Milf

By Willow West

How far would you go to pay the bills?

Clara is a widow, living alone with a sporadic job and a pile of bills. When a young male friend of her daughter’s tells her he’s always fancied her, one thing leads to another and she ends up fulfilling his youthful fantasy.

When his father finds out, far from being upset, he suggests that Clara should be capitalizing on the assets she has. Before long, she is entertaining a series of unusual men and releasing their hidden desires.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luminosity Publishing LLP
• Release date: Jan 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781910397794

Willow West

Willow West is a contemporary author. She likes to write about strong female characters engaging in titillating activities. Willow likes the slightly unconventional and reminds us that not all heroes and heroines are perfect. Willow writes and works as a copywriter. She lives in with six children in a house that is full of love. If she could write anywhere, it would be in a breezy attic overlooking the ocean.

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M.I.L.F

Willow West

How far would you go to pay the bills?

Clara is a widow, living alone with a sporadic job and a pile of bills. When a young male friend of her daughter’s tells her he’s always fancied her, one thing leads to another, and she ends up fulfilling his youthful fantasy.

When his father finds out, far from being upset, he suggests that Clara should be capitalizing on the assets she has. Before long, she is entertaining a series of unusual men and releasing their hidden desires.

M.I.L.F.

WILLOW WEST

WWW.LUMINOSITYPUBLISHING.COM

LUMINOSITY PUBLISHING LLP

M.I.L.F.

Copyright © April 2015 Willow West

ISBN: 978-1-910397-79-4

Cover Art by courtesy Steam eReads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this literary work may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without the written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The author acknowledges the trademark status and the following trademark owners mentioned in this work of fiction:

Coke

The Trial

It was Judge Heart who was trying the case. Of all the judges she could have met in court today, he was the one she was hoping for. The Right Honourable Gordon Heart could hardly sit in judgement of her when he himself had made use of her services every week for the last twelve months. She could imagine him now, his fat sweaty body thrusting into her, his voice crying out with obscenities as he came to a shuddering climax.

Wednesday afternoon was his time to visit. The courthouse shut early and his eternally trusting, prim and well-groomed, grey-haired wife was informed that he would be on the golf course. Instead, he was at 43 Wheaton Close, fucking Clara. He was not her only client. In fact, she now had several visitors a day, except Sunday; that was her day off. The judge was one of Clara’s favourites. She didn’t fancy him, not at all. He was sixty-five, fat, bald and sweaty, with skin of pale white that wobbled more with every thrust. He had a kind heart though. His name really did suit him. ‘Kind-Hearted Heart’ the locals called him. He hated to condemn a man or woman to jail so the walls of Freat, deep in the fenlands of Cambridgeshire, had never looked so clean. There was more community service done in Freat than anywhere else in England. The judge showed up every Wednesday, regular as clockwork. He always brought a small gift for Clara; a combination of impeccable manners and his guilty conscience. His piggy eyes would be glinting at the prospect of some bedroom fun. Clara was equally always ready with a cuppa and a chat before they started. It was one of the services she would offer and contributed towards what made some of her gentlemen return week after week. There was no need for seedy dealings, she constantly maintained.

* * * *

The judge’s alter ego didn’t surface until the bedroom door shut. He would then do what he had longed to do for the whole week, in fact, what he found himself thinking about more and more during long and laborious trials or evening meals, which consisted of prolonged silences and the pursed lips of his long-suffering wife. The terrible secret of Judge Heart was that he loved to swear.

Even thinking about his Wednesday afternoon session in Clara’s bed made him hard. He would be sitting on the bench, the top half respectable judge hearing cases and passing sentence while his loins raged with burning desire and thoughts of the words he would be allowed to utter freely.

His wife, he had recounted to Clara one Wednesday afternoon, had found it quite exciting when they had first met. She had been brought up as a preacher’s daughter in a house where swearing was a sin. When she had met the rebellious young man who had stolen her heart, he could have turned the air blue with his profanities. He had come straight out of the army, having fought for his country, where swearing was the norm. He believed in the army, when you faced death on a daily basis, there were few other words that would do. Forty-two years of marriage, and his prestigious career as a judge, had turned the once daring Mrs. Heart into a prude; had turned her into her own prim parents, sitting in judgement of all those deemed of a lower class than her.

To Mrs. Matilda Heart, appearance was everything. The swearing had been gradually nagged out of him, but he missed it terribly. Sometimes, in certain situations, only a swear word came close to expressing the depth of feeling.

When Judge Heart had heard about a house in Freat where a lady offered a little something for a lonely gentleman, a small idea had begun to fester. Not immune to feelings of lust, Judge Heart had been relieved to see a petite, ample-bosomed women with feminine curled blonde hair and a welcoming smile open the door to him at Wheaton Close one Wednesday afternoon in late November. Burning with embarrassment, he had stammered and stuttered his desires. He just wanted to be able to cuss and swear as he screwed her. Nothing kinky, just the ability to say what he liked. Clara—with her gentle charm—had agreed, a price had been fixed and the next hour had been one of the most liberating of his life; at least his post-forty existence. Judge Heart preferred the missionary position. He stripped, lifted her nightgown and entered her roughly. Foreplay was never an option, and he politely declined it. As soon he entered her, the swearing started.

You want it you bitch? I want to fuck you so hard; your cunt is wet for me! My cock is going deep into your fucking cunt! Fuck! Fuck! The tirade would continue until he spilled his seed. With one final, "Fuuck!" he was sated.

Trying not to look at Clara as she entered the court, Judge Heart felt the familiar stirrings of lustful thoughts coursing through his flabby body. Clara had liberated