Foster Davis - The seduction of mommy

Feeling the walls of her vagina clutching madly at her lone finger, she knew that she could bring herself to orgasm without much more effort. She withdrew the candle from her mouth, giving it several circular sweeps with her agile tongue as it exited.

She removed her hand from between her legs, leaving her cunt to suck angrily at the sudden nothingness. But she didn't leave herself empty for long. Immediately she was on her knees facing the head of the bed. She waved one hand in the air rodeo-style for balance while clutching the massive candle in the other. She locked her ankles together as she positioned the candle with its base on the bed between her thighs and its wick end pointed straight up at her hotly aroused vagina.

Slowly she lowered herself. The end of the candle, wet with saliva, brushed against her vulva. She rose up again on her haunches, came down then until the wick tickled her clitoris, rose up, down, up. More moisture gathered at the entrance to her already saturated cunt. But wet as she was, she knew that it would be a delicate process getting the instrument inside her vagina. She had had the candle inside her dozens of times, and each required tender determination because her pussy had to stretch so much to accommodate the intruding wax object. But it was worth it, every time had been worth it. Every time had resulted in one or more heaving, draining climaxes, leaving her too weak to move.

She circled with her hips, the wick teasing her inflamed cunt lips. Lower. She felt the pressure of the wax surface against her flushed outer vagina. She sat down until the stress was too much to endure, then retreated slightly.

She kept the candle in place with her left hand, her arm bent behind her back, her wrist up under her buttocks. Her right hand came to rest just above her vagina, and with two fingers she tried to spread the opening enough to admit the candle.

As she squirmed against the wax vertex, the fingers of her right hand pressed her erect clitoris and caused her to groan hotly.

"Oh, Ralph!" she murmured, gazing passionately at the spot where Ralph's head would be had he actually been there. "Oh, Ralph, we shouldn't!"

She pretended that the youth was arching his hips toward her, that he was determined to sink his cock into her depths no matter how much discomfort it caused her.

In response to his imaginary lunges, Arlene lowered herself suddenly, feeling a storm of pain as the candle pressed her pussy lips inward, feeling a searing agony as her hot flesh was stretched and folded and several of her pubic hairs were violently uprooted.

She surrendered to the pain and backed off. Then she lowered herself with greater determination. The pain was less severe, and the entrance seemed to be more receptive, but still she had to retreat.

With a sudden mad frenzy of activity, she made sweeping circles with her hips, her firm breasts bouncing as she gyrated. While circling, she pressed downward. The end of the candle seemed to angle into her squirming cunt, and she was surprised at the absence of pain.

"Oh, oh!" she groaned from deep within her. "Oh, my God, it's in me!"

She then emitted a series of harsh, breathy gasps as she became accustomed to the feel of the foreign object inside her lewdly stretched cunt.

"Oh, Ralph, this is so wrong! I shouldn't let you… but, but… oh, God, let's fuck each other!" She whispered so lowly that she could scarcely hear her own words. She was madly excited by her hot utterances. She had never said those dirty words to anyone, not even to her husband in the heat of passion. But she said them freely during these afternoon sessions. She said them even though she felt ashamed afterward.

She lowered herself until her buttocks rested on her locked ankles. The candle eased its way deep within her vagina. She deliberately squeezed her vaginal muscles, imprisoning the staff in her moist well. She began to slowly ride up and down on the intruding shaft, gripping the candle tightly with her left hand as she did so.

Mewling outbursts of passion streamed from her parted lips. She rubbed briskly on her hard clitoris with her right hand, feeling the shivers of ecstasy pulse throughout her body. Trickling rivulets of perspiration made their way across her forehead, stinging her eyes and running along the edges of her dainty nose to her lips. Sweat flowed from between her breasts, from her buttocks and forearms, from her tense and straining back. She felt as though she were in a steam bath, even though the room temperature was comfortable.

Her toes clenched so tightly that she felt pain along the top part of her feet. Her heels dug into her buttocks as she sat down upon her crossed ankles, one heel splitting her ass and keeping the cheeks lewdly open. The lower part of the arm which held the candle was imprisoned between her left thigh and calf. The candle filled all of her vagina, spreading the inner walls as far as she thought possible. Her juices gathered more than ever within her throbbing cunt, oiling the wax surface so that it slid easily as she ground her pelvis downward.

Orgasm was a certainty. She could feel it approaching, her whole body quivering, her mind dead to everything but erotic sensations and lewd images, her clitoris tender and swollen.

"Ralph, Ralph, Ralph!" she chanted.

She churned, increasing her tempo.

Then she came, howling dementedly as she did.

Faster and faster she rocked on the candle and flicked at her clitoris with her finger until a second and third spasm rocked her. A fourth and fifth in rapid succession. More, one spasm every second, each seeming more powerful than the last.

"Oh, fuck it, Ralph! Fuck it really hard!" she screamed.

Sweat bathed her entire body now. Her eyes, glazed, fixed heatedly on the imaginary boy lover. She threw herself forward, her hands abandoning their previous positions and stretching far above her head as she lay stiffly on her stomach. Her fingernails dug brutally into a pillow, her tits throbbed against the bedspread. She kept her legs widely spaced as she ground her cunt into the sweat-soaked bedspread, the candle remaining lodged inside her quaking channel. She drew her ass tightly inward, forming dimples on the outer sides of the cheeks.

"Oouu, ohh! There, there!" she cried.

Then the contractions of her vagina began slowly to diminish in intensity, and a minute later she was gasping in the stunned aftermath, satiated and unmoving, whimpering softly.

Tears filled her eyes, and five minutes later she was sobbing.

She felt empty, alone, ashamed, disgusted. Fifteen minutes ago she had masturbated to orgasm, but that wasn't what troubled her most. A simple, swift fingering of her vagina to bring on the physical release her body craved – that wouldn't have been so terrible. But she hadn't been satisfied with so simple an act. She had conjured up in her mind the fantasy that her son's friend was fucking her, fucking her better than her husband ever had. And that seemed dirty and perverse, even though in actuality she would never let the boy, Ralph, so much as touch her. If he ever made even the mildest of advances toward her she would slap his impudent face and banish him forever from her son's company. Of course, it wasn't a likely occurrence since Ralph was the politest of Bill's friends and had never indicated any sexual interest in either Arlene or her daughter.

Arlene showered.

Afterward she felt cleansed and absolved of wrongdoing. She was somehow able to drive all thoughts of her recent transgression from her mind. It had to be that way, because if she continued to dwell on the disquieting matter of her daily self-abuse, she would be unable to function normally. She had to go on living. She was Arlene French, Hal's wife – Mrs. Harold W. French – and she had a designated role in life. Faithful spouse. Respectable housewife. Dedicated mother. After dressing modestly in slacks and blouse and pinning her blonde hair behind her neck, she began her housework. She washed the dishes, vacuumed the carpet, planned the dinner for that night.