M.U.F.F.

Content notice:

The following story contains depictions of negative body image, weight stigma, and diet talk.

I’ve done my best to portray these issues with empathy and sensitivity. Beauty comes in every size, and a joyous, fulfilling sex life is the privilege of anyone who wants one.

That said, if you’re someone who prefers to avoid such things altogether, you might try one of my other stories instead.

The characters depicted in the following story are all 18 or above. One of the themes involves sexual liaisons between young adult women and much older adults in a position of relative power over them.

The inclusion of this theme is for storytelling purposes only. It is not a comment on the advisability of such relationships in real life.

The Author

~

M.U.F.F., Part VII

For about 30 seconds, my heart is pounding.

We’ve been found out.

Mrs. Robinson leads me through the foyer of their house–impressive, on a teacher’s salary–and I see a spacious dining room up ahead with a long table and plenty of chairs.

She’s going to confront me about seducing her husband away from her, and god knows what will happen, and I know Mr. Robinson said they have an “arrangement,” but I don’t know if I ever really believed him–

We’re in the dining room, and Mr. Robinson is entering from the kitchen with a tray of food.

“Hi, Beth,” he says.

“Hi, Mr. Robinson,” I say.

Absurdly, we sit down to a nice dinner. They serve me a terrific meal, all vegan, they say, though I wonder how in the hell this pesto-stuffed “chicken” could possibly qualify as vegan.

They’re having red wine. They give me grape juice.

Mrs. Robinson is asking me questions about my future plans. I can’t hear anything that I’m saying back to her. Mr. Robinson occasionally chimes in.

Mrs. Robinson–“Anne,” she insists–is being kind, but there’s an intimidating steeliness in her personality. I don’t know what to expect from her.

Mr. Robinson–Murray–is being his usual avuncular, slightly nerdy self.

Once we’re all done, Mr. Robinson gets up to clear the dishes. And it’s just Mrs. Robinson and me, seated at angles from each other at the corner of their big table.

In the same sweet, slightly steely tone of voice, she says, “At this point, Beth, you have two options.”

“About what?” I say.

She says, “It’s starting to get late. You can head home. We’ve had a meal and a nice chat, and that’s all it’ll ever be.”

“What do you mean?” My heartbeat is picking up again.

“Or you can stay here, and whatever happens, happens. All I ask is that if you’re uncomfortable and need to pause, say ‘yellow.’ If you want to stop altogether and head home, say ‘red.’ We’ll understand.”

My eyes are as big as the dinner plates we were just eating off of.

“Those words are important,” she says. “If you say things like ‘no’ or ‘stop,’ we can’t tell if you mean it or if it’s just part of the play. So we’ll use ‘yellow’ and ‘red’ instead. Do you understand?”

Her tone now is exactly the same as her tone when she was advising me about colleges and careers and such.

I don’t answer. She waits.

While she’s waiting, Mr. Robinson comes back. He stands next to her, looming over us, his face patient and placid. I can’t look directly at either of them.

Finally, I whisper, “Yes.”

“Yes what?” she says.

“Yes, I understand.”

Mr. Robinson says, “Are you sticking around?”

“Yes,” I say.

Mrs. Robinson says, “Are you ready for anything that happens? Bearing in mind that we’ve agreed that you can pause or stop it at any time?”

I flick my eyes–first to her eyes, which are fixed on me, then to his, which are also fixed on me.

Then to the swelling ridge behind the fly of his slacks.

“Yes,” I say.

“This isn’t just about us,” she says. “We’re going to give you anything you want.”

Then, theatrically, she turns sideways in her chair, facing Mr. Robinson, and he turns to face her.

“For now,” she says, “just relax. And watch.”

Then Mr. Robinson’s slacks are midway down his thighs, and his half-erect cock is out, and Mrs. Robinson hooks her painted fingertips around his shaft and balls and takes the head between her red lips.

I’m scared and horny, then mostly just horny, watching my former history teacher get slowly, luxuriously fellated by his very hot, very intimidating wife. The oral equivalent of a slow fuck.

When his cock is bigger and harder than I ever saw it before, she releases him.

She turns to me and says, “Let’s relocate.”

They show me into their living room. They don’t have a TV.

What they have is lots of bookshelves, full of books. Lots of lamps. And a large, sectional sofa, big enough for multiple people to sprawl upon.

Mrs. Robinson leads us, her heels clicking on the gleaming hardwood floor. I can’t help but watch her broad ass swivel under the high waist of her skirt.

Mr. Robinson walks next to me, looking more elegant than any man has a right to with his pants lowered and his cock swinging.

They sit together on the edge of the sectional. There’s a candy dish next to it–I notice it’s full of condoms. His cock points at the ceiling. Her hand finds its way to it without her looking.

I’m standing here and they’re staring at me. I’m trying not to fixate on her hand, which is gliding loosely up and down on him on a film of her spit.

“Shall we see what Beth is working with?” Mrs. Robinson says.

“I’d like that,” says Mr. Robinson. “Would you like that, Beth?”

“Sure,” I say, trying to keep the tremulousness out of my voice.

I take off my shoes and socks, then I pull my nice, form-fitting black t-shirt off over my head. I’m trying not to be in my head, trying not to keep glancing at them for approval or shame.

But I feel them watching as my pale, fat body reveals itself, held daintily in by a cute creamy pink bra that, even now, I’m second-guessing.

I bend down, hyperaware of my partially exposed breasts and sagging stomach as I slide my jeans down to my feet.

I step out of them, then I stand up, and only then do I look at them.

Not exactly the world’s greatest striptease. But Mr. Robinson looks pleased, and Mrs. Robinson looks absolutely over the moon.

“I told you she was beautiful,” Mr. Robinson murmurs while Mrs. Robinson strokes his cock.

“Beth,” Mrs. Robinson says, “if I gave you two directions, would you follow them?”

I nod. A lock of hair, jarred loose by my erstwhile shirt, falls into my face. I’m too nervous to do anything about it.

I guess I’m still expecting this to go sour. Though, at this point, I’m not sure why.

She backs away a little and has him wriggle out of his clothes. Soon, he’s nude, partially reclining, looking at me with expectation while his cock looms out of his lap.

Then she says, “Straddle him.”

I come over and crawl on top of him, my knees on either side of him, lying my torso atop his. I feel his hard cock against my warm pussy through the thin fabric of my panties.

Mrs. Robinson leans in, her face next to ours. She’s inscrutable, except for an avid look in her eyes.

“Kiss,” she says.

I lean in and kiss Mr. Robinson, hesitantly at first, far more uncomfortable with the reality of being watched than I ever imagined.

But his passionate response, and Mrs. Robinson’s apparent joy at watching us, is having a transformative effect.

That discomfort, that fear, doesn’t go away.

What it does is turn me on, make me feel bold, spur me to kiss and slobber upon my history teacher’s face and neck and shoulders with a newfound ferocity.

“Do you like dirty talk?” Mrs. Robinson stage-whispers into my ear.

“Mmhmm,” I say into Mr. Robinson’s mouth.

“Do you like being called names?”

“Mmhmm.”

I don’t actually know if that’s true or not.

“Good. I wouldn’t miss a chance to tell you to fuck my husband, you dirty little whore.”

Now I’m grinding him, the length of him, up and down. He’s gripping my ass, squeezing me through my panties, his fingertips tantalizingly close to my asshole.

“Do you want your bra off, whore?”

“Mmhmm.”

God. I’m on fire. I’m soaked. I need to be touched inside.

I guess it’s true. I do like to be called names.

I feel fingers undo the hooks at my back, then a sudden release of tension. My breasts relax, loose from their restraint.

I lift my face away from Mr. Robinson’s and sit upright, slipping the bra off and tossing it away. Below me, he’s red-faced, his breathing heavy, slow, and even.

“Mm. Lovely,” Mrs. Robinson says.

She cups the underside of my tit, strokes just the perimeter of my nipple. I shiver; it’s a lot.

It’s the first time she’s touched me.

“Now,” she says, “get up, off my husband, and take off your panties.”

I glance down at Mr. Robinson. He nods.

I climb off him, kneel on the cushion next to him, and pull down my panties. I work my way out of them, first raising one knee, then the other.

Mrs. Robinson eyes my naked pubis appreciatively. There’s a few days’ growth of hair on it, not much more than a bristly patch between my thighs and a nigh-invisible trail leading upward.

“You’re such a cute little slut,” she says. “I bet you look good when you fuck.”

She opens a condom, unrolls it onto Mr. Robinson’s cock, and I don’t have to be told what to do next.

I swing a leg over him and straddle him once more, my hands on his chest. His cock practically guides itself; all I have to do is lower myself on it until I’m sitting on his thighs.

Mrs. Robinson pats me on the back and coos little half-nonsense words of encouragement as I start fucking him, grinding my hips forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, my ass never leaving his lap.

I’m positively tropical inside. This is what I needed–the itch I needed so badly to scratch.

I lean back, arching my torso, my belly and my tits bouncing as his cock slips halfway out of me and buries itself in again.

“God,” Mrs. Robinson mutters next to me, as if mesmerized.

I keep this up for a time, and, for a moment, I’m certain he’s going to come. But, inevitably, I get fatigued. I collapse onto him, embracing him, and we neck as our bodies languidly rock together.

She’s unshy about devouring us with her roving gaze. At some point, she’s behind me, and I can no longer see her, but I can feel her eyes upon me.

At some unspoken signal, Mr. Robinson pulls my asscheeks apart, and I can feel the kiss of cool, still air on my asshole.

“Oh wow,” I hear her murmur.

I’m almost spent. Perhaps sensing this, he hugs me to him and starts fucking me from underneath, pounding me, letting me passively ride him while I regain my strength.

Then Mrs. Robinson is next to me again.

“Don’t you think you should be a good little slut and suck him the rest of the way off?”

We reposition ourselves, him kneeling upright in front of me, me on my hands and knees in front of him.

He goes to take the condom off, but I give him a look, and he nods. The condom stays.

While my lips cruise up and down his cock, tasting the latex and hearing its wet, crinkly sounds, Mrs. Robinson avails herself of my body.

Her hand roams, first stroking my shoulders, then my spine, then underneath me to feel my dangling stomach. She swirls around my navel and briefly fingers it, which I find oddly hot.

I try to tamp down the old feelings of embarrassment when her fingers find the faint trace of pubic hair that descends from my belly.

Then she’s behind me, and I don’t know what she’s doing, occupied as I am with Mr. Robinson’s pubic hair filling my eyeline and the head of his cock bumping against my soft palate, threatening my gag reflex.

And that’s when I feel it, clear and unmistakable–the feeling of a mouth on my pussy. The touch of a tongue to my labia, the breathing of nostrils on my asshole.

I’m on my hands and knees, spit roasted by Mr. Robinson’s cock and Mrs. Robinson’s mouth.

The shock wears off quickly, replaced by the itch of fleeting satisfaction, the taboo of the new.

She’s good.

I’m too in my head. It’s not going to get me there.

But, fuck, I’m enjoying this.

Eventually, Mr. Robinson comes, and I let his half-soft cock slide from my lips, and I rest my cheek against his thigh and leave my ass in the air while Mrs. Robinson expertly eats me out from behind.

“Mm, put a finger in my ass,” I hear myself mumbling, not quite sure where the words are coming from.

The attentions to my vulva stop.

Then I hear a manly-sounding hack, followed by a wet, sticky feeling on my asshole, trickling down my perineum.

Then, a blessed finger, stroking my anus, then sliding in one knuckle at a time.

And the return of her tongue, at that sweet spot just below my clit.

As hot as I am, it doesn’t take much longer, between the pressure of her finger in my rectum and her figuring out exactly how to please me with her diligent mouth.

Waves crash over me. Dimly, I’m aware that I’m crying out.

Then, I’m lying in a heap between Mr. Robinson’s legs, my face somewhere in the vicinity of his musky balls.

Mrs. Robinson’s face is there next to mine, her mouth smeared with lipsticks, spit, and the funk of sex.

“You were wonderful,” she says, the warmest she’s been towards me since dinner.

~

It’s late. We all shower, one at a time, and turn in. They invite me to sleep with them in their bed–I say yes. Mercifully, it’s a king, and there’s plenty of room for all of us.

Mrs. Robinson is the last one in. It’s dark. I don’t get to see what’s under her towel, but I feel many things as her body, still moist from the shower, slips under the covers and presses up against mine.

I’m sandwiched between them. His body hard, hers soft, both very warm. I’m convinced I’ll never get to sleep.

But I must have dozed off at some point. I wake up, find that the full moon is shining through the open window, and I feel a rocking on the mattress next to me.

I look over. Illuminated, just around their edges, their many contours, Mr. Robinson energetically fucks Mrs. Robinson from behind, her body resplendent in the sparse details that I can see.

Her swaying tits, large and full, just a little heavy with age. Big, sharply defined nipples. Thick waist, big hips, a soft pouch at the base of her tummy. Her flesh ripples with each thrust.

I’m so tired.

I watch the whole thing.

Both of them did a commendable job of keeping the noise down, grunting and hissing through their teeth. When he withdraws, his sagging cock is bare and wet.

They collapse into each other’s arms. After a while, I throw an arm and a leg over their entwined bodies and doze off again.

~

I wake up in the morning and they’re gone.

I find a terrycloth robe they’ve left for me on the end of the bed–scandalously short, but otherwise conventional. I don it and go downstairs.

They’ve made breakfast. They’re wearing robes to match. We eat together, an almost ludicrous parody of a wholesome family meal.

I’m wondering if there will be more hijinks, but, eventually, they go upstairs one at a time and get dressed. I find my clothes in their living room and follow suit.

Then my “event” at Mr. Robinson’s house is over.

In the doorway, they each kiss me on the cheek and bid me farwell. We each make sure we have each other’s contact information.

Then I get into my car and leave.

~

The next night, I’m on a bed, hands and knees, naked.

Upright behind me, also naked, is Christopher, swirling my wet, sticky vulva with the thumb of one hand and stretching my asshole with three fingers of the other.

He started with just one finger. My halting, falsetto grunts started out performative, but grew more and more genuine each time he slipped another one in.

In front of us is a mirror, hanging from the open door of the plain hotel room wardrobe–my idea. Occasionally, I glance at Christopher in the reflection, all sweaty and reddened with ardor and effort.

But mostly, I watch myself. I watch my face, the flush in my chubby cheeks, the clouding of my faraway eyes, watch my breasts and belly wobble beneath my unsteady body.

I’ve been fantasizing about watching, and about being watched. This accomplishes both, after a fashion.

Christopher asks me if I’d like a fourth finger, and I say no. My ass already feels so full, so overwhelming, that I almost can’t breathe. The tingling in my genitals is coming over me in waves.

When I come, he locks me in place with one strong arm under my hips, but he doesn’t remove his fingers from my anus until I’m spent. I feel my muscles clutching at him, vainly trying to squeeze shut around him.

I roll onto my back, on a sheet damp with my own sweat, blissed and fucked out. My pussy and my asshole sing with delightful soreness. My head lolls over the side of the bed–I see myself upside down.

Christopher mounts me. I spread my thighs and passively let him fuck me, watching the inverted figures in the mirror as if seeing them from some far off upside-down world.

He pulls out, snaps the condom off, and jerks his impressive cock until hot cum lands on my belly and my stubbled pubis.

He cleans my skin with his slurping tongue–the wetness make me shiver–then lies atop me, lifting my limp head up for a kiss. He deposits his spit and his cum in my mouth and I dutifully swallow.

For a time, we nap, his body spooning mine, his flaccid cock wet between our warm bodies.

(Lately, we’ve been fucking, napping, and fucking once more before we leave. “One for the road,” he’ll usually say.)

I look at the half-covered figures in the mirror, his grayed and hairy arm draped over her fat belly beneath her large, heavy breasts, her overized cherry blossomm nipples. An image of tranquility.

“Christopher?”

“Mm?”

“Are you…”

I’m not sure how to ask him.

“Am I what, my rolly polly pet?”

Yes, he has cutesy nicknames for me. No, I haven’t come up with any for him. Yet.

I’ve been thinking of him lately with the word Darla used: client.

“Are you… y’know… a procurer?”

“A procurer of what?”

“Of women?”

He starts laughing as what I’m asking him sinks in.

“No,” he says, and laughs again.

“Then the men you put me in touch with…”

“Oh, darling, they’re just friends. You’re in the scene as long as me, you get real comfortable talking about fucking and helping each other get laid.”

“What about the money they pay me?”

He pulls the sheet down to my thighs and traces little circles around my navel. One of his favorite affectionate gestures.

“Some guys just want to feel important,” he says, his tone careful. “If fucking some pretty young thing isn’t enough, lavishing them with cash might just do it.”

“Do you think it would bother them if I started requiring it?”

“Requiring what?”

“Payment.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then he says, “No. I don’t think any of them would mind.”

“I mean you too.”

“Princess Peaches, I would gladly pay my hard earned cash to keep my dick wet with you.”

“Okay. Today then.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know. However much you think it’s worth.”

“You’re the one who sets the rate, baby.”

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” I say, feeling a little defensive. “Just give me whatever you think its worth.”

“100 bucks then.”

“Sounds fair.”

He’s quiet again.

Then, “You know, when you agree to do something for someone, and they’re paying you for it, that means you have to go through with it even if you don’t want to.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“Just making sure. Guys are gonna ask you for some weird stuff. How you feel before it starts might change once you’re in the middle of it.”

“I’m okay with that,” I repeat.

“Okay, Baby Beth.”

We lapse back into silence.

He usually gives me money after we fuck. I find myself wondering if he would have given me a different amount if I hadn’t said anything.

After a while, I feel his cock get hard again. It’s subtle at first–just a faint pulse against my spine–but soon it’s a hard ridge between us.