Her mountain retreat turned out not to be away from everything

After my first husband died, all the married men I knew seemed to come out of the woodwork to “console” me, until I married the first single man I went out with. I soon learned that it was a mistake and got a divorce, then de­voted myself to selling the business my first husband and I had worked so hard to build, since it was too much to handle alone.

Once my finances were in order, I decided to go some­place where nobody knew me and kick back, ­letting my mind and body relax. It was summer, so the South was out. But I love the mountains, and located a small modern cabin in the Rockies. I packed shorts, jeans and numerous tops and headed out in the four-wheel-drive truck that had been my first husband’s.

I arrived in a picturesque small town and located the agent I had rented the cabin through. She said it would be best to show me where it was, since most of the roads were unmarked—it was only six miles out of town, but it took half an hour to get to!

It was beautiful, located on a small stream with a footbridge across it leading to a trail up the mountain. Connie, the agent, said there was one other cabin, about 200 yards up the creek, then occupied by someone from New Mexico who would be there for three more weeks—when I would get a new neighbor. She said that people around there always got along and helped each other out on shopping trips and such.

Thankfully, Connie had supplied the place with the staples I would need for sev­eral days, so I didn’t have to make a trip to the store that day. I just unpacked and settled into my home for the next four months.

I slept soundly and woke feeling unburdened for the first time since losing the love of my life. I showered and took a look at myself in the mirror. I decided I still looked pretty damn good considering I was past 50—at five feet two, 106 pounds, my natural C-cup breasts still firm thanks to my never getting caught up in the braless craze.

After breakfast I took my fishing pole to try catching my lunch from the bridge. Within 15 minutes I had two pan-size brook trout. Heading back to the cabin, as I approached, I saw a truck beside mine with the logo of the state game and fish bureau on the door. A handsome young man be­hind the wheel said, “Good morn­ing, miss. May I check your fishing license, please?”

Busted! I hadn’t thought of needing a license! So now I was in trouble—on the first day of feeling better!

I just about lost it. He got out of his truck and, saying, “Come on, lady, it’s okay,” took my fish and pole and led me to the cabin. He said that if I didn’t have a license he could issue me one, and overlook anything I’d already done. He insisted he wasn’t there to ruin my stay.

Brad got a briefcase from his truck and gave me the appli­cation form. I filled it out, and when he looked at it, he said I must have made a mistake on my DOB. I said I wished I could say yes, but it was right. He said, “They sure don’t make 52-year-old women like you where I come from.” After I paid him the fee and he issued the license, I offered him a soda and we sat on the porch swing drinking and talking.

I said the mountains were beautiful, and just the place for me to unwind now that my affairs back home were settled. Brad said he’d been a warden for 11 years, and single since his wife left him six years before.

To change the subject I asked about the trail leading up the mountain. Was it safe for a woman to hike without fear of bears or what­ever? I was glad I’d asked when he said he wouldn’t recommend that anyone hike it alone, as they’d had two bear attacks on this range the previous summer. I thanked him and said I would stay near the cabin where it was safe. He said he was scheduled to go up the trail across the creek the end of the week to change the cards in the trail cams and would be happy to have my company. Naturally I agreed.

When Brad arrived at day­break on Fri­day I was ready, and was soon following him on what I expected to be a short hike up the moun­tain. It turned out to be an all-day affair. The trail made it a relatively easy hike, but I was still exhausted when we ­finally got back at half past four.

Brad thanked me for the company, and I thanked him for letting me tag along and showing me the amazing sights. He said he had to leave then to check in be­fore half past five but would stop by in a few days.

Over the next three weeks Brad became a regular visitor. I slowly became comfortable enough that I didn’t bother covering up when he came by. One Sunday he showed up as I was walking back after swimming in the deep pool below the bridge and we ended up making out on the sofa. We spent the next several evenings together, but never went be­yond first base.

That Friday I invited Brad to dinner, knowing he had Sat­urday off. After dinner we sat on the porch drinking wine in the moonlight and smooching a little. He whispered in my ear that he had never wanted a woman like he wanted me, and he had a constant hard-on just thinking about me. I said I was flattered but had a good 20 years on him. He said that was what made me so damn sexy, but he would leave if I asked him to.

I stood up, extended my hand and said, “Would you like to join me in the bedroom? You can see if being with an old lady is everything you’re imagining.”

In the bedroom we stood across the bed from one another and undressed, then slipped in bed and embraced. Brad caressed my body, moaning when he finally slid his hand be­tween my legs and cupped my wetness. He whispered, “I haven’t touched a woman’s vagina in six years. Yours feels like wet velvet.”

I gave him easy access by spreading my legs and moving my pelvis up and down, but he didn’t rush things, carefully exploring my folds until he located my swollen nubbin. He teased it with a fingertip, making me squirm with need.

When his need became more than he could deny, he said, looming over me, that he didn’t have any condoms but would withdraw to protect me. I said that was sweet but I was past getting pregnant and want­ed to feel his semen in my pussy. I guided his cock to my vagina, and he eased it in in one smooth motion. It was the perfect size to fill my snug cunt, about six and a half inches, and very thick. I like that better than length.

Without even taking a stroke, the poor man shuddered, and I felt a surge of semen fill my pussy and overflow around his throbbing cock. He couldn’t have withdrawn if he’d wanted! It was one of the strongest orgasms I’d seen a man have.

Afterward, he clung to me, his cock still hard as stone inside me. Once he recovered his breath, he fucked me with strong, steady strokes that stimulated my clitoris perfectly. I had a lovely orgasm and was building toward another when he spewed a second load inside me.

I held him until his cock softened and slipped out of my clinging lips, uncorking a rush of come. “Well,” I said, “was my old ass any good?” He said it was the best he ever had, and he couldn’t wait to eat my pussy and fuck me some more.

He did just that, spending every night in bed with me eating or fucking me until we fell asleep from exhaustion. He especially loved me giving him head, which he hadn’t had much of. I’d have happily drunk his load, but he always saved it for my snatch.

When my lease time ran out at the cabin I moved into Brad’s place for another two months and continued our relationship. When the snow began falling in November, I had to return home to make sure my house was winterized. The night before I left, Brad had his cock in my pussy continuously, which left me so exhausted, I had to stop and get a room after driving only 200 miles. But I slept well that night!—V.F., Kansas City, Missouri