Quartet of Intent
The funeral is open to socialites. Beautiful crypt and flowers.
The wake gets into full swing at Elysian Showcase.
Champagne, canapés and stories about Mavis's younger days.
The climate-controlled air makes a shirt and black tie bearable for Randy.
He doesn't know most of the crowd in the room.
He knows the four who usher him through the private door.
Joy leads them, high stilettos, the click-click-click of her heels now joined by Rhonda's confident stride, Heather's pointed authority, and Randi's harbour-water silence.
Before Randy can take in the furnishings, the four women arrange themselves around him in a semicircle.
Randi's eyes assess his thin black leather tie with professional detachment.
Heather's smoky gaze lingers on his chest. His heart pumping behind a white pocket.
Joy's berry lips curve in satisfaction at what her mouth will soon do.
Rhonda's hazel eyes narrow with calculation.
Heather moves to his other side, her jasmine and cedarwood scent overwhelming the room's lilies.
Her honey-blonde waves brush his shoulder as she leans in, her mouth finding his collarbone exposed by loosening his tie and undoing several shirt buttons.
She bites, not hard enough to mark, but enough that Randy's hips jerk upward in involuntary response.
Randy's cock twitches against his jeans, betraying him.
MILFs notice. They always notice.
Joy completes the circle, her fascinator hat casting dramatic shadows across her contoured cheekbones.
She doesn't touch him yet—she orchestrates, positioning Randi's mouth lower, guiding Heather's hand to Randy's stomach where her berry-painted nails spread flat against his skin through his flapping shirt.
Randi's mouth travels down Randy's breastbone, her tongue tracing the fine hairs.
Heather's lips follow the waistband of his jeans, her breath hot through the denim. Their hands meet at his zipper, Randi's elegant fingers and Heather's manicured ones working together to free him, and Randy gasps as the air hits his already-stiffening cock.
Randy's pecker stands wanting and leaking.
The women rotate.
Heather takes Randi's place at his chest, her lips sucking his man-nipples.
Randi moves lower, her eyes meeting Randy's as her mouth hovers above his cock knob, her breath warm as she blows around his shaft.
She doesn't take him yet—she waits, lets the anticipation build until Randy's hips strain, seeking contact with her wet lips.
Randi takes the impatient lad in her mouth in one slow descent, her throat opening around him, the pressure building and building until Randy's head falls back against the velvet and his eyes squeeze shut. Heather's mouth finds his, her jasmine taste overwhelming, her tongue thrusting in rhythm with Randi's movements.
The MILFs edge him.
They please and tease his boner.
Randi pulls back when his thighs tense, when his breath hitches toward orgasm.
Heather's hand replaces her mouth, stroking with cruel patience, stopping when his hips buck.
Joy produces a silk ribbon from somewhere—her garter, perhaps—and binds his wrists above his head to the chaise's ornate frame, stretching him exposed.
"Four women," Rhonda murmurs, her hand still at his throat, her thumb tracing his jaw.
"Four appetites. You'll satisfy them all before your spill."
They take turns.
A smorgasbord of MILF holes.
Randi straddles him first, her charcoal skirt hiked to her waist, her cream silk blouse unbuttoned to reveal the bra he remembers from the penthouse.
She sinks onto his cock with a sigh that sounds almost professional, a woman appraising value, and rides him with the same precision she applies to art valuation—measured, thorough, extracting maximum return.
Randy's bound hands clench above him as she grinds down, her purposeful eyes never leaving his, her lower lip going slack with concentration exactly as he remembers.
She rides for her enjoyment.
A woman who understands what cock can give her.
What she can take from a pecker.
"Aahh! Yes1 Yes! Oohh!"
Her finger pressing her clit, repeatedly, urgent like pushing a doorbell.
When she comes, it's with a soft exhalation, a harbour-water ripple across her features, and she climbs off him immediately, leaving him throbbing and denied.
Heather replaces her, but not for penetration—she turns, presents her athletic form in reverse, her high-waisted pencil skirt discarded somewhere, and lowers her sweet appealing slash onto his mouth.
Randy licks automatically, his tongue finding her clit, his nose pressed against her jasmine-scented folds as she grinds against his face.
Below, her hand works his cock, pumping with the strength of her gym-toned arms, stopping each time he approaches the edge.
"Good boy," she gasps, her thighs trembling around his ears.
"Just like that. Don't you dare come."
She instructs him to spit in her arse.
She lets him rim her tushy with his prodding, probing tongue.
Joy takes him next, but not with her pussy—with her ass, prepared with her girlfriend's saliva and poking fingers, her black tuxedo dress lifted to reveal lace stockings and garters and the tight entrance that opens around him with theatrical precision.
She faces him, her fascinator hat still absurdly in place, her berry lips parted as she sinks down, down, her contoured cheekbones flushing with genuine colour for the first time.
"Delayed gratification," she breathes, echoing her own lesson, her hips rolling in controlled circles that make Randy's vision focus on her gorgeous swaying nipples.
"Feel how long you can last when you must."
She has the rear muscle control.
She constricts his stiffy tighter than a whalebone corset.
He finds space where there should be no space.
She enjoys his rolling eyes and groans.
Rhonda watches this longest, her arms no longer crossed, one hand disappeared beneath her merlot silk blouse. Tweaking her own pebbled nipples.
When Joy dismounts with the same satisfied detachment she applies to funeral arrangements, Rhonda finally acts.
She frees his wrists with a single tug of the silk ribbon.
She turns him, presses him face-down into the velvet, his cheek against the fabric that smells of his own sweat and musk.
Her paddle marks from two days prior have faded to faint pink ghosts, and she traces them with her bold red nails before replacing memory with sensation—her strap-on, prepared and waiting, pressing against him without warning.
"Your education continues," she whispers, her platinum bob brushing his ear as she enters him in one smooth thrust.
"Cayman accounts. Bermuda trusts. And this—" she pulls back, drives forward, making Randy cry out into the velvet "—this is how you learn to hold what matters."
She pegs him with legal precision, each thrust calculated, her hand reaching around to grip his cock in rhythm.
Randy sobs into the upholstery, his body overwhelmed, his mind blanking to everything but sensation and the distant understanding that he is being claimed, catalogued, appraised by four women who will not release him until they are satisfied.
They rotate again.
The stamina of MILFs isn't the stuff of urban legends- it's frickin real.
Pussy and ass, mouth and hand, the four women moving through him like a choreographed performance, each taking what she needs, each denying him release until the denial itself becomes pleasure, becomes torture, becomes worship.
He's invited to poke Heather, arse to pussy, her girly folds to her tushy.
He's face sat while he takes Joy's arse.
His mouth is drenched with fem-juice as he dogs Randi's pussy.
Randy loses track of time, of sequence, of his own name.
He is only sensation now: the wet heat of Randi's cunt, the tight grip of Joy's ass, Heather's jasmine-scented thighs around his face, Rhonda's strap-on returning to his butthole when least expected.
"Now," Joy commands.
They stand him inside a circle as they fall to their knees.
Tongue straining as they urge him to jerk to his finale.
Ribbons of man gravy spurt in jagged bursts from his throbbing stiffy.
White ropes coat four waiting faces.
Droplets smear on noses, ears, chins and cheeks.
In turn, they suck his pipe dry until he's utterly milked.
They rise, whispers caught, guests to attend to.
After all, it is Mavis wake.
Randi adjusts her charcoal skirt, buttons her cream silk blouse, and reaches into the leather-bound pad she retrieves from a display case.
She tosses something onto his chest, as he rests on the chaise—a packet of tickets, airline blue and gold, first-class embossed.
"Mavis's villa," she says, her eyes calm as harbour water.
"Lake Como. Two weeks. You're expected."
The four MILFs leave the room, arm in arm.
And Randy realises for the first time that Mavis is playing MILF games with him from beyond her marble crypt.