Unlikely Tryst: When Sloan Met Sally

BY : UnlikelyTrysts
Category: M through R > Percy Jackson & the Olympians
Dragon prints: 78517
Disclaimer: I do not own the "Percy Jackson and the Olympians series", and I am not profiting off of this work.

 

As Matt Sloan hid under the bed like the world’s most pathetic and perverted boogeyman, thoughts of dropping the soap in prison kept coming to the front of his mind.

Not that getting gang-raped in prison showers was the first thing he wanted to think about after blowing his wad in a pair of MILF panties. That would’ve been the furthest from his mind under normal circumstances. But that was before he heard Sally Jackson come in while he was jerking off in her home uninvited.

Breaking and entering.

Burglary. 

Probably some kinda sex-crime too.

Fuck, that’d put him on the sex-offender registry with all the top-shelf perverts. But only if she caught him.

What if she stayed in the kitchen talking on the phone all day? What if she came in and smelled sex in the room?

Maybe he’d get lucky and she wouldn’t notice? Hell, she might not even come in here, could just be stopping by to check out the fridge and decide to go get groceries or some shit like that.

Or maybe he’d get really lucky and she’d smell his spunk in the air and get massively horny for some cock… she’d come into her room after an argument with that limp-dick teacher boyfriend of hers, just aching for a time long ago when there was real man in her life. She’d get a whiff of his loving in the air, and it’d go straight down to her pussy, and she’d just start aching for that abuse to her love-tunnel that she didn’t remember she needed until today-

No, no no no. What was wrong with him? He just blew his whole nut-load, both of them, into a pair of panties and now he was still daydreaming with his dick?! What the fuck?!

This was serious, this was breaking and entering, this was big time criminal action, the kinda felony that would get him sent to prison with real hardcase fuckers, his parents wouldn’t pay him any bail if he was caught, no way. He’d be locked up and probably passed around by tattooed meatheads who had more mugshots than baby-pictures, and bodies to their names who wouldn’t think twice about amputating his (increasingly uncooperative) penis if it meant making a point, or just passing the fucking time.

She’d be in the kitchen, still gabbing on the phone when he’d sneak up behind her. He’d have dropped his pants by then, and making his way like a nudist ninja to put one hand around her waist and another around her throat, just to feel her breath hitch. “Sshhh.”

“What was that?” He imagined a tinny, confused voice over the cell phone belonging to Mr. Blows-Fish himself, unsuspecting of his woman getting a real man hard on the other end of the line.

A few moments of panic, as she caught her breath, and as his fingers dipped past the hem of her skirt. He was picturing her in one of those pleated tennis skirt kinda outfits, but with a button-up shirt... what color, pink? No, blue. Aquamarine looking. That would be just like her, would match the weird blue cookies in the fridge and her slutty blue thongs to show off to teenagers.

“Nothing,” she’d say back over the phone, doing an admirable job keeping her voice level. “Cracked open a soda. Stomach has been aching all day, I think I’ll go and lie down.”

Matt heard, and ignored, platitudes that Mr. Blows-Fish said over the phone before Sally ‘My Own Personal MILF’ Jackson ended the call. “Who are you?” she’d ask, voice quavering, thighs quivering as he roughly forced his fingers into her panties. Past her neatly trimmed pubes (even though he’d prefer her shaved bare like a pornstar) he found her pussy was already getting wet for him.

“Your dream come true,” he’d say back, smirking as he found her clit between his fingertips and pinched just right.

“There’s money in my purse,” she’d say between panting, “you can take whatever you want--”

“Oh, believe me, I plan to.” He steered her to the kitchen counter and pinned her so that her ass was pressed right up against his dick. Then he bent her over, pressing her face against the cool countertop. The goosebumps she was getting all over could’ve been from fear, or excitement, just as much as they could’ve been from the sudden chill.

“Don’t worry, hot mama,” he purred. “Your new, real man’ll get you warmed right the fuck up.”

Sure, it was corny as balls but seemed to be working just fine. She wasn’t screaming her head off, and if the way she was shaking her ass at him was supposed to scare him off she had another thing coming. Namely, him, and preferably balls-deep inside her. 

Growling, he seized her skirt and pulled it up over her waist, and pulled her underwear (this time he pictured the plain black but sinfully tight bikini bottoms) to the side so he could thrust all the way inside her, wasting no time to start hammering away. She was tight and hot and everything he hoped for in a quickie, he knew this wouldn’t last long but judging by her ecstatic cries this horny bitch wasn’t going to last much longer. Drilling her doggy-style on the kitchen counter was apparently as big a turn on for her as it was for him, and he was close to nutting all over again, right up inside her.

... what the fucking hell was that?

After nutting up in her panties, he should have had some time to recover and compose himself, not thinking about sexing up Sally Jackson all over again.

What was wrong with him? How the fuck did she get in his head so badly?

It was her fault, he decided, for wearing those fucking panties, that blue thong was in his head ever since he saw her whale-tail in the parking lot at school. It was her fault for being a closet slut and sticking around a high-school shaking her tail for underaged kids. He’d plead temporary insanity, he’d get the best fucking lawyers his parents could afford and say she seduced him, that was it. She came on to him in the parking lot, invited him in, gave him a copy of their key and everything. He already had physical evidence in her underwear, it didn’t get more damning than that, far as evidence.

Besides, why else would she be with a loser like Blows-Fish if it wasn’t to get with high-school students?

Yeah, that worked. That was a narrative any good lawyer worth his retainer could fucking spin; a lonely housewife with a whole bunch of pent-up, Penthouse worthy fantasies was shacking up with a limp-dick school-teacher was trolling for underaged dick to cram into as many holes as she could fit. She approached him, seduced him, lured him to this shitty apartment, and when he wanted to call it off because whatever, she cried wolf and denied everything.

Hell, she probably wouldn’t even take it to court. He’d destroy her reputation in court, she’d never work again (if she worked at all) and her wimp husband would probably ghost her before he put up with any scandal. Inviting a pedo to school, paying for her apartment, where she could fuck his students? He’d lose his teaching license for sure, plus he’d get laughed out of town like a cuck.

Oh, who was he kidding? He’d never make it to court, even if he was molested his dad would still fucking murder him for the embarrassment, like one of those old country styled ‘honor killings’ he read about on the news. Except instead of getting pelted with rocks until he was a pulpy mess, Sloan Sr. would just arrange an ‘accident’ to befall his ‘beloved’ son like cut breaks on the Porsche or slip-and-fall in the shower that resulted in tragic break-of-neck.

No, Matt Sloan’s best bet was to lie still in this crappy apartment, on the itchy as fuck carpet, and hope to whatever god was listening-

(again, he didn’t honestly expect a god to be listening but at least one was)

-that maybe he’d go undiscovered until Sally MILF Jackson had done whatever business she needed to do before she zipped off to somewhere else and didn’t cry bloody murder because she found him under her bed blowing his wad in to her wadded-up panties.

What if she stuck around though? What if she stopped to do something parents did like, tax returns on the couch, or if she binged-watched daytime television?

He could be stuck here all day.

Shit, how was he supposed to explain staying here until midnight to his parents? What if she never went to sleep? What if Blows-Fish came over?

Oh fuck, what if they had sex?

He was in the bedroom, under the bed. He’d have to listen to his teacher fuck his girlfriend. Fuck that, he’d rather risk prison, or his father killing him.

Wait.

Did he think of Sally Jackson as his teacher’s girlfriend, who was going to be fucked, or her as his girlfriend who was going to be fucked by his teacher?

Well, forgetting the fact (and it was a fucking fact) that he was definitely more a man than Blows-Fish the public school teacher, and how Matt ‘Mother-Fucking’ Sloan was the man who could make that bitch come on his cock until she screamed his name loud enough for it to be the morning announcements, wasn’t really reasonable to expect her to feel a connection, was it? Just a few jerk-off sessions and breaking-and-entering didn’t really make for a love story. But again, he was pretty sure, like ninety-five percent sure, he deserved that ass more.

And the things he’d do to it would be the stuff of legend, if he only had the shot.

Maybe this was his shot? Maybe he could chance her thinking ‘oh hi handsome parking-lot boy’ and them talking it out like reasonable adults, before dropping pants and getting down to adult fun.

Wait. No.

It was happening again. What was wrong with him?

This would make sense if she was some sort of super-model, or a movie star, or even if she had extraordinary tits made for pornos, but everything about Sally Jackson was down-to-earth, grown-up girl-next-door. She was normal, and he couldn’t get her out of his head all the same, like she was some sort of succubus queen of blow-jobs. There wasn’t a logical explanation for it, was there? Closest he could come to justification was she was a teacher’s girlfriend, a teacher who annoyed him his first day at a new school, and that she was that psychopath Percy Jackson’s mother. How dare she be kind of hot.

And she wasn’t that hot, not really. She wasn’t like, she was just… moderately, plenty attractive for her age. And how old was she, like, forty?

No, he was being stupid. Ridiculously stupid. No other way to describe being trapped under a bed in this shitty, godforsaken apartment, with his load blown in some middle-aged whore’s panties. All’s that it would take was one look, one scream, one 911 call, and he’d be done for.

Maybe, if she discovered him, he’d have to try to overpower her. He could threaten her, maybe pin her to the ground if he got the drop on her, tell her if she told anyone about him then he’d tear her ass to pieces and there was nothing the police or anyone else could do to stop him. If he got her from behind before he wrestled her to the ground, she wouldn’t even see his face. He could get his voice all gravely like Batman if he needed to, he’d take the wadded-up panties he blew both his nuts into with him, no DNA evidence left behind. Women went years without reporting assaults, didn’t they? She might even take it to the grave, except on lonely nights when she thought about how she nearly got fucked by a stranger, remembering the feel of his hard dick rubbing against her ass while he pinned her to the floor.

Fuck.

Oh fuuuuck, he was hard again. Hard enough his balls were starting to hurt. That didn’t seem possible. Hell, it didn’t seem fair.

Forget ‘fair’, it didn’t seem possible.

Matt stayed on the hardwood floor, looking out past the legs supporting the bed, over carpet and through the door of the bedroom at Sally Jackson going back and forth talking on her phone. If she was anything like his mother (gag) Matt would have to resign himself to a long while under this bed, less like a snake lying in wait and more like a squashed bug.

At least he could take some comfort in Ms. Jackson not being able to turn him on anymore, not with the boring talk of prepping for a dinner or a party or a dinner party, some kind of adulting bullshit. How the fuck was that even something to talk about in the afternoon? Didn’t she have stories to watch on the TV? Get some vacuuming done? A casserole to make or something?

Admittedly he didn’t actually know what adult women did when they weren’t on pay-per-view, that was starting to become embarrassingly clear. Not ‘caught with your hand down your pants with spunk all over it’ embarrassing, but pretty damn close.

Turned out, what Sally Jackson was doing was making arrangements for the wedding to limp-dick Blows-Fish himself, which got Matt to roll his eyes so hard he was briefly worried he saw the back of his head. Something about flower arrangements, and the prices, and the different symbolism each bouquet had and blah blah blegh…

Sounded like the most boring, dumbest shit ever.

Judging by how she was getting steadily more ‘oh so polite’, Sally wasn’t far from snapping either. Clearly she thought all this was a load of crap too, or maybe she didn’t like getting jerked around by some uppity florist trying to gouge prices. Whichever reason it was, Matt had a new appreciation for Sally Jackson that went beyond his desire to own that ass.

Plus, she wanted this phone call to end too, and the sooner that became a reality, the sooner he could duck the fuck out of this place without her knowing.

He had been spending most of his time under the bed with his eyes shut tight in some childish wish to will himself invisible, but when Matt heard a thump dangerously close to his head, he cracked one of his eyes open. He half-expected to see an accusatory, furious Sally Jackson with a knife or something. Thankfully, it was just a running shoe she had kicked off. Her other shoe dropped right after.

This was not expected. And after all his fantasying, all the dreaming of what might happen, having this actually happen… it damn near broke Matt’s brain. So, maybe that’s why he stuck his head out a little more from under the bed, even if it risked discovery.

Afterall, Sally Jackson had started undressing.

First thing was clear, she was taking all the right steps to getting into the best shape of her life. That made sense, what with her getting married. Women went crazy over fitting into dresses and prep-work for the honeymoon, right? Well, from the looks of her new track shoes, she had added cardio to her routine, and from the look of the tight tight pants, she was dabbling in some seriously hot yoga.

 And she was angry, maybe frustrated at the flower place or something, ending her phone-call with a tired “Thank you, you’ve been no help at all.” As far as bridezilla shit went, that was pretty mild, but getting angry did make Sally an even hotter MILF for sure. She tossed her phone on the bed with the same carelessness she showed the shoes, before shimmying out of her lycra pants. They only afforded her to wear a black pair of spandex underpants, basically a thong, but not lacy or embroidered like all the ones that Matt had gone though previously. Just very functional, sleek, utilitarian cheekies, black and barely-there, flossing up a wide, luscious rear that was just getting between that sweet spot of jiggle and toned firmness…

--plain black but sinfully tight bikini bottoms…

Matt was sure he was drooling. He wasn’t convinced he wasn’t dreaming. Or maybe he was dead and he had been a better boy than he thought. Either way, he was staring at the best MILF ass in history, belonging to his old enemy’s mother, in her room, having blown his load in her panties already. With some imagination, he could almost convince himself the deed was done, and she was showering up to get the smell of his spunk off of her, out of her.

She tugged off her loose t-shirt with the same laziness, practically a strip-tease just for him, and her sports-bra was a plain black with pink band, Victoria’s Secret catalogue from maybe a year ago that she probably got on sale. Not a bad fit though, and it convinced him that with a proper sexy number those lightly-used mom tits would well and truly pop. Matt was sure he wasn’t breathing quite right, and he had unconsciously moved so his head was just peaking out from under the bed to watch her shuck off her bra, exposing all her expanse of back to him, and he was surprised but delighted to see she didn’t have any tan-lines.

Maybe she tanned topless… maybe even on the roof of this very building!

Immediately he started thinking that over, trying to remember how the weather had been these past couple weeks, if it had been nice enough for someone to tan on the roof, and he wondered if any buildings adjacent to this apartment building were higher, if there was some lucky sonofabitch who got a chance to look down at Sally Jackson topless during his morning routine.

Unbelievably, at the thought of some high-rise douchebag jerking off as he watched Sally’s MILF body splayed out on a folding chair up on the roof on a warm and sunny day, he got irrationally jealous but also even harder. Hard enough, in fact, that his dick was getting some delicious pressure in all the right spots as he inched himself further out from underneath the bed, caution thrown to the wind in favor of feeding ‘the beast’, hungry for more skin to be shown by his unwitting MILF striptease.

And in his own mind at least, Matt figured that this wouldn’t be the first time Sally Jackson showed herself off. She knew what she was doing to him that day in the school parking lot. And those fuckers in the high-rises, she probably had one or two of them eating out of her hand, showing a little skin on a sunny day, probably touching herself as they watched through binoculars… He had a sudden flash of inspiration, fantasy that hit like a Mack Truck, of her sending pictures on her phone, posing for cameras, taking videos for rich fucks with drool on their chins and sticky fingers twitching with every performative moan she gave just for them.

Sally paused, just for an instant, not enough to get him to panic and scramble back under the bed but sudden enough for him to stop his crawling, inching forward after her. Matt didn’t even have time to consider if she noticed him, he was so distracted by the sight of her breasts reflected in the bathroom mirror. For a moment, Sally preened in front of the sink, checking the heft and sag of her mammaries, before she tussled her hair and hooked both thumbs in her elastic and pulled down her panties.

For a brief, glorious moment before she kicked the door shut, Matt was treated to the sight of her bare ass and a hint of pink between her thighs. All his pornography and fantasizes came up short compared to even a moment of witnessing the promise of the real thing. But she closed the door, kicked it shut with her heel, and then there was the sound of the shower being turned on.

She was good at turning things on, Sally Jackson, and Matt could imagine so many things. How steamy that shower was, how her naked body looked sudsed up and wet… He’d trade an eyeball for a chance to see how that skin felt under his own fingertips, wrapped around his cock…

Wait.

What was he doing?!

After so many close calls, so much time praying for a chance to make a break for it, was he really going to pass up his chance now? For what? Some more jerking off in her panties, already sticky with his wad?

He didn’t bother being quiet now, why bother? No, Matt scrambled out from bed, only fumbling with his zipper when he was halfway through the apartment.

Once out the door, which he barely bothered to check if it shut behind him (if some wandering hobo wanted to check in on Sally showering, more power to them), he took the stairs down the apartment building three, four at a time, one point nearly clearing a whole flight in his haste to get moving, get out, run run RUN away from the scene of his crime.

And then, when he was on the street…? What? Well, what then?

What now? What was he expecting? What was he thinking? What had he been thinking?

Stupid. Stupid, and horny, and nearly got himself put in jail, probably on a watch-list with top-shelf perverts. His dad would’ve killed him, and his mom probably would’ve helped had he gotten caught.

And for what? Chasing after some tail? Jerking off in some old lady’s underwear?

What did it matter if he saw her thong? There were billboards with more skin shown. What did it matter if he saw her naked just today, no less than twenty minutes ago? His search history was full of nudes and sex-tapes.

Matt scowled, feet stamping as he angrily marched… anywhere really, putting distance between him and his shame. When he passed a nut-vendor though, he felt his pockets for some spare change and recoiled in disgust; he had kept the wadded-up panties with him. His trophy, soiled from use, now just evidence that he committed burglary and… whole bunch of other crimes, probably. Still could, if he was taking stock of all the evidence of his crimes, he still had a key to the Jackson apartment.

He threw away the used panties, giving a glare at a passerby who looked at him funny, and considered tossing the key in a trashcan a block away. Cover his tracks, and all that. But…

No, Matt wasn’t going to do that.

Keeping the key close to his crotch, right in his pocket, excited him. He wasn’t hard, not like before, but it excited him like nothing else in porn-sites or skin-mags could ever replicate. A little bit of power over a woman, over a woman who by rights should be with a man he hated, who was loved by two people he wanted to see suffer… she was Jackson’s mother, but privately Matt preferred to think of her as his own personal MILF. She was that snotty teacher’s fiancée, but Matt was already thinking of her as his whore.

So, he wasn’t going to get rid of the key.

It was stupid, probably, but it was the only thing that made sense.

He deserved to be satisfied, and now he was convinced beyond a doubt he wasn’t going to be satisfied until he had left a nut inside Sally Jackson… preferably with her begging for it. He wasn’t picky, no, and while Matt liked to believe he had standards he, in this moment at the very least, knew he’d settle for a rough tumble with a drunken, confused Sally Jackson, slurring her words and moaning incoherent babble in synch with her breasts bouncing as he violently rutted on top of her.

He’d work his way up to that though, with more pictures, with more little trophies taken from her laundry at first, then from her drawers, then right off the source, peeling panties down her legs right before fucking her brains out.

… No, this was all fantasies. Dreams like when he pretended to be Rambo on the playground, or Vin Diesel behind the wheel of his dad’s Porsche.

And he wasn’t tough, he wasn’t Casanova, and even if he convinced himself Sally Jackson was secretly a whore (and that much he was convinced, not like she was married to Percy Jackson’s father) he wasn’t convincing himself he was homewrecking material. Hell, he wasn’t sure he wanted Blows-Fish to know…

Matt already had teachers who hated him. He already had people who wanted to kick his ass, and parents who thought he was a disappointing little shit. What would happen if word actually got out that he fucked someone’s fiancée? Someone’s mom? And Percy Jackson maybe was a pussy, deep down (hopefully?), but right now he looked like he ate rusty nails for breakfast between work-outs.

Screw it. If Jackson gave him grief, he’d… hit him with his car or something. No, Matt needed a plan. Fuck that. Matt needed a miracle, but what sorta god would answer those kinds of prayers from someone like him? Really?

Well, the answer came sooner than Matt expected.

It was the shade of black that caught his attention. It was like one of those newly discovered shades of black that got the artsy fuckers all hysteretic and shit, like it shouldn’t be manmade at all. The color of a black hole, just sucking everything in. On a sunny day, Matt was willing to bet good money (which he had) that you could fry an egg on the hood of that car after a half-hour of it being outside. Fuck, the thing looked like it was smoking just now.

Worse, when the limo rolled down its window, smoke did come out. Smog and motherfucking sparks, and smell like a… Matt couldn’t find the words to describe it (he had never been in an active warzone, or been unlucky enough to step on a landmine).

Get in,” said a voice that sounded like all the executioners in every third-world dictatorship, like every despot who cleaned blood and bile off his boots on his way to the throne, sounding like Matt’s father when he was truly angry, and like Matt himself felt whenever he really thought about where his future was going. All at once, altogether, with rings squeezed onto beefy fingers tap-tapping against the door, with a face that looked carved from granite, half-hidden in shadows, half-hidden again by a pair of shades that didn’t hide glowing eyes like A-bombs were behind the tinted lenses.

Nobody seemed to notice. Not the impossibly big limo in New York streets, not how it was smoking like it was fresh out of a furnace, not even a man with glowing eyes lurking inside like some kind of demon. If Matt disobeyed, he had no doubts that this… person could wipe him off the face of the earth like what was left a bug already splattered on the windshield.

So, what else could he do but obey?



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