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From: "CS" <creampiestories@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} " Creampie Leftovers" (MF Inc?) by Creampie Eater 
Date: Fri,  7 Dec 2001 16:10:03 -0500
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DISCLAIMER:

This is a story about sex between consenting adults. If you are not an 
adult, you cannot consent, even to read this story. Therefore, read 
something else. Note also that my stories may portray sexual acts that 
are not necessarily safe. Since you are an adult reading this, you 
know it. Even so, caveat lector.

WARNING:

This story includes possible incest.  I say "possible" because it all 
depends on your viewpoint: is sex with an in-law incest?  If such an 
idea is repulsive to you, do not read this story.

NOTES:

Check out my archive at:

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/creampie/www

You should also check out my *FREE* Yahoo club, where we discuss our 
love of creampies and post stories:

http://clubs.yahoo.com/clubs/CreampieStories 

As always, comments can be sent the old-fashioned way to 
CreampieStories@yahoo.com. I adore comments, good and bad, but rarely 
receive them. Why not send comments today to the authors you read on 
ASS and ASSM, including me?

Note too that this story, like all my stories, is Copyright (C) 2001 by 
Creampie Eater.  All Rights Reserved. No commercial posting is 
allowed. Please drop me a note asking permission to post on your 
personal web site. No modification whatsoever is allowed.


Creampie Leftovers
------------------

I hesitated before writing this, because I was unsure that I wanted to 
think about what happened again.  But now, a little more than a week 
afterwards, I find I am fantasizing about it and I am thinking about 
how to do it again.

It all came about because my son's soccer club elected to send teams 
to the NEYSO Alamo Classic.  This is an annual tournament, held in San 
Antonio over Thanksgiving Weekend.  We weren't sure what to expect, 
beyond being annoyed that we couldn't spend Thanksgiving at home doing 
the traditional meal because our first match was early on Friday.

We decided to celebrate Thanksgiving on Wednesday, the day before the 
official holiday.  It was kind of pleasant, skipping work to put up 
Christmas lights and gorge myself on turkey.  We watched the Macy's 
parade on Thursday (Katie Couric is a BABE!) and then headed off down 
I-10.  We brought our new dog with us, having selected a pet-friendly 
motel.

As it happened, my mother-in-law flew to San Antonio to watch the 
tourney too.  We checked into our motel and then went off to collect 
her.  Originally, my parents were going to come, but when my mom had 
medication problems, Anne stepped in to attend in their place.

Unlike many couples, I get along famously with Anne.  We genuinely 
like each other and accept each other's quirks.  I call her 'Bag', 
short for 'The Old Bag.'  So having her along promised to be fun.

I was reminded of her loss as soon as we picked her up.  My father-in-
law and her divorced years ago, and she had remarried soon after.  
Scott was a wonderful man who treated her great, but he died of cancer 
about two years ago.  Now, Anne was alone in the world again, and not 
making any effort to find someone else.  When we picked her up, she 
seemed forlorn under her happy exterior.

I regarded her in the review mirror as I drove back to the motel.  She 
had given birth to my wife at an early age, and was now in her mid-
50s.  Objectively, she was a handsome woman, born in a moneyed family 
and having married money as well.  She had enjoyed an easy life, 
without those worries that age a person.  Her face was still not 
lined, and she took care of herself.  She could attract a mate, I was 
sure.

The motel we were at was nice.  We originally selected it because they 
allowed pets, but there were other amenities we enjoyed as well.  The 
rooms had kitchenettes, and we were in a two-bedroom suite (the kids 
would stay in the living room on the sofa-sleeper).  The motel also 
had a pool and a whirlpool that would feel great after a day playing 
soccer.

We spent the evening surreptitiously drinking too much merlot with the 
other team parents while the kids swam in the motel pool. Our 
conversations ranged from soccer to philosophy, but it had to end 
early so that the players could get a good night's rest.  My wife, her 
mother, and I continued the conversations (and the wine) back in our 
room.

After the first game on Friday, which we lost, we returned to the 
motel for a lunch of Thanksgiving leftovers. Although the original 
dinner was delicious, as a family we have an aversion to leftovers. We 
popped open a bottle of Merlot for the adults to enjoy, and to make 
the leftovers attractive.

All too soon, it was time for the next match.  Anne offered to stay 
behind and finish the dishes.  Besides, she said, she felt sorry for 
the dog and would take a nap.  I suspected she wanted to finish the 
smooth wine in our absence.  Without comment, I had watched her drink 
three glasses already.

Another reason we liked the motel is that it was close to the soccer 
fields.  The tournament venue was vast, with 50 or so soccer pitches 
active at a time.  That meant that 200+ teams sought to find parking 
at one time.  Thus, we spent over fifteen minutes just walking from 
the car to the pitch where our game was played.

Of course, it was only when we got to the pitch that we realized we 
had left the water jug behind.  Inwardly dismayed at the trek I had to 
make, I still offered to return to the motel to get it.  I arrived at 
the motel forty minutes after leaving it.

I let myself in quietly, remembering that Anne was going to try for a 
nap.  I was surprised to see that the dog was again in it's crate; I 
thought one reason Anne stayed behind was to let the dog stay out.

If I was surprised at that, I was greatly concerned to hear murmurs 
from behind Anne's bedroom door.  I heard soft cries of "Oh please!" 
and whimpers of pain.  Fearing the worst, that an intruder who had 
caged the dog was molesting Anne, I burst into her room.

I immediately saw that I was wrong, horribly wrong.  Anne was not 
being molested.  Well, at least someone else wasn't molesting her!

The sight was shocking.  Anne was lying on her back, completely nude.  
In her right hand was a turkey drumstick--the big leg bone--that she 
was attempting to jam in and out her of pussy, meaty-side in.  In her 
left hand was another drumstick, which she was trying to stuff into 
her asshole, bone-side in.  She was fucking herself with leftovers!

Frankly, I was taken aback at how obscene it was.  Her pussy was 
stretched wide open by the large meaty oval. Her asshole easily 
swallowed the bone, which was jammed deep inside her with just the 
flesh sticking out partway.  Her nipples and clitoris were all red and 
hard, begging for attention.

Initially, she stopped in mid-stuff. "It's... it's not what you 
think!," she said, mortified.  "I...I can explain, pleash...  Oh my 
God." Her speech was slurred, and I suspected the wine removed her 
inhibitions.

"It's okay," I soothed, compelled to be a nice guy in light of what 
must have been a terribly humiliating situation.  "There's no need to 
explain... I'll not say anything."  She seemed to take that as tacit 
approval of her masturbation.  I became an unwilling part of her 
activity.

Which brings me to the most obscene part: her begging.  She turned 
wild eyes to me, flashing imploringly at me, but not quite tracking 
soberly.  "I am so close, but I can't cum!" she whimpered.  "Please, 
pleash make me cum." Over and over she begged, while stuffing nearly 
the entire drumstick into her cunt.  There was nothing languorous or 
romantic about the situation.  She wanted to cum and the room was 
filled with her desperation.  The wine that removed her hesitation 
probably also made it hard for her to orgasm.

Hating myself for what I was about to do, I gripped her legs and 
pulled her buttocks to the bottom of the bed.  I pressed her thighs 
back, taking her legs over her head to open her inflamed crotch.  Had 
I stopped for a minute to think about how perverted it was, I would 
have fled.  Instead, I brought my lips to her clit and began trying to 
take her over the top.

I took over fucking her with the drumstick as she moaned 
encouragement.  I pulled it out, fascinated at how stretched open her 
cunt was.  Then I spread her dripping liquids onto her clit.  Then I 
fucked her deep and fast with the drumstick as I sucked hard at her 
clit.

"Oh YEAH!" she cried out between gritted teeth.  She came as I 
relentless pulled the turkey leg out and jammed it into her again and 
again.  I shoved the leg in deep, amazed at how sloppy she was.  Her 
gaping opening was leaking sap around the bone that was sticking out.

Repulsed at myself and the situation, I stood up quickly and made to 
leave.  I had sucked off my mother-in-law for God's sake!  How 
disgusting is that?  To make it worse, I had fucked her with a 
leftover from Thanksgiving.  I had been planning to eat the damn thing 
as a snack after the game.

I looked briefly at her before fleeing.  She was smiling in glorious 
drunken post-orgasmic ecstasy.  In other circumstances, I would be 
puffed up with pride.  She was truly well-fucked.

As I turned to leave, she called out.  "Wait!  Come back!  I need to 
explain."

Shit.  I turned back to look at her.

"Scott and I had a very active sex life," she said, watching my 
reaction.  When I didn't react, she continued.  "We used to fuck every 
day, sometimes two or three times.  He was a wonderful, fun, kinky 
lover."  Thinking back at his memory, I could imagine he was.  No one 
told an off-color joke like Scott!

"The last few years together, we had a ritual," she continued.  "After 
dinner, I would suck gravy off his cock and he would fuck me with the 
turkey leg.  Those were the best years of my life.

"When we had lunch today, I just got to thinking about him, and our 
ritual.  I started remembering him, and I used the drumstick to 
remember him.  Can you understand?"
 
I nodded. She didn't seem a bit embarrassed, lying there nude with a 
drumstick in both holes.  She didn't need to feel embarrassed, because 
she had just loved Scott in her own way.  It was moderately touching, 
if completely kinky.  Besides, I knew people did stuff when they drank 
that was not normal.  The only question I had was whether she drank to 
do it or did it because she drank.  I didn't particularly care about 
the answer.

"I do understand," I said her with feeling.  "And honestly, I wished 
your daughter loved me as much as you still love Scott."  I turned to 
leave again, thinking she would want to be left alone with her 
memories.

"Hold on," she called out, her voice carrying a hint of mischief.  
"You can't leave me one-down!"

I stopped, wondering what she meant.  I turned back, and it dawned on 
me.  Last night we had discussed a book I'd read, called You Just 
Don't Understand by Deborah Tannen.  The book describes how men and 
women differ in conversation.

Men strive to be dominant, or one-up.  When we talk, we always try to 
out-do the other conversants.  We often will say, "If you think that's 
good..." and then proceed to try to go one-up.

Women, on the other hand, strive to be equal.  A woman who always 
tries to go one-up is considered bossy, or a bitch.  By sharing 
troubles, women try to stay even in stature.  If a woman shares a 
trouble, she is one-down and the other women share their troubles to 
regain the equal status.

I can't possibly explain this complex subject very well, because a 
whole book has been devoted to it.  Suffice it to say that I knew 
exactly what Anne meant; she was embarrassed and in her view I needed 
to equalize the status by being equally embarrassed.

She saw I understood, and patted the bed.  "Come here and fuck me, and 
then we'll be equal."

That was a dreadful idea!  "No way," I said.

"Come here," she replied, reaching for me.

"Forget it," I said.  Even while I protested, I took a step towards 
her.  It was reflex.

"Let me loosen your belt," she told me, and I stepped another step.

"This is sick," I murmured, now feeling aroused.  She was a handsome 
woman, no doubt.

She finally got the belt of my shorts, nimbly undoing it.  "Scott said 
I gave him the best head," she said.  Ugh!  My mother-in-law talked 
about giving head!

It wasn't so gross, I found.  Her lips were soft and supple, and her 
skills were manifest.  She soon had me completely hard, sliding all 
the way into her mouth until my pubes mashed her nose.  We were both 
moaning.

I was horribly conflicted.  On the one hand, she was my wife's mother.  
On the other, she gave a great blow-job.  That alone wouldn't explain 
my extra-hardness though.  The fact is that I find great pleasure from 
fondling the bristly napes of women with bowl-cuts.  Anne had a 
fantastic cut, with blonde frosting over her very dark nape.  The two-
tone look is another fetish for me, so caressing her nape as she 
worshipped my cock was the height of pleasure.

"I'm gonna cum soon," I warned.

"Don't!" she commanded, quickly letting me out of her mouth.  "I want 
you to fill my pussy with your cum," she said.  Hot shit!  "Don't' 
worry," she smiled, "I can't have babies anymore."

It didn't take more encouragement than that before I was shoving my 
meat into her pussy.  Her canal was wet and sloppy, stretched from the 
turkey drumstick.  Her face was a mask of pleasure as she pinched and 
pulled her nipples and enjoyed my fierce pumping.

My self-loathing probably contributed to my staying power.  Or maybe, 
it was a son-in-law's performance anxiety.  Whyever, I lasted much 
longer than normal before cumming heavily into her.  By the time I 
pulled out, the entire contents of my nuts were inside her well-worn 
cunt.

And then, the kinkiest thing yet happened.  I pulled out, and she 
immediately shoved the turkey leg back into herself.  I watched, 
amazed, as she pulled it out, all covered with creampie goo, and then 
began to eat it.  Her tongue shot out and she licked the creampie off 
before eating a bite.  Back to her tunnel the leg went, to be covered 
with cream again.

I wanted to watch, because... well, because I am an author of creampie 
erotica and I never thought of this scenario.  Truth is, I wanted to 
eat it too.  Can you imagine the flavor?

But, just then my mobile phone rang.  It was my wife calling.  Where 
was the water jug?  They were about to start.  Shit.  I blamed my 
delay on a traffic accident, but said I was on my way.

I apologized and got dressed, then left.  In my current state, I 
almost forgot the water jug on the way out.  I spent the rest of the 
weekend trying to forget what I had seen.

But now, I wonder.  What does it taste like?  I wonder if I can 
convince her to come down to Houston for Christmas?

********

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