Poolboy's Afternoon With The Milf

Lisa lounged by the pool in her backyard oasis, the sun beating down like it had a personal grudge against her pale skin. At 42, divorced for two years now, her life had devolved into a monotonous loop of yoga classes, Netflix binges, and wine-fueled fantasies about anything that wasn't her ex-husband's flabby ass. The sprawling suburban home she'd won in the settlement came with a pristine pool, but maintaining it solo was a bitch. Enter Jake, the 19-year-old college kid she'd found on some sketchy local app. "Eager, reliable, and cheap," his ad promised. Little did she know how spot-on that first word would prove.

She sipped her chilled rosé, eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses, watching him arrive right on time. Jake hopped the low fence with a duffel of cleaning gear, his faded board shorts slung low on narrow hips, a tight tank top clinging to his swimmer's build. "Morning, Mrs. Harlan! Ready to make this pool sparkle?" His voice was all boyish enthusiasm, grin wide and dimples flashing. Lisa waved lazily, her skimpy black bikini barely containing her voluptuous curves—DD tits spilling over the triangles, hips that could make a man weep.

By noon, the tank was gone. Jake had stripped it off in the heat, revealing a chiseled torso that looked like it was sculpted by horny Greek gods. Sweat glistened on his pecs, tracing rivulets down the V of his abs to disappear into those shorts. He scrubbed the pool tiles with vigorous strokes, muscles flexing, oblivious to the predator watching from her chaise. Lisa's thighs clenched involuntarily. Fuck, look at that stamina, she thought, imagining him going all day, every day. Her ex had tapped out after five minutes; this kid probably ran marathons in his sleep. She shifted, her bikini bottoms riding up, already damp from more than poolside humidity.

Jake glanced up, catching her stare. "Everything good, ma'am? Water's looking crystal already."

"Perfect," she purred, voice husky. "You're a natural."