo drip on my wrist. I felt it slide down the bare flesh of my fore-arm and peering over the bundle of bedding, I saw a glistening trail meandering over the rounded flesh of my smooth forearm down to a pool of Mr C’s cold cum collecting between my sweater sleeve and the bare flesh of my fore-arm.

I dumped the bedding in the washer and yanked my dirty sweater over my head to add it to the washing when I got a strong waft of Mr C’s deliciously musky spunk. Spunk has such an intimate and personal scent and instead of wiping Mr C’s cum off my arm with some kitchen roll, I stood in my kitchen in just my bra and work pants and actually licked Mr C’s cum off my naked arm. I even found the sleeve of my sweater with the cum stain on it and sucked it clean with one hand down my pants, desperately stroking my clitoris. I can still remember the slimy texture giving way to the harsh brittle feel of cotton against my tongue as Mr C’s cum slid off the sweater and down my throat.

All that day my pussy tingled at the memory of what I had done. It felt so kinky tasting Mr C’s cum in my mouth all morning. It wasn’t that I was attracted to Mr C, at 22 he was more than half my age. It was somehow linked to his general indifference to all the things I did for him while he visited my daughter. It was incredibly arousing to think that Mr C knew it was bed change day İstanbul Escort and had deliberately left his cum for me to have to clean up. The idea of Mr C just expecting me to clean up his cum after accepting my hospitality with indifference and then fucking my daughter, as though it was my duty to be his cum sponge was somehow thrillingly humiliating. When Mr C made love to my daughter, she excited him sexually; his cum was intimately, lovingly and sensually given and received… and then just left as a discarded by-product. The thrill of being so desperate that I embraced the humiliation of lapping up Mr C’s discarded cum as my favourite sexual indulgence always made me wet.

The fact that as far as I knew, Mr C didn’t even acknowledge me as a sexual being, made it even more arousing as if he saw my role as simply to clean up his cum. I’m not saying Mr C had any of these thoughts, in fact I doubt he even cared whether I had to touch his cum or not as long as their bed was beautifully made as usual. But when I found his Frankie Boyle DVD, it did make me wonder! After all, Mr C is always so polite and charming and as Frankie Boyle points out; “My Gran said to me, “Young men of today just aren’t as polite and charming as they were when I was young”. I had to explain, “That’s because they aren’t trying to fuck you now.” Maybe Mr C was trying to fuck me!

Over the next few months I began searching their bedding for fresh loads of cum and I was always aroused whenever I managed to find a globule of cum left for me to clean up. I even searched his dirty boxer shorts in the hope he had cum inside them. It became almost an obsession when I did chance on a fresh pool of his musky spunk and I’d wear it inside my panties, my pussy tingling at the feel of his slimy wetness all day at my desk, or when I was too randy to wait, I would rush to my bedroom, pull out my favourite vibrator and use Mr C’s spunk as lubricant for my desperate pussy and then scoop his spunk into my mouth with a finger while I climaxed imagining what Mr C would think of me if he knew I slurped up his cum like a desperate middle-aged slut.

So, for a period of time, while Mr C and my daughter lived with me, I was Mr C’s secret cum thirsty mom-in-law. Although on the surface, Mr C and I were always polite and respectful to each other, I sometimes would hear Mr C fucking my daughter in the other room, and hearing how much pleasure the young stud muffin was giving her, I would stroke my desperate divorced pussy imagining our house with Mr C as ‘Head of Household’ treating my daughter with loving respect, while he began treating me as his desperate ‘cum sponge’, ignoring and denying me sexually but finding it hilarious that I was such a sexually desperate middle-aged slut that I begged hm to feed me his cum. Although I stopped lapping my daughter’s boyfriend’s cum when I started dating my current fiancé (the day he asked me out actually) I still love the idea of Mr C gloating as he finds out how I loved licking up his cum.

So, those two things combined; my secret past of licking up my daughter’s boyfriend’s cum for a few months and his enjoyment of misogynist comedy, led me to enjoy a naughty fantasy of being humiliated and objectified when I met up with ‘Mr C’ and ‘Popeye’ a few weeks ago and how things might have developed. So, here’s what didn’t happen but what I enjoy fantasizing did happen; Like I said, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy imagining it, and I especially hope Mr C reads it and thinks of me. Not that I’m brave enough to ever admit it’s me! LOL!

II: From texting to sexting while on the train to Cambridge:

I carried my travel bag onto the train carriage, shoved it into the luggage rack and found my reserved seat at a table opposite two middle-aged business men. I gave them both a polite smile in acknowledgement, pulled my laptop from its case and sat down, so excited and desperate to text my son’s friend Mr C, as I travelled towards him.

‘Hi Mr C. I’m in Cambridge for a couple of days if you fancy meeting up for a meal? I’m travelling by train so if you do the transport, the meals my treat. Xxx’

Having sent the text, I turned on my laptop and focused on my report, not expecting Mr C to reply for a while, as my train was an early morning one.

Ping! I excitedly checked my phone:

‘Yeah, cool.’

Mr C’s casual indifference to my offering to pay for his meal, and his replying to my fawning kissy text without any kisses from him, was so piggy it made my pussy tingle at the idea of him seeing my affection and generosity as an inconvenience. The idea of matching Mr C’s indifference with extra effort on my part to flatter and please him, practically begging my son’s friend to notice me as a desperate middle-aged slut he could use as he pleased; well, if he chose too, had my pussy tingling already.

But how to let him know that without risking destroying the surrogate mom-son relationship we had established over decades?

‘That’s great news, Mr C! I can’t wait until I see you. I’m shaking Kadıköy Escort with anticipation. Xxx’ I sent, hoping to give Mr C a peek at how tingly and desperate I was for him. It wasn’t a dirty text, but definitely held a hint of naughtiness to it, that I really hoped he would pick up on.

But no such luck. All I got was a practical ‘When?’

Damn! We knew each other so well as pesky surrogate mom and son that it was difficult to get too flirty, so I tried a bit of flattery, plus a question to show my interest in him, as well as basically just desperately trying to just keep the young hunk texting me:

‘I’ll get to my hotel about five, but will need a bit of time to make myself beautiful. Is seven okay with you, Mr C? How is my favourite young man doing today? Xxx’

‘Which hotel? Yup I’m gud.’

All my flattery and kisses and hints seemed to be falling on deaf ears. He hadn’t even cared enough to ask how I was. His disregard made me desperate to try harder to please the young stud muffin and make him notice me, so I tried playing the ditz on top:

‘Oh, so sorry Mr C, of course you need to know where I’m staying if we’re to meet up! I’m at the Talbot Hotel in Ledbury. I really hope that’s not too far out of your way! As soon as I realized we could meet up I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you after that. Xxx’

I doubted if Mr C would care that once his ex-girlfriend’s mom started thinking about him, she couldn’t stop, but I figured he might at least enjoy the ego boost, plus it was making my pussy tingle acting so inappropriately like a desperate floozy towards my daughter’s ex-boyfriend.

‘Pick u up at 7:30 with Popeye.’

Popeye was Mr C’s housemate; a lovely young, black gentleman. As Mr C hadn’t seemed to have picked up on any of my hints, I tried being a little more direct:

‘Thanks Mr C. Can’t wait for my hot date with my two young men! LOL. Xxx’

Sitting opposite the two business men at my table in the train carriage, I tried to look all professional and decent, but I couldn’t concentrate on my report for clenching my thighs and enjoying the squirmy wetness in my panties at the idea of playing such a slut for my daughter’s ex-boyfriend.

After about fifteen minutes I realized Mr C wasn’t going to text back. I hadn’t asked a question, and the date was arranged so I supposed there was no need for him to reply, but I was desperate to continue playing the horny middle-aged slut, so I typed;

‘Don’t tire yourself out too much today, Mr C. We might have a big night planned! Xxx’ and cringed as I reread it. That had to be one of the most flirty texts I could send to my daughter’s ex-boyfriend, but at the same time I figured it could be read as totally innocent. It felt deliciously naughty to imagine Mr C guessing whether I might have something naughty planned or if I was just being playful about having a meal together. I really hoped I had managed to create a bit of anticipation and the idea of Mr C considering me as an available middle-aged slut had me discreetly unzipping my work pants, right there at the table, so I could slide a hand inside my damp panties and relieve the frustrated tingle in my pussy. The two business men opposite thankfully seemed oblivious to what a total slut the suited business woman opposite was being.

‘Eh, how?’ Mr C replied. So much for building the anticipation, Mr C had called it straight away.

I typed one-handed, feeling desperate and horny with my other hand in my panties swirling round my swollen clit. I worded a text that I hoped might be a sultry way of letting him know that I was desperate for things to get a little more physical without putting any pressure or commitment on him, after all I had no idea if Mr C was dating, or was even interested in fucking his ex-girlfriend’s mom.

‘I like our relationship, but how would you feel about adding a few benefits. xxx?’


Hmmm, a man of few words, I thought as I brought myself nearer and nearer to my orgasm.

‘Just wandering ‘cos texting you makes me feel so good. Xxx’ I sent, trying to avoid any committal text, while at the same time loving the idea of Mr C feeling good knowing I’m enjoying his conversation. If only he knew how much! I thought, giggling to myself.

‘Wot benefits?’

Oomph! I was stumped. Mr C had called me straight out on my flirty insinuations. I had just potentially made this real, and what I sent next might change everything forever. Did I tell him the truth; that I was sitting on a train with my pants unzipped and my hand down my panties as I desperately stroked my swollen clit, wanting to beg to be his objectified middle-aged fuck-toy, or did I back off pretending it was just me being a bit perky and flirty and enjoying getting my girl on for once?

The thought of backing off gave me such a feeling of sagging disappointment and emptiness that right then and there I knew what I so desperately needed. I wriggled down behind my laptop screen and stroked my desperate clit fast and hard, bringing myself closer Ataşehir Escort and closer to orgasm at the thrill of sacrificing my dignity to offer myself as a middle-aged fuck-toy to my daughter’s ex-boyfriend.

‘Favourite type of underwear on a woman, Mr C? xxx’ I sent, desperately stroking myself at the idea of my clothing being at the whim of my daughter’s ex-boyfriend.

‘Commando. Why?’

‘Why’ was a very reasonable question; why would a middle-aged woman you’d known all your life as your friend’s mom and later as your girlfriend’s mom ask what your favourite type of underwear on a woman might be? Perhaps because she was a desperate middle-aged slut!

Mr C’s question seemed to throw into relief just how unnatural my desire to be Mr C’s middle-aged fuck-toy really was, but then what sort of a woman actually gets turned on licking up her daughter’s boyfriend’s cum? Um… me! I thought, smiling luxuriously at the memory of the young hunk’s musky, salty taste as I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the pleasure my fingers

Mr C’s ‘why’ was also yet another way out; another chance to retain my dignity and stay within the safe boundaries of our surrogate mom-son relationship. All I had to type was something innocuous like ‘just wandering, Mr C! xxx’ and even then, it would probably leave him guessing what I had on under my skirt this evening. But that wasn’t enough to satiate my desperate need to subjugate myself to my daughter’s ex-boyfriend. The more inappropriately slutty I was towards Mr C, the closer I came to climaxing on my frantic fingers.

Instead I typed;

‘I’m typing one-handed ‘cos my other hand is down my panties right now, but I promise I’ll be totally bare under my skirt tonight, in the hope you two young stud muffins might enjoy me more like that. Is that okay with you, Mr C? Xxx’

I read the text back without sending it, my fingers sliding in and out of my ridiculously aroused and sloppy pussy. I was scared the sloppy sounds and my scent of arousal might reach the two men opposite me but really, I was past caring, revelling in behaving like such a slut in response to my daughter’s ex-boyfriend. I loved acting the desperate middle-aged slut, and imagining Mr C’s shocked expression.

Just what would he think of the strait-laced friendly and respectable middle-aged Ally he knew, who usually chatted over a cuppa or acted at hostess at family parties, openly confessing she was sitting on a train, with a hand down her panties while she openly offered herself to her daughter’s ex-boyfriend?

Hopefully he was stroking that big, hard cock that had pleasured my daughter so many times, as he thought about having his ex-girlfriend’s mom as his willing sex-slave. The thought made me giggle indulgently again; if only!

I certainly sounded desperate enough to please, promising to go commando because that was Mr C’s expressed preference just on the off-chance he might enjoy it. No, it was even sluttier than that; I was promising to expose my most intimate parts in public to two young men practically half my age. How could Mr C have anything but contempt for me if I was obviously desperate to be such a slut for him?

The whole idea of offering myself for Mr C and his friend was driving me wild; my fingers were incredibly sloppy and slimy; I was so aroused. I whirled them around my swollen clitoris. It wasn’t even the idea of becoming Mr C’s objectified middle-aged slut that was driving me wild, it was the desperate sacrificing of my dignity unasked to Mr C.

Even if he just laughed in response, I knew I would orgasm at the fact Mr C knew me as a sexually desperate middle-aged slut as opposed to the surrogate mom and professional business woman he had always known. The idea of Mr C’s next text sending me over the edge of orgasm, whatever he sent, felt as if Mr C had control of my orgasms, and it was that idea that made me, in my desperately aroused state, press send.

I kept rereading my text as I kept myself near the point of orgasm and half eagerly, half dreading repeatedly checked my phone for Mr C’s answer:

‘I’m typing one-handed ‘cos my other hand is down my panties right now, but I promise I’ll be totally bare under my skirt tonight, in the hope you and Popeye might enjoy that? Xxx’

What a totally desperate slut! I thought as I kept stroking myself inside my panties.

When the text finally did come in, the ping made me nearly leap out of my skin.

‘LOL. Woteva Ally. U been drinking?’

I climaxed right there and then in my seat on the train, opposite the two business-men, stifling a moan by biting my bottom lip, and clenching and unclenching my thighs like crazy as my pussy sent spasm after spasm of pleasure through my body.

I had disclosed the fact I was masturbating while texting Mr C, promised not to wear panties when I met him as a subjugation to his preferences and his response was to laugh! Not just to laugh, but to laugh and dismiss my offer of sexual subjugation with a simple ‘woteva’. My blatantly offered sexuality seemed nothing but an amusement to Mr C and that drove me over the edge to a delicious body-racking orgasm. It was the side of Mr C that enjoyed Frankie Boyle getting sadistic pleasure out of mocking my sexual subjugation as I tried so desperately to please him that finally made me climax.

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