UNDER HIS SPELL by PantheWriter
A horny housewife finds herself unable to resist the advances of her daughter’s new boyfriend. , Under His Spell
by Pan
When I felt the hand of my daughter’s boyfriend on my ass, I didn’t say anything.
How would you have reacted? We’d been asking Georgia to invite her boyfriend around for weeks now—we didn’t know anything about him, except that the two of them seemed to be getting along. My husband and I had literally no idea what to expect—and yet, Ash still managed to surprise us.
He was eighteen, the same age as Georgia, but he held himself with the confidence of a much older man. He walked with…well, with a swagger. He was wearing ripped jeans and a black jacket, made of faux leather, which he refused to take off all through dinner.
Georgia couldn’t keep her eyes off him—she was clearly besotted…and, honestly, I could see why. He was exactly the kind of “bad boy” I would have been keen on when I was her age. He never broke eye-contact—in fact, he spent most of the meal staring straight at me. I’m well into my forties now, but I have to admit, I felt myself blushing slightly in response.
It’s just so rare to get that kind of direct attention from a young man, at my age…and especially such direct attention. I don’t think my husband noticed anything odd in either Ash’s behavior or mine, but Georgia surely must have noticed the inordinate amount of attention her suitor was paying me.
She didn’t say anything, and neither did I. And later, when Ash came into the kitchen and put his hand directly on my ass, I didn’t say anything then, either. We were alone—I was washing up, and my husband had offered to show Georgia and Ash the latest modifications he was making to his car.
I have no idea how Ash managed to sneak away, and I didn’t ask. I just stood there, doing the dishes, while Ash’s hand firmly grasped my rear end. Neither of us said a word—I suppose a part of me was just hoping if I didn’t acknowledge it, he would stop.
But he didn’t. In fact, when it was obvious that I wasn’t going to offer up even a token resistance, he took it a step further. His hand started caressing me, and he stood directly behind me. I could feel his hot breath on my neck—he was tall, taller than my husband—and his other hand came around and started groping my left breast.
I didn’t say anything. But I did shiver—a shiver of fear, I suppose, or possibly arousal. I didn’t know what this young man was doing, or how I felt about it…but my body was responding. I could feel myself getting wet, as the teenager dating my daughter openly groped me in the kitchen.
He used his feet to spread my legs, gently pushing first one leg and then the other. The dishwater was starting to get cold, but I continued the illusion of housework, even though all I was doing was polishing one wet dish over and over again. Ash moved his hand from my ass to my thigh—I was wearing a floral dress that went down past my knees, and as his left hand found my hard nipple and started tweaking it, his other hand slowly started inching my dress higher and higher, until my inner thigh was within reach.
My breathing was heavy as his hand made contact with my skin for the first time since we’d shaken hands at the door earlier that evening. I couldn’t help but wonder: even then, had he been wondering what it would be like to touch me? Had he known how easy I would make it for him, how I was somehow unable to resist his advances?
What we were doing was wrong for so many reasons, but I put the final dish on the drying board, and moved my hands to the edge of the sink, gripping tightly. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I wanted to be able to support myself when it did.
His mouth moved from near my neck to my ear, so close that I couldn’t hear anything but his slow, controlled breathing. I tried to slow my own breath down as well—I’d involuntarily begun panting as his hand slowly moved higher on my thigh, so close that I’m sure he could feel the heat of my pussy.
I’d had no reason to suspect that anyone would see my underthings that night (my husband and I only ever make love on Saturday nights, when Georgia is at netball) and so the pair I was wearing were large, and hardly flattering. I don’t think Ash cared—he moved them to the side with ease, and I involuntarily shuddered as his fingers brushed against my tangled pubic hair.
Before long, I was biting my lip to prevent myself from crying out—despite his youth, Ash seemed to be far from inexperienced. His fingers found my wetness immediately, and soon he was plunging them deep within me. I don’t even know when exactly he undid the top few buttons of my dress, and slipped his hand inside, reaching inside my bra and tweaking my nipple directly. My head was so foggy—all I could think about was how wrong it was, what we were doing, and the unexpected amount of pleasure that Ash was able to provide with his roaming fingers.
Ash’s fingers went deep, and I arched my back, pressing my ass against his pants and feeling his hard cock within. I didn’t allow myself to question what was happening—a part of me knew that if I did, it would have to stop, and I didn’t want it to stop. Not yet.
Grinding my ass against his erection, my eyes shut and my mouth struggling not to make any more noise than the huffing I already was, Ash’s talented young fingers brought me to orgasm. Right there, in my kitchen, my husband and daughter not two rooms away, I came—something I hadn’t done with anyone but my husband for more than twenty years.
As I came down, reality came crashing back. What had I done?? I’d not only betrayed my husband’s trust, I’d betrayed Georgia as well—this boy was nothing to me, but she was my daughter.
I’d stabbed my only daughter in the back.
My breathing grew steady, and I turned to tell Ash that it could never happen again, but he was gone. I was alone in the kitchen with my washing up, my partially-unbuttoned dress and a pair of soaking wet panties.
* * *
When Georgia and my husband returned a few minutes later, I was composed once again—on the outside, at least. On the inside, my mind was whirring, going over what I’d done. I’d let a boy—a boy, less than half my age—feel me up, touch me, and…get me off.
What had I done?
Ash returned a few minutes later, and though I avoided looking at him, I could feel his eyes on my face, on my body. I could feel his scorching gaze—was he remembering how wet I’d been for him, how easily I’d let him past my defenses—and how much I’d enjoyed it.
He didn’t stay long after that—he was taking Georgia to see a movie, so less than five minutes later, he was out of my house. But in those five minutes, I could tell he was undressing me with his eyes. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the tension between us—it was so obvious to me that I felt sure my husband would notice, or Georgia would say something…but they just smiled and made polite conversation as if nothing had ever happened.
Those five minutes were hell. At any moment, I was sure that Georgia was going to smell me on her boyfriend, or my husband was going to notice my odd behavior. I couldn’t relax—I tried not to give anything away, but I can’t ever remember being that tense before.