(As,
Leeanne said, I'm feeling it).
I sat, totally uncomfortable, with my girlfriend's mother for twenty minutes, waiting for Erica, my girlfriend, to come downstairs. Uncomfortable, because for twenty minutes Mrs. Thomas kept crossing and uncrossing her legs, kept shifting in her chair, and every time her skirt rode farther and farther up her legs until the lace top of *fucking stockings* were showing.
"Mrs. Thomas, do you know if Erica is almost ready," I asked, unable to take starting at my girlfriend's mother any more, feeling guilty about it, horny, too, given what Erica and I had planned to do that night.
"Timothy," she said looking right at me at the same moment my eyes were glued to the white lace on her thigh, "Erica isn't allowed downstairs until I call for her."
"I...I don't understand Mrs. Thomas, is she in trouble?"
"Yes...both of your are." I looked at her confused, but she continued. "She told me what you were planning on doing tonight, Timothy."
"Mrs. Thomas, we were not..."
She held up her hand, silencing me. "Do I need to have you stand up and empty your pockets, Timothy?" My face immediately reddened, in my front pants pocket were two condoms. Worse was the raging erection I had from looking at her legs. "I didn't think so. Now, I've already had this talk with Erica, I understand a young man's hormones and why a girl would go along—I was in college just like you two, but I will not have my daughter losing her virginity simply because of a boy's hormones."
For a moment I was speechless—Erica's mother was a strong woman, sure, but this was something altogether different. "I...I should go home," I said, looking away, wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible.
"My daughter is waiting for you, Timothy, there's no need to go home."
My eyes shot towards the stairs.
"Not so fast, you're not going up there like that, Timothy," she pointed towards my waist. "That's like sending a loaded gun up to my daughter's room, we need to take care of that first"
"What do you mean," I asked, confused.
She smiled as I walked right into her trap. "Come over here, Timothy, we need to milk you first" she said, patting the chair next to her, reaching behind her, picking up...*a towel!*
"Milk me?"
"Come here, you'll leanr," she said, "you'll learn."
And I did. I was milked, for the first time in my life, learned that a boy can cum without orgasm, can be drained, without pleasure. I learned this that evening, a lesson that was reinforced time and time again by Mrs. Simpson, as she milked me, drained me, each and every day before I was allowed to see her daughter.
