Just Your Friendly Neighbourhood GILF - Sex Stories

Just Your Friendly Neighbourhood GILF

There isn’t a bigger turn-off in the world than being on the verge of busting a fat nut, but your mother’s voice attacks your ears from the kitchen.

“Anthony!”

“What?” I screamed.

“Who in thehell you think you talking to?” my mother said with the appropriate amount of venom. “Boy, get your behind out here and carry back these containers Mrs. Bertram lent us.”

I slapped my mattress, cussed under my breath, and then put on a pair of joggers and exited my room. When I faced my mother, she had a hand on her hip and tapped her toes while examining my scowl with one of her own.

“Ain’t nothing you doing now that important anyway, so stop ya sulking. Get over there and carry these to her.” She handed me three bowls, the smaller ones sitting inside the biggest so that the large bowl’s cover shielded them all.

“Alright,” I whispered.

“What was that?”

“Okay,” I said more firmly, but not too much so, lest I earn the “you ain’t too old to get a whooping” speech.

“Good. Plus, I don’t know why you being like that. Shalisa’s probably home.” My mother winked and patted my shoulder as if smooth sailings were guaranteed with the aforementioned young lady.

The world’s worst-kept secret was that I had a little thing for Shalisa. The much better-kept secret was that she rejected me asking her out by saying, “Ew, never in a million fucking years.” I didn’t bother telling my mother because if she found out, the meeting between those two would be anything but ...

... friendly. Her grandmother knew and promised she wouldn’t tell. I figured I’d take this as an opportunity to remind her.

I took a leisurely stroll along the street, and seven houses later, I hooked left, chipped up the pathway and knocked on the door.

“Coming,” said Mrs. Bertram. A modestly dressed woman with silver and black hair answered the door, retrieved the containers and invited me in.

“Thank you again for not snitching about what happened between me and Shalisa.” Mrs. Bertram put down her containers, and flicked her wrist at me.

“What happened between this fine young man and your granddaughter?” asked another female voice. When I looked left, there stood an old, high-ponytailed, white woman whose curves zapped electric impulses to my loins haphazardly.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” said Mrs. Bertram. “Anthony, this is Meredith. Meredith, meet Anthony.”

Meredith sashayed toward me in her short, long-sleeved, blue dress. Not a hint of cleavage, and yet the protrusion of her breasts was monumental. The amount of leg meat shown – though not overly improper – sullied my mind, but given her thickness, it seemed lewder than it really was.

“Nice to meet you, Anthony,” Meredith said.

“You as well,” I said, “Am, I mean it’s nice to meet you.”

“Meredith moved into the neighbourhood just a few days ago,” Mrs. Bertram said. “So I was telling her what’s what and who’s who around here.”

“Uh, that’s cool, I guess,” I said, still staring at Meredith’s ...