MILF Fantasies Anthology
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by Cecilia Tan
Category: Erotica/Erotic Romance/Romance
Description: Hot moms. Horny young guys. It's MILF Fantasies! The ten stories in this collection celebrate the chemistry between the experienced female and the virile young male in myriad ways and settings. A landlady and her tenant, a photographer and his subject, an art dealer and budding artist, co-workers, roommates, neighbors. New York City, Australia, the mountains of Colorado, a college campus in Chicago, Manchester, England. Think Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore. Think of an entire generation of sexy, liberated women who have no reason to drop their sex appeal just because they are old enough to know better. For every woman who's still got it going on, and for every man who's ever fantasized about a MILF, this book is for you! Contributors include: Rachel Kramer Bussel * Elizabeth Coldwell * Neil Connolly * Andrea Dale * Stephen Dedman * Michael A. Gonzales * Ralph Greco, Jr. * Jamaica Layne * L. A. Mistral * Cecilia Tan * Sage Vivant
eBook Publisher: Ravenous Romance/Ravenous Romance, 2009 2009
eBookwise Release Date: February 2009
5 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [232 KB]
Reading time: 139-195 min.
"Stacy's mom has got it going on!" goes the chorus of a popular pop song. Sexy older women are a hot topic right now for lots of reasons. An entire generation of sexually liberated women is in middle age now and finding little reason to drop their sex appeal just because they've had children of their own, or are old enough to have done so.
The stories in this collection celebrate the chemistry between the experienced female and the virile young male in myriad ways and settings. A landlady and her tenant, a photographer and his subject, an art dealer and budding artist, co-workers, roommates, neighbors. New York City, Australia, the mountains of Colorado, a college campus in Chicago, Manchester, England. The people and places are as varied as the reasons why people have sex in the first place.
Do enjoy indulging these fantasies. I know I did.
November 2008 * * * *
Eat Your Heart Out, Mrs. Robinson by Jamaica Layne
I'm not the kind of girl who's into robbing the cradle.
Hell, calling me a "girl" is a pretty big stretch in and of itself.
I'm thirty-eight and twice divorced. I pluck gray hairs out of my head on a near-daily basis and have plenty of mileage in the laugh-lines and crows' feet departments. I remember when acid-washed jeans were considered the epitome of fashion. I even remember a time before video games and personal computers. And I don't own an iPod.
It pretty much goes without saying that I'm past my prime. Not exactly the kind of catch the 22-and-under crowd would go for.
So when my best friend Lola invited me to go cruise for college boys at Firehouse--a God-awful dump of a bar near the Loyola campus whose only claim to fame was its bouncers didn't check IDs, I thought she was nuts.
"Please, Lola," I scoffed into my cell phone as I dashed along the sidewalk in Chicago's Lakeview neighborhood. I was already late for a salon appointment at Curl Up And Dye, and Lola's Mrs. Robinson fantasies weren't helping me get there any faster. "What college boy is going to be interested in me? I've got pairs of underwear older than some of those kids. I've got two chins and three love handles on my belly alone."
"Come on, Denise," Lola cooed back. "I've been going to Firehouse for the past three weeks. My ex-sister-in-law turned me onto it. And to be quite honest, I'm glad she did. You wouldn't believe what some of these boys are capable of behind closed doors."
"I find that hard to believe," I said. "Seems to me it would be pretty hard for anything to top your trip to Thailand last year." (After her divorce last August, Lola cashed in her 401k to pay for a month-long trip to Bali and Bangkok that included, among other things, a 24-hour live-in houseboy trained in ancient Thai sensual massage.)
Lola laughed. "Trust me, the raw sexual instincts of a drunken nineteen-year-old frat boy beats Thai massage any day."
I gasped, almost tripping on a crack in the sidewalk. "Nineteen? Are you sure that's legal?"
Lola laughed even louder. "Anything a day over eighteen is legal, hon. And trust me, there's no shortage of gorgeous eighteen-year-olds desperate to get laid. A night at Firehouse is like shooting fish in a barrel. Even you could find someone to take home, Denise. Maybe even a couple of someones."
Now it was my turn to laugh. "Yeah, right. And I'm sure you've got some swampland in Florida you want to sell me, too."
"Just try it," Lola cajoled. "We'll go together this one time. If you don't like it, I won't make you go back. Please? You've been so down and out since your last divorce."
Her last comment stung. "You'd be down and out too if you'd been divorced twice in two years," I said.
"Neither of which was your fault," Lola said, her tone softening. "Both of those rat bastards cheated on you."
I felt a lump forming in my throat and swallowed hard. "True, but they both said they cheated because they thought our sex life was too boring. One of them saying it I can see, but both? That pretty much indicates it was my fault they cheated."
"Don't you ever believe for one minute what those two rat-bastard husbands of yours did was your fault!" Lola shrieked into the phone, making my ears ring. "If your sex life was boring, dollars to doughnuts it was their fault, not yours. And what better way for you to add some spice to your sex life than to sex it up with some hot young college boys?"
"That's assuming a hot young college boy would actually find me attractive enough to have sex with me in the first place," I retorted. "Which I consider about as likely as the Cubs winning the World Series this season. Jesus, Lola, biologically speaking, I'm old enough to be an eighteen-year-old's mother."
"All the more reason for you to give it a try," she shot back. "These college guys want somebody with a little more experience than your average sorority girl. You can give that to them. A lot of men watch The Graduate more than they watch porn. Mrs. Robinson is sexy for a reason."
I finally made it to Curl Up and Dye's front door, praying my colorist hadn't given up on me and taken a walk-in. "Whatever, Lola. Just this once, I'll humor you. I'll meet you at Firehouse Friday at eight. I've gotta go now, though. I'm late for a hair appointment." I flipped my cell phone shut without waiting for her reply.
I crossed the threshold into the dilapidated hair salon made famous by Carrie Fisher in The Blues Brothers. It had seen better days since its movie heyday, but I was too loyal to my colorist to find a more trendy salon. To my relief, I found Jeanie, my faithful colorist of fifteen years, reading a dog-eared copy of People in her styling chair. She stood up slowly, wrenching out the kinks in her arthritic back with her hands. You'd never know it to look at her--she had great skin, dressed in the height of urban club fashion, and wore pink-and-purple locks cut into the trendiest geometric punk style--but Jeanie was well into her fifties. I only knew her real age because her birth date was listed on the state beautician's license she kept taped to her station mirror. "I was just about to give up on you, Denise," she said.
"I'm sorry," I replied, and hung my thick winter coat and hat on a peg by the empty reception desk. (Curl Up And Dye hadn't been able to afford a receptionist in at least two years). "The El was delayed, then I sort of got caught up in a weird telephone conversation." I sighed audibly and sank down into the waiting stylist's chair.
Jeanie pumped the chair higher with her foot and whisked a plastic smock around me. "What kind of weird conversation?" she asked, combing the gel and hairspray buildup out of my hair to prepare it for coloring.
I rolled my eyes. "Believe me, you don't want to know."
Jeannie fluffed out my hair with her fingers and checked its length in front and back. "Try me. I've had such a boring shift today, only two clients all day, including you. I'm dying for any kind of excitement I can get."
I bit my lip and swallowed hard. "Well, here goes. I sort of have this off-the-wall friend. Her name is Lola."
Jeanie frowned. "Lola? What is she, a hooker?"
I giggled. "No, Lola works in advertising. That's her real name, too, not a nickname. Her parents were big Barry Manilow fans or something. We've been friends for years. Anyway, lately she's been going to this college bar up by Loyola University and picking up young college guys--eighteen-, nineteen-year-olds drinking on fake IDs--and having sex with them. She wants me to do it, too. So that's what we were talking about when I was on my way here. What do you think about that?"
Jeanie's eyebrows raised. "Sounds pretty kinky to me."
I scoffed. "Of course it's kinky. But what do you think? Be honest."
Jeanie snickered. "Personally, I think you should go for it."
Jeanie grinned. "Of course. Hell, I'd do it. It's been a long time since I got any ass that wasn't wrinkled and divorced. Not to mention completely impotent without a hefty dose of Viagra." Knowing Jeanie, that wasn't an exaggeration. She was always looking for elderly rich husband material in the Gold Coast in vain hope of becoming a rich widow someday soon. She hadn't had much luck with that strategy, but she kept trying.
I shrugged. "I told Lola I'd go with her on Friday, but I didn't necessarily agree to pick up any guys," I said. "But I guess I could give it a try."
"That's the spirit," Jeanie said, selecting a rattail comb from her jar of Barbicide, which she began to run through my hair. "But if you don't mind me making an editorial comment, I think you need to update your look a bit if you're going to have any hope of attracting one of those red-blooded boy toys."
My eyes flew wide. "What do you mean, update my look?" I blurted, defensive. "My look is fine!"
Jeanie patted me on the shoulder with her comb. "I didn't say there was anything wrong with your look," she reassured me. "I think it's perfectly fine for a thirty-eight-year-old divorceť. But if you're really serious about attracting a young man right out of high school, you're going to have to young it up yourself. Get trendy. Hell, get a little bit wild. What about some purple highlights? Or bleached-blond with black tips? That's very hip these days."
I bit my lip. "I can't get that wild. I work at a bank office, remember?"
Jeanie sighed. "I know, I forgot. It's really too bad everybody who works in offices is so uptight. I'd have a much better coloring business if more companies let people wear purple highlights to work."
I shook my dark-auburn tresses, which I'd never been brave enough to change much. The only coloring I ever did was just to brighten up my natural hair color a bit and (lately) to cover gray. "How about a bright carrot-red with blond highlights?" I suggested. "I could probably get away with that."
Jeanie smiled brightly. "Now, that I can do. You'll need to pick the exact tone you want from my swatch board. I've got twenty different shades of carrot-red alone. The reds are very in right now. And what kind of cut do you want? A bob? Maybe a pageboy? Or how about a spike wedge? Those are all very hip styles nowadays."
Now I was overwhelmed. "Why don't you just pick for me, Jeanie?" I said. "You're the expert, after all. Make me look ten years younger. Fifteen would be even better. Do your worst."
"Whatever you say," Jeanie said, a twinkle in her eye.