My Girlfriend’s Mother
Christmas with the potential in-laws just got hella awkward.
When Andrea first showed me a picture of her mother Teresa, there was something familiar about her face — but I couldn’t place her in the hundreds of people I met each year through my admissions work at the nearby university.
As soon as I saw Teresa in person, though, my memory’s trigger went off.
She’s sitting there at the bar, stirring a fruity cocktail but looking bored with everything around her. Feeling tipsy and far too brave, I approach her — and her eyes light up when I ask if she could use something stronger.
“I could use more than that,” she says in a purr.
An hour later, I’m shrugging out of clothes faster than I’ve ever done before. Even though I know she’s older than me, her toned body creates the illusion that the gap is minimal at most. She pushes me down to the bed, all while still clad in her black lacey bra and matching panties, and she makes a show of rocking against the hardness beneath my boxers till I feel ready to burst.
Then she’s readjusting, bending to paint kisses down my navel and trailing down as she runs her hands slowly, so slowly across the fabric —
