What was his cock like, she wondered? Was it as big as Tom’s? Amanda tried to imagine it, a big fat tool straining through those slim navy pants of his as she perched her ass on the desk, dangling one shoe from her little foot, until it eventually clattered to the floor, and she began sliding her toes up his thigh…
Back in reality, Amanda whimpered and squeezed her thighs under her desk. The hose slid together, and the diminutive MILF tried not to move any further. The wetness down there was getting too insistent to ignore.
Really, she should just take them off. Take the hose off entirely and let her head clear so she could get properly mad about what she’d seen, and figure out what to do. Under the desk, the nylon gleamed, and she thought she saw that pattern, snaking its way around her ankle. They were so *pretty* and they felt so *good*, she just couldn’t make the sacrifice. It wasn’t worth it.
Maybe she just needed to get laid, instead. That sounded pretty logical. Did Brad/Chad have a girlfriend?
The day went on like that, round and round in distracting circles, until five o’clock passed and Amanda realized she’d have to go home and find some way to address the morning’s events.
For good or for ill, the house was empty when she got back around six. Tom was nowhere to be seen, but the kitchen still gleamed from the surprisingly thorough cleaning he’d given it the day before.
“He’s a good boy,” she said to herself, sitting down at the one of the stools around the kitchen island, where she’d have a good view of the front door when Tom came back. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. We’ll talk it over. It’ll be fine.” Amanda crossed her legs and watched the door, letting the pleasant tingle radiate up through her.
One of her heels *tok*ed against the lower rung of the stool. The clock on the wall ticked away the minutes. Seven o’clock came and went.
Amanda checked her watch, then the clock on the wall, then the clock on the oven, then her watch just to be sure they were all in sync.
Eight o’clock ticked past.
Her fingernails tapped at the screen of her phone. No messages from Tom, no replies to her messages. She paced, shoes clicking on the tile.
Nine o’clock.
She thumbed through the contacts on her phone. Did she have any of his friends’ numbers? Their parents’ numbers? What about that Michael kid? Or the rich one…what was his name..de something. De Walter? De Winter? De Wynter? She couldn’t remember.
Ten o’clock. Ten-thirty. At ten thirty-nine, her son waltzed in through the kitchen door, not the front, obviously hoping to slink past unnoticed. Instead, he found Amanda standing there, glaring. Her arms were crossed underneath her breasts, the sleeves of her once-crisp blouse rolled up unevenly; her auburn tresses had been pulled back into a slightly-wild ponytail that was tight at the scalp and made her look more severe.
“Well,” she said. “And where the *hell* have you been?” She clipped her words, looking up into her son’s face. Tom wouldn’t meet her heated stare.