Summary of this Story:
I trained Jake Harlan at Pfizer’s Indianapolis hub, my work son at thirty-two, while stuck in a sexless marriage with Mike after thirty-five years. Frustrated at fifty-seven, I teased Jake endlessly about my massive pale tits he begged to see. His birthday sealed it. I lured him to the concrete crash room in the basement, steel doors thudding shut. Fair trade: he stripped to reveal his thick swinging sausage dick; I yanked off blouse and bra. Power flipped when I popped out my dentures and engulfed him, swallowing my first load ever. We fucked wildly on the cot, shattering my vanilla world. Now Assistant Marshal with keys, he feeds my addiction secretly. Home life rolls on smooth.
Here is your Story: The subtle power exchange in the crash room
Hey. Name’s Andy. I’m 57, account manager at Pfizer’s big Midwest hub in Indianapolis. Wife, mom to three daughters, buddies with half the neighborhood. That’s normal around here. What ain’t? I gave my first blowjob six weeks ago. Gotta explain that one.
Ever hear of a “work husband”? I passed on that. Landed a “work son” instead. Jake Harlan. Thirty-two, married with two kids. I trained him up. Can’t rein the guy in anymore. He flirts all day long. Beats me why. I don’t picture myself like that. One, I’m old enough to be his mom. Two, sturdy build at six feet, dwarf the skinny office girls. Three, wide mouth with dentures too damn bright. Four, over thirty years hitched and punching the clock at Pfizer. Beauty regimen? Call it low-key.
Jake still begs every day to see my tits. Swears they’re perfect pale melons. Hasn’t laid eyes on ’em yet. But I’ve got the real deal. Massive, gorgeous ones. I dig ’em too. At five-five, he’s right at boob height. “Oops” bumps his face into them. His mouth. His hands. Some nights leaving work, I’m dripping so bad I rub one out before hopping in the Jeep. No wet spots on the leather seats.
Don’t rag on Jake too much. I poke the bear. “Punish” him some days with a blouse that shoves up the cleavage. Just enough he figures it’s all for him. Not so obvious my husband Mike raises an eyebrow. Mike’s big on keeping things proper, not staring at racks.
The Home Front
Mike’s a stud. Six-four, ripped, thick hair. I’d bet the block ladies sneak off to touch themselves thinking about him railing them. Truth? It’s another story. He barely pays attention. Sex is rare. Thirty-fifth wedding anniversary came and went. We’d done it dozens of times, not hundreds. Maybe ten tries for a boy after the girls. Straight missionary only. No blowjobs ever.
Mike’s my one and only guy. That’s how I stayed a blowjob virgin at 57. Sets up the whole tale.
Jake’s ground me down. Or hell, maybe I wanna flash somebody not straight out of a Pilgrim playbook. Slippery slope. His birthday’s coming fast. Dare I make my tits the present? Tell him, thirty-two years after popping from his mom’s pussy, he’ll get the live show? Gotta warn him first. Test if the begging’s legit. No chickening out once it’s on. Big choices.
Setup? Crash room down in Pfizer’s basement. Concrete walls, steel doors, no windows. Full wet bar inside. Sink, first aid kits, fold-out cots. I’m the Active Shooter Marshal. Check the halls, lock down spots. Ideal hideout. Slot it after hours on his birthday. He’ll jump at the volunteer shift. Home in time for burgers on the grill. How quick to flash the tits?
Mike skimps on my orgasms. I stash vibrators in my sewing kit. Once a month before Jake showed up. Now twice a week. Maybe it’s the thrill of showing off. Daydreams of baring it all leave me soaked. Those fat dildos got me ready. Why not flip it? Hold my tits ransom. He flashes dick. Jerk-off material trade. Fair’s fair at Pfizer.
The Deal Goes Down
Only seen Mike’s dick. Jet black. No grabbing it. Just hold on while he thrusts, grunts two minutes, unloads, rolls off. Night night. I hit up Pornhub to study technique. Some scary monsters out there. Mike’s average. Fine by me, since foreplay’s gross to him. Jake’s bulge in those khakis? Tempting. Tit for tat. He’ll play ball.
Week to decide: blouse or bare it? Dick before I drop dead? Or stick to missionary forever? The crash room’s got the answer.
“Hey Jake. Birthday’s close, huh? Any wishes?”
“Same old, Andy. A guy can dream.”
“Solid. Tit fairy dropped by. I’ll let you see. Unless you chicken?”
“Don’t yank my chain! That’s cold.”
“No joke. Thought about it forever. Always ‘nah, next year.’ Won’t get prettier. Wait much longer, they’ll drag the floor.”
“Don’t doubt my freak side. Love your big ones. You haul ’em like a twisted pack mule.”
“Steady as ever. Serious ask? Or just messing?”
“Both. Straight up: yeah, Andy. The real tits. Not some figure of speech.”
“You got it. Catch.”
“Shit! Knew there was a hook.”
“One promise. You grant my ask too. Maybe a feel.”
“Jesus. Like what?”
“You see tits. I see cock. Fair trade.”
“Not even. I’d drop pants. You just lift the shirt.”
“Guys go shirtless at the pool. Women topless? Not the same. Ticket price. You in?”
“Hell yes.”
“Here’s how…”
Jake’s buzzing all day on his birthday. Nudges me at 5:30. Crash room check. I wave him ahead. Slam the steel bar home. That heavy industrial thunk seals us in.
“Holy fuck! It’s go time! How?”
“You start. Show you’re for real. Down to T-shirt and socks. Then I ditch the top. Pale skin, heavy girls hanging over my khakis.”
Eight feet between us. Jake snags a metal folding chair. Kicks off his Nikes slow. Drops the chinos. Button-down. Black boxer briefs with a wild bulge. Shoves ’em down. Kicks the pile. His thick sausage dick swings soft.
Shock value’s the play. I yank off blouse and bra in one go. His sausage swells to beer-can thick. Jaw drops first. “Your wife’s tiny?”
“Yep. Flat as a board. Problem.”
“How do you, what’s that matter. Too nosy.”
“‘Proper’ sailed out the door. Hands, mouth, toys get her there.”
“How do you get yours?”
“Her oiled-up body’s my slide. Gets me raging. Fleshlight some nights. Half the time I’m too worked up for that.”
“Can’t fit in her mouth. Not many can. Pussy? Lube, booze, warm-up. Two kids the old way. But pounding her’s no fun. Stick to backups. Anything beats nothing. Dig unloading in her snatch twice a week. Fantasy life.”
He’s rock hard now. Back off that edge. Can’t stop staring. Real cock up close? Rare sight. His is a monster. Watched him eye the young ones like a dog. Step closer.
He cups my tits soft. Like they’re gold. Breath catches. All worship. That fat dick prods my thigh, my belly, right at my pussy. I’m drenched. Horniest I’ve been.
“Jake, pussy’s soaked. Ain’t petite. Wanna blow a load in it? I’m built for it.”
“You sure?”
Khakis hit the floor. Guide his hand to the wet spot. “Dead sure.” Eyes locked deep.
Cot’s right there by then. Two fingers slide in. Second guy ever. Feels weird at first. Shy part’s gone.
If he won’t fuck me, somebody will. Now. Lightbulb. “Hold up. Watch this first.”
Pop out the dentures into my palm. Wide mouth engulfs his cock. Fingers pump the base. Gulp it down hog-style. He erupts. Cum floods out. Almost knocks me back across the concrete.
First blowjob ever. Nailed it. No mess-up. Full throat-fuck.
After cuddle. He bounces back hard fast, wife-fuck mode. Him flat on the cot. Dildo drills paid off. Quick shift, full hilt. He blows. I shatter. Gush everywhere. Big-girl ride.
Six weeks hooked on that first cum taste. Ain’t stopping. Keep home life smooth. Jake digs his family. Side fun stays secret.
Guilty? Hell no. Uptight Mike earned it. Jake? Nah. Loves his wife, not me. Just nuts twice. No divorces. She’s clueless.
Pfizer bumps him to Assistant Marshal. Extra five grand a year. Crash room keys. After-hours hookups. Blowjobs. Fucks.
Jake’s cum hit my tonsils. My cervix too. Ditched the vanilla life. Thank fuck. I twist the crash room’s steel bar shut, Budweiser fizz still on my tongue from the mini-fridge can.
