Stepmom Adventures Part 8

Helping Stepmom at the Church Bake Sale

All the dads gather around her table to taste her sugar cookies

My stepmom Wilma calls me at noon asking for help with the church bake sale. She tells me she’s all alone at the table, and there’s a huge line of hungry customers. As someone who gets to sample her sweet treats on a regular basis, it doesn’t surprise me how popular she is. I rush right over to give her a hand.

When I arrive, there’s a crowd of dads hovering over the table on the lawn in front of the church. They’re all clamoring for Wilma’s attention with cash in their hands, and big goofy grins on their faces. They dial back their peacocking once I sit down next to her.

“What’s up, fellas?” I say.

“Oh, hey, Tim,” Hank Doldrums says. That’s probably not his name, but it should be. I don’t really know any of these guys because they’re half a generation older than me.

“Hey, Hank,” I answer.

He stares at me with a raised eyebrow, too confused to correct me.

“Your, um… stepmom makes the best sugar cookies,” another one of the guys says.

“Don’t I know it,” I say, putting my arm around her.

The men look away awkwardly. A few of them were at the bar when she and I celebrated her 21st birthday back in October, and we may have been, shall we say, overly amorous that night. The reverse age gap blows their minds.

I knew Wilma long before she became my mom, but so did they. She was babysitting many of their kids right up until she married my father. When it comes down to it, they’re all just jealous. Sure, they’d love to fuck Wilma, but it goes beyond that. They just wish they had the balls to cheat on their grumpy vanilla wives.

“Thanks for coming, Sweetie,” she says, kissing my cheek.

“No prob.” I unwrap a sugar cookie and take a bite, rubbing it in their faces that I get this shit for free.

The onslaught of customers continues, with me collecting the money while Wilma hands the gentlemen their desserts. And it is literally all men until Fran Scowly shows up in a huff.

“What’s going on here?” she says, addressing the men while completely ignoring Wilma and me.

“What do you mean?” Hank says. “We’re just buying some snacks to support the church.”

“You’ve been gone for an hour now. How long does it take to buy a freakin’ cookie?”

“There’s a line.”

“Well, you have your cookie now, so maybe you should be getting back to your wife.” She points across the street to what looks like a mini carnival. “You left her all alone with the kids.”

“Fine.” Hank hangs his head and shuffles off.

“And that goes for the rest of you, too,” Fran says. “If you want to support the church, come do it with your families.”

And just like that, the men are gone, once again the tragic victims of Catholic guilt.

“What got up her ass?” I ask.

Wilma crosses her arms over her heavenly breasts. “It’s not just her; it’s all of them. See that little carnival across the street? They put that together last-minute just to one-up me and draw people away from my bake sale. They have a face painter, a bouncy castle, and even donkey rides.”

“Damn. These Catholics really know how to spite.”

I’m a lapsed Catholic myself. I lost my faith back in college, right around the time my real mom got sick. Wilma only joined the church so she could feel like a part of the community, but the other church wives have been freezing her out. Honestly, it’s hard to blame them.

“I wish they could be as nice to me as their husbands are,” she says.

“I’m sure the guys would be even nicer to you if you’d let them.”

“Oh, stop,” she says, slapping my arm. “We’re all good Catholics here.”

“Are we, though?” I put my hand on the inside of her thigh.

She bites her bottom lip to suppress a smile. “Sweetie… what are you doing?”

“I just don’t like seeing you so upset. Especially when I know of a surefire way to cheer you up.”

She giggles. “We are literally 10 feet in front of a church.”

“So? God loves this kind of stuff. I’m sure he’d prefer that we were blood-related, but it’ll be close enough to Old Testament incest to give him a thrill.”

Her breathing changes when I reach her crotch. She shifts in her chair. “Well, we can’t just fuck right here on top of the table. There are people around.”

“Good point.” I drop down onto the grass and crawl under the table. The tablecloth and the boxes of extra pastries form a nice little fort, protecting me from prying eyes.

She peeks under the tablecloth as I’m removing her sandals. “What are you doing under there?” she whispers.

“Isn’t it obvious? Now hold still so I can take your panties off.”

I reach up her tight miniskirt and grab her silky underwear. She assists me by lifting her ass off her seat and keeping her knees together. Once I get the panties past her feet, she spreads her legs for me.

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this. But we have to be quick, because — oh shit! Here comes Father Tollman!”

“Just act natural. I’m sure he’ll go away soon.”

She sighs. “We are so going to Hell.”

And then I hear Tollman’s buttery voice: “Hey Wilma, how’s it going?”

“Oh, hey Father. I’m alright. Just, you know, selling my cookies.”

Through the sliver of space between the tablecloth and the ground, I see a pair of shiny white Nikes sticking out the bottom of cuffed black dress pants. Father Tollman is the “cool” priest.

“That’s good. The church really appreciates the work you’re doing. A young woman like yourself must have more exciting things to do on a Saturday afternoon.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m just an ordinary mom trying to… trying to…”

I suppose I should have waited for the priest to leave before licking my fingers and probing her entrance, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Is everything ok?” Tollman asks.

“Yep, just tired. I was up all night baking.”

That’s a half-truth. She was doing other things, too, which is why the éclairs got over-baked. They came out of the oven as hard as a rock, and she’s barely sold any this afternoon.

“You should have called me,” Tollman says. “I would have come over and helped.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have wanted to trouble you,” she says.

There are boxes and boxes of these éclairs under here. Since they weren’t selling, they needed to be kept out of the sun. It would be a shame to let them go to waste.

“It wouldn’t have been any trouble at all. In fact, I love baking. I may be a man of God, but I’m known to make quite a sinful chocolate cake.”

While he’s chuckling at his own joke, I lick the end of an éclair and insert it into Wilma’s pussy. Her toes curl.

“Sounds yummy,” she says. “Maybe next… maybe next…”

“Wait. Duh. Do you even have my private number?”

“Uh, I don’t — ”

“Here. What’s yours? I can call you and then — ”

And then out of nowhere, Fran Scowly returns. “There you are, Father. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Scowly.”

I take full advantage of the distraction by penetrating Wilma even deeper with the crispy dessert. And as her pussy opens like a blooming flower, I add my tongue to the mix, flicking and sucking her engorged clit. She squeezes her chair so hard that her knuckles turn white.

The sight of it is giving me a huge chub. With my free hand, I whip out my cock and start stroking it.

“So, the ladies and I were thinking a photo of you on the donkey would make for a hilarious cover for next month’s newsletter. Don’t you agree?”

“Uh, but isn’t the donkey kind of small for an adult to ride?” Tollman says.

“That’s what makes it so funny.”

Eventually, my pastry dildo soaks up so much of Wilma’s sex juice that it starts to wilt. I pull it out of her so I can replace it with a fresh one.

“Put it back!” she protests.

“Oh, sorry,” Tollman says. “I figured since I don’t have my own money, you wouldn’t mind if I had one of your cookies on the house.”

“It’s the least you can do,” Fran says with venom.

“I was only kidding, Father,” Wilma says. “Help yourself, of course.”

I hear him sink his teeth into one of her cookies and get a devilishly delicious idea.

“My God, these are amazing!” the priest shouts.

Fran groans. “Laying it on a little thick there, aren’t we, Father?”

“You wouldn’t say that if you tried one,” he says with his mouth full.

“No thanks. Not everyone can afford to eat junk food all day. It’s much harder to hold onto your girlish figure once you’ve had children.”

I stick three fingers in Wilma’s cunt to keep her warm. Meanwhile, I bite off one end of an éclair and suck out the cream filling. I then stick my throbbing cock into the doughy cavity while continuing to fingerblast her.

The pastry doesn’t feel nearly as good as her pussy, but having a visual of that juicy cunt helps me imagine I’m fucking it. After several hard thrusts, I’m ready to pop. Holding my breath to keep from being too loud, I blast my hot load into the éclair.

“Anyway, Father, what do you say we go take that picture on the donkey?”

I insert the cum-filled pastry into Wilma’s pussy. Her body trembles.

“Can it wait? I’d hate to leave Wilma all alone here.”

“But we only have the donkey until 3:00. Besides, she’s not alone. Her <ahem> stepson is here. Or was here a minute ago.”

Wilma takes a deep breath. “He’s uh… he’s uh… I don’t know, in the bathroom or something.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” the priest asks. “You seem a little…”

“Perfectly fine. You two… go hang out with the donkey…”

She fights to control her convulsions as a secret orgasm washes over her. I crush the éclair in my hands, injecting my still-warm cum into her hungry snatch.

“OK, fine. Let’s go see the donkey,” Tollman says. “Don’t worry, Wilma. I’ll be back.”

“Take your time,” she gasps.

When the coast is clear, she taps me on the shoulder and I come out from under the table.

“So how much money did we make?”

“Not enough to justify the amount of time I spent baking. Anyway, I’m sure Fran is going to keep Father Tollman busy for a while. What do you say we sneak into one of the confessional booths so you can fuck me properly.”

“I always wanted to fuck you in a confessional booth. Let’s do it!”

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