MILF and Cookies: A Christmas Delight by Spencer Dryden
My one man enterprise normally slows to a halt as the holiday season approaches, and I drop off the radar, but sometimes, even a humble handyman gets a surprise Christmas gift.
I do a good bit of work in wealthy communities of studied elegance, where many fine looking women live lives of quiet frustration, unable to get their husbands to do the simplest of repairs. When even playing the disappointment card fails to get results, I get the call. To my credit, I have learned the value of appreciating, but not touching the merchandise. Believe me, the temptation is ever present. I have held harmless fantasies about many of the women I have worked for, but Judy Kessell was at the top of my list of Mothers I’d Like to Fuck.
She lived in an award-winning, custom-designed home in a neighborhood of McMansions, where the postage stamp landscapes are manicured by troops of jump-suit-attired artisans who don’t speak a word of English. Past the massive entry doors that threaten to deplete native species of third world rain forests, the interiors resemble a tour through a upscale home décor magazine, with all its sterile splendor. Everyone drives sparkling late model German and Japanese luxury sedans.
When I first met Judy, I commented that she didn’t look old enough to be the mother a couple of teenage boys. Aside from a few wrinkles at the edge of her hazel brown eyes, she had a flawless complexion with the figure and energy of a twenty-something. Yet, she seemed out of place in the tony neighborhood. There was no pretense about her.
She smiled easily, as if her thin lips couldn’t keep her pearly white teeth hidden. Slightly teased and expertly layered, frosted blonde hair flowed like honey across her small shoulders, just reaching the top of her perky breasts. She was all of five foot two with a dancer’s body—flat stomach, trim hips, strong buns and legs—at least judging by the way she filled a pair of jeans. She had a breezy friendliness and oozed a playful sexuality that would make the Pope rethink celibacy. She was a modern day Medusa—one passing glance from her turned my cock to stone.
I worked for her regularly and came enjoy her company, along with the rich coffee and buttery treats she served from her kitchen paradise. I loved the way her eyes twinkled when she talked. It was only a small indulgence in fantasy to get lost in them as we sipped coffee before I started work.
I knew nothing about her husband and she never spoke about him. In the portraits of them, he appeared older. The house was appointed in a way that gave me the impression he was a rich and powerful business man. The place was practically wall papered with money. It made me wonder if Judy had initially been a trophy wife. She sure was a prize. I couldn’t imagine leaving her every day.
I don’t know what kind of man can’t change a toilet flapper or replace a broken wall switch, especially if it earned a hug and kiss from lips as tantalizing as Judy. Her gushing over my simple repairs was disarming. I must admit at times it made me sad to wonder what kind of man I’d have to be to earn her love and affection. It wasn’t going to be as a rich, successful business man. I had gotten lost somewhere in all this career stuff. I failed miserably at real estate, insurance and even selling stocks. Truthfully all I wanted was the riches the recruiters promised; there was nothing about the work that intrigued me. Asking strangers for appointments made me a nervous wreck. At thirty three I was pretty much off track.
My romantic life was equally fucked. In my white collar years, I was always throwing myself at the beauty queens and cheer leader types. The kind who came to live the the wealthy neighborhoods where I worked. Truthfully I found their sense of entitlement distasteful. It’s what made Judy so different—though she was just as unattainable. I had to be content with the sweet smell of her perfume.
I knew my limits, so when I didn’t hear from her for some time, it got me wondering. Given her husband’s status, a move seemed inevitable. For me to call her was way out of bounds. When she finally called after a long hiatus, there was a reticence in her voice I hadn’t heard before. Was I still in the handyman business and would I help her with some repairs? Of course I would. She gave me a different address. I’m no genius, so it didn’t occur to me that her life might have changed, until I pulled up to the quaint little townhome. A fresh dusting of powdered snow made driving treacherous but gave the neighborhood the look of charmed Christmas story from the Hallmark Channel..
When she opened the door my nostrils were assailed by the aroma of fresh baking and my eyes nearly blinded by her arresting smile. Her apron was covered with flour, which stuck to me after her unexpected embrace. The crush of her firm breasts against my chest made my groin ache with desire. She laughed as she brushed the flour from my shirt. The expensive manicure was absent but her gentle touch made me shudder. There were a few more care lines around her mouth now, but they were whisked away by her eager smile. She took me by the arm and led me inside. Is there a better way to start work than with a boob shot in the arm? Yes, there is; coffee and cookies with a red hot MILF. It took a few moments to pry by gaze away from her radiant face to notice the surroundings.
The Pottery Barn decor was gone. It was Goodwill and some Ikea, in a shabby chic motif that was fresh and alive. The open floor plan of the main level and cathedral ceiling in the living room made the small space seem larger. An ornately decorated Christmas tree was tucked into an alcove next to the fireplace. I couldn’t avoid the obvious question any longer as we sat at the little table adjacent to the kitchen.
“What’s going on here, Judy? Are you decorating this place for your boys?”
“No, it’s mine.”
It caught me by surprise. I guess I knew, but didn’t want to believe it.
“Tom and I are through,” she said with only a hint of sorrow in her tone.
I took a deep breath. “Oh, Judy, I’m sorry to hear that, but doesn’t the woman usually get the house?”
“I didn’t want it,” she said, through clenched teeth.
“Why not? It was such a beautiful home.”
“In a neighborhood of small minds and prying eyes,” she said, looking away.
“But half the women there are divorced.” It was a feeble offering.
She shook her head. “Yeah, but when I came home early from a weekend trip and found him banging his secretary on the kitchen counter, I realized I’d never get the stench out of the house.”
I went into brain lock, not sure of the right thing to say. “Judy, I’m so sorry.”
She patted my arm and handed me the plate of cookies again, Russian tea cakes. I must have looked like an overgrown kid. She smiled, enjoying the appreciation, and brushed some of the errant powdered sugar from the corners my mouth. Her slightest touch was electric.
“Are you doing OK?” I asked after another a sip of coffee.
“Much better.” She sighed. “I’ve never really lived on my own before. I was just twenty when we were married.” She looked off to the distance as if seeing a bright future and then looked back at me. “It’s kind of fun really.”
“Where are your boys?”
“In college, and then, mostly with their dad. He lets them drink and smoke in the house.”
I nearly choked on the coffee. “Your boys are in college?”
“It’s been almost two years since I saw you last,” she said.
“Two years?” I whispered. “Where does the time go?”
“Away too fast.” She patted my arm again, flashing her disarming smile. “I really appreciate you coming to help me. I’m afraid I don’t have much money. Tom is stalling on the divorce settlement. Maybe you should teach me how to do some of this stuff.”
“What, and lose my source of Christmas cookies? Fogetaboutit.”
I got the chuckle I wanted.
“Don’t worry about money,” I said. “You always overpaid anyway.”
A little mist formed in her eyes.
“Well, what’s first?” I asked, knowing I’d panic and do something stupid if she started crying.
She stood and grabbed a box from the counter. It was an oversized shower head.
“I’m so desperate for a good shower. Will you swap that piece of crap I have for this?”
“That’ll take about a minute,” I said. “I’ll get my tools.”
By the time I arrived back at the master bathroom, she was clad in a thick, flowing, dark red terry cloth bath robe. The slightly open collar offered a tantalizing hint of her breasts, which the soft fabric cradled like gentle hands. It only took a minute to swap the shower heads. I turned on the new one and held my hand inside to test the spray. It promised a sensuous experience beyond simple showering, more like a waterfall in a rain forest.
“I’d invite you in,” she said with an impish grin, “but I haven’t shaved my legs in a while.”
I blushed. She laughed. It was good to hear her laugh again.
“What’s next then?” I asked, struggling for composure.
“The disposal’s jammed and the sink sprayer doesn’t work, and then I want to put some curtain rods up on the front window, and hang some garland.”
“I’m on it.” I said, groin aching.
From my dungeon beneath the kitchen sink, I could hear the water cascading down the pipes from the master bath above. The thought of the warm gentle stream caressing her firm breasts and trickling between her thighs sent so much blood gushing to my cock that I thought I might get stuck under the cabinet. Thankfully, the work distracted me from my thoughts of barging into the shower, hoisting her on to my cock, pinning her against the wall and banging her hard.
I had just finished when she breezed into the kitchen, scrubbing her hair dry with a towel. Still in the loose fitting bath robe, she all but exposed her breasts as she raised her arms for that task. She caught me looking and gave me a knowing grin as I turned away, red-faced again, to flip the switch to the disposal and use the sprayer to demonstrate the repairs.
“Nice,” she said after the noise of the test run had faded. “Do the curtain rods next. I’m tired of living in a fish bowl.”
She walked over toward the large window on the west wall of the living room and sat at the edge of the couch as if settling in for a football game.
To hide my erection, I left my shirt tails over my belt. At the window, I scaled my three step utility ladder. Once again, work cooled the savage lust. I quickly located the studs at each end of the window but in trying to locate a spot for the center support my awl went right through the drywall where the stud should have been.
I turned back toward her. I swear she was staring at my ass. “Hand me that little black box thing there would you?” I pointed to the crowded tool box near her feet.
“This?” she asked, clutching the top of her robe as she bent to pick up the small device.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a stud finder.”
“Really?” she asked in a teasing voice. “How does it work?” She started handing the tool to me then pulled it back when she squeezed the sides, causing the indicator lights to fire. She held it to my leg and moved it around. “I think it’s working.”
She seemed delighted to see me blush. I shook my head as she handed the tool to me. I found the missing stud and had the curtain rod anchors solidly in place in a matter of minutes. I admit I was more than a little unnerved by her attentive gaze. I kept telling myself she was just curious about the work. The curtains in place, I stepped down from the ladder and directed her to the pull chord.
“Some privacy at last, “she said, smiling as the curtains closed out the afternoon sun.
“Now, I want to loop some garland over the curtain rod.”
She scurried across the room and returned with a coil of neatly wound garland. She fed it to me while I moved along the curtain rod. As I stepped down to admire my work, she was shaking her head.
“I want more loop,” she said.
I gave her a puzzled look.
“I’ll do it,” she said turning the ladder sideways to the window.
She ascended the ladder. Its wide bottom steps provided stability but it was not tall enough for her to reach the top of the curtain rod. She stepped up on to the narrow top step. The ladder wobbled in protest.
“Hold on to me, okay?” She looked nervous, but determined, as she stood to her full height, still, just barely able to reach the top of the rod.
I think I moaned when I took hold of her, my hands on her firm middle, my nose almost against the knot of her robe. My memory is a little fuzzy as something like a Christmas miracle happened. She adjusted the first of the loops then turned more toward me, while taking more of the garland. Her hand brushed against the knot on the robe. The knot slipped and the soft fabric opened like curtains to the Promised Land. There I was my nose right in front of the most beautiful trimmed pussy I had seen in a long time. Her scent robbed me of any words, quickly boring its way into an ancient part of my sex-starved brain where there are no words, only savage urges.
A tiny droplet of her nectar trickled down the inside of her thigh. There was a awkward silence. I don’t know which of us was trembling more as I ran my nose along taut skin of her lower tummy and on through to the soft landing patch of reddish blonde hair. I could feel her breath quicken as she gently stroked my hair.
That’s when I lost it. I lapped the succulent drop like a man dying of thirst. Instead of a slap or a scream she moaned in delight.
“Oh yes,” she whispered as she wound her hands into my hair, pulling me closer.
I licked along the length of her shimmering pussy with a broad swipe of my tongue as if licking frosting from a spatula. She gasped. Her knees began to buckle. I clutched her butt and hips. She was as light as a feather. I guided her down to the floor with ease. She spread her legs wide and tilted her hips to greet my craving tongue. Her milky smooth inner labia offered the sweetness of her juices with tincture of the salty tang of brine. Beneath the tree, her growing song of ecstasy was the sweetest Christmas music my ears had ever heard. Her groans became deeper and breathing more ragged as I pushed my tongue into her opening, lapping like a beggar at a trough of rare wine. Her hips quivered from holding something wild inside. Her scent enveloped me in a cloud of mental fog, my thoughts replaced by urges of thrusting and ramming.
It had been so long since I’d eaten pussy I’d all but forgotten the intoxicating power of the liquid heat that poured over my tongue as I probed deeper between her slick folds. I’d never seen an angel come before, until I surrounded her swollen clit with my mouth. Her relaxed purrs grew louder, hard gasps flew from her circled lips. Her undulating hips jerked as she stiffened in an orgasm.
She guided me up to her face with a gentle tug on my hair. She dropped her hands and pushed me up from the waist, tugging frantically at my belt and fly.
“I want you inside of me.” Her voice desperate with desire.
I raised myself up into a push-up position. She pushed away my pants and briefs with her nimble feet, then grabbed by cock and pulled me toward her opening. Strawberry colored nipples stood rock hard on top of her firm mounds. I licked them like gum drops, coating them with saliva. Her hands slipped back to my hair, pulling me to her lips. Her tongue darted into every corner of my mouth. She broke the kiss to gasp as I pushed into her opening. The muscles of her inner sex were strong and tried to push me out before gradually surrendering to the invader. She was hot and wet with animal desire. With each gentle push, I slid in deeper, and her cries grew louder.
“Oh yes,” she groaned, her thrusts, urgent, driving my cock in all the way to its base. She clawed my back and clutched me with arms and legs.
A strong urge that felt like a gathering wave began in the pit of my stomach, flowed into my groin then rolled forward into my cock. My rhythmic stroking was replaced by wild grunts and thrusts. The wave, with a will of its own, desperately sought escape. She let out a savage cry as I exploded inside of her, then collapsed on top of her. Our moans of release rippled through us at different frequencies.
She pushed me up and gave me a quick, wet kiss. “Oh, thank you,” she said, still gasping for breath.
“That was wonderful,” I said, lost for words. Then, with rationality returning, “I’m sorry; I should have asked you about protection.”
She looked at me with moist eyes, running her hands through my hair. “It’s OK. I had my tubes tied after my second was born and I haven’t had another man in twenty years.”
“But…” I tried to speak.
She put a finger to my lips. “It’s all right.” The she pulled me down for another kiss, and pushed me back again.
“Will you come back at the end of Christmas season and help me take this stuff down?”
“Gladly.”
She flashed a naughty grin. “But don’t make me wait so long next time. I thought I was going to jump out of my skin waiting for you to touch me.”
Dumbfounded, I could only smile.
About Spencer Dryden
Spencer Dryden is new on the writing scene but an old guy on the verge of draining any remaining reserves from Medicare and Social Security. In real life he is a handyman, inventor, and web videographer who’s nearly done with his work as an at-home dad. He lives in the frozen tundra of Minnesota but hopes to eventually take up part time residence in his adopted home of Summer Haven, Florida. Like all writers he has a cat but they don’t get along very well.
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Books by Spencer Dryden
Handjob by Spencer Dryden
Jack Reed is a thirty-something handyman and aspiring erotic fiction writer with fantasies about Jodie, a barista at the coffee shop where he writes every day.
His dreams begin to materialize when Jodie offers him a quick palm reading, hinting at sex with her. She invites Jack to her boutique for a more complete session. Her reading predicts Jack’s artisan hands will be pleasing to a woman. Their session interrupted, she invites him to her house that evening for further revelation.
Uncertain of Jodie’s intentions, but drawn by her allure, Jack goes to her house expecting additional interpretation in exchange for handyman work. What he receives is far more than he bargained for.
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Tricks of the Trade by Spencer Dryden
Twenty-something, sexually frustrated plumber, Will Last, is fascinated by an attractive age 40+ woman he sees in the plumbing fixtures isle of a big box store. When he casually strolls her way she strikes up a conversation and begs him to do some emergency plumbing repairs for her.
Mitzi Callahan soon has Will wrapped around her little finger. Will shows her a plumber’s trick for quick repair. After revealing that she is a sex trainer, Mitzi returns the favor by showing him a trick or two in the bedroom.
Mitzi opens his world to the enchantment of older women and leads him to an encounter with one of her students, Lucy Park. Sparks fly between Will and Lucy while dancing at the club where they meet, but they must reach out across age and cultural barriers to find the romantic connection they both seek.
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The Memory of Mermaids by Spencer Dryden
Troubles multiply for the already troubled life of Max Weiss after he rescues a mermaid from the clutches of a sea monster. Drawn by the allure of the enchanting mermaid, Azzaria, Max agrees to help her find her lost mermaid sister. Max is pulled into a world of missing drug money, pirates’ treasure, murderous mobsters, dolphin whisperers and a forbidden love.
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“Storm Across the Prairie” by Spencer Dryden
In Coming Together: Through the Storm
Even the most independent woman sometimes needs a helping hand.
All proceeds benefit Mercy Corps
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