Lily and I were married for 23 years before things began to change, and I guess that’s better than most marriages these days.
The change was subtle at first. Lily developed a strong desire to go out dancing, or to clubs and parties, and she changed her rather conservative wardrobe for more sexy clothing, including lingerie, stockings and higher heels. So, at 48 years old, my wife was being transformed before my eyes.
The really big change, though, first showed itself one night when we went out with Kevin, a friend of Lily’s from work who we’d both known for years. He was a pleasant man of 28, with good looks and a nice personality. He and his fiancé had been to our house many times over the three years since he’d begun working at Lily’s firm. I liked him, and we got along well.
About a year ago, as I was changing the bed in our spare room, I found some adult magazines stashed between the mattress and the box spring. I questioned my husband about them, but he said they weren’t his. Next I questioned my 18-year-old son, who also denied ownership. I could see that he was holding something back, however, and after some more pressure he admitted that they belonged to his friend Kyle, who had left them behind the last time he stayed over. Kyle’s mom and I were good friends, and I didn’t want to get him in trouble, so I let the matter go.
A few weeks later Kyle came to spend a weekend with us. On Saturday morning, when I passed the spare room, I heard a strange noise from inside. The door was open a crack, and I peeked in to see Kyle lying on his back, naked, with his face smothered in one of my bras and a pair of my panties wrapped around his cock as he masturbated furiously.
Quite shocked, yet also, I admit, just a bit excited, I quietly closed the door before he saw me. But 20 minutes later, when he came out to go to the bathroom, I stopped him and asked him what he was up to. Before he could say anything I looked into the room and saw my bra and panties still on the bed. I went in to pick them up, but quickly dropped them when my fingers touched what could only have been semen in the crotch of my panties.
I don’t know why but I’ve always had an infatuation with older women. Back when I was just 18 I had a bad crush on a mature lady, a neighbor of ours named Evelyn. She was a widow in her late 50s, with long dark hair flecked with gray. She had a beautiful face for a woman that age, and I thought she might have been a model when she was younger. She had a medium build with a nice round butt. She used to walk around the countryside wearing a tweed skirt and followed by her dog. I guess she kept in shape by walking so much, and by working in her garden and her yard.
But all I knew for sure was she turned me on, and I wanted to fuck her in the worst way. She was always very friendly and cordial to me, but that was all. Then at one point she happened to mention that she liked chess. I quickly took up the game, and one day I suggested to her that we play sometime, and she agreed.
That got my foot in the door, and soon I was playing chess at her place every day. It was just chess, but I always left with a hard-on at the end of the evening, and I would jerk off repeatedly in my room once I got home. My lust for her was killing me, and I knew I had to do something, but I was very nervous and didn’t know how to go about it.
Because of my work schedule I’ve been going to the same laundromat every Monday for the last seven years. During that time I’ve seen all types of people in there, from weird to dangerous to downright sexy.
One person who usually showed up at the same time I did was a woman of about 47 named Linda. The first time I saw her I noticed her nice figure and sandy blonde hair. For a woman of that age she looked very sexy in a pair of jean shorts and a white top. I think she knew I was checking her out, because she flashed me a knowing, flirtatious smile as she went about her business.
After seeing her several times I got up the nerve to strike up a conversation with her. I learned that she and her husband had three grown children, and that she was actually a grandmother. When I told her she was too good looking to be a granny, she blushed and thanked me.
After giving birth to three kids, my sexy 32-year-old wife Arlene has developed a very plump pubic area, with delightfully prominent vaginal lips. Although I find it very sexy, she has always been self-conscious about it, and gets sort of embarrassed when she wears a bikini or tight jeans, since they tend to show off the shape of her crotch.
About three weeks ago our local radio station began running promos for a bar in our area that was having a “camel toe contest,” with a cash prize of $500. I urged Arlene to enter, but she kept saying no. Finally, however, she reluctantly agreed to give it a try.
The night of the contest I got her to wear a pair of white lace panties underneath a pair of tight white cut-off shorts, which were drawn way up in her crotch to show off the shapes of her ample pussy lips. As it happened, there were quite a few ladies entered in the contest. Arlene was glowing red with embarrassment as they got up on stage to let the crowd check out their tightly covered crotches.
About six months ago my wife Nora went up to visit our daughter at college for a weekend. Originally we were both supposed to go, but there was a last-minute emergency at my business, and I was forced to stay behind while my wife drove up alone. When she returned two days later, she was looking a little guilty, and she said she had something to tell me. Leading me up to the bedroom, she began her story.
Nora and Kate, our daughter, have always been close—more like sisters in some ways than like mother and daughter, despite the 22-year age difference between them. When Nora arrived she met Kate at her sorority house. Nora had, as it happened, been a member of the same sorority back when she was in college, and as a former member she was welcomed and made much of by all the girls. She found herself being treated more like a contemporary than like an older woman, which she found quite flattering.
My husband Carl and I have been married for 35 years, and were totally faithful to each other—up until last year. Carl is 65 years old, though he looks 45, and sometimes acts like 25. I am 57, but also look younger. We both stay active and fit, and we have a pretty good sex life for people our age.
Carl’s favorite pastime is riding his Harley Davidson motorcycle with a couple of his friends. Larry and Kirk. They have been riding together for at least 10 years.
Larry and Kirk were over at our house one day last August to plan out their annual trip to the Bike Week festival upstate. As they were talking over the route they would take, I told them that I would like to go along this time. Of course they all started giving me reasons why I should not go. It was too hard a trip, it would be dull for me. I wouldn’t like it, and so on. I informed them that I still wanted to go.
That night Carl tried to talk me out of going, but I told him it was no use. The next time we were all together I made it clear that either I was going or Carl was not, and that ended that conversation.
I knew something had my friend Rachel really upset when she called asking if I could get my butt over to her house right away. She was sitting at her kitchen table with a pitcher of margaritas when I arrived a few minutes later. She thanked me for coming over just when I was probably starting to make dinner. I told her it wasn’t a problem, because my husband had had to fly to Chicago on business and wouldn’t be home until Saturday, leaving me to fend for myself for three days.
After we had settled down with our drinks, she said, “I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to spit it out. I‘ve been cheating on Ken. I’ve been screwing my doctor for over a week now. It wasn’t just a spur-of-the-moment thing either. I’ve had hot pants for him for two years, and I would get so wet when I was on his table that he couldn’t help but notice it.
“I had an appointment with him a week and a half ago, and that morning he called and asked if I could possibly come in later than I’d planned, like about six-thirty. I said sure, and when I got there I found him there alone, waiting for me in the lobby. I felt my heart pounding when he locked the door before leading me back to the exam room.
It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. My husband called the office that Friday morning to say our friend Herman was in town and he thought he might ride back with him to the country (a couple hours’ drive) and hang out for the weekend, maybe do some fishing, to cheer him up.
It was almost a year now since Herman’s wife Deedee had moved back to her old hometown. Far from adjusting, he was getting worse, so I told Randall by all means to go for it, saying I might join them Saturday—unless he wanted it to be just a guy weekend. He said we could talk about it that night.
A couple of hours later I had a shaky-sounding Herman on the phone telling me not to worry (is there anything more certain to make you worry?) but they had a minor accident in his truck about halfway to his place and Randall had broken a leg. He had been taken to a hospital about ten miles away, but everything was under control, not to worry. And oh yes, Randall might have to spend a few days in the hospital.
1. “Remember to wear your Armani tux tonight”
The banquet to raise a cure for some-disease-or-other is being held tonight on my parents’ sprawling estate. My mother lives for charity events. She’s all about “giving back,” which she can afford, since she has enough money to eliminate the hunger crisis in Africa. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a tad. Actually, it’s amazing that we have any money left. It’s “old money” now, but Mother came by it the good old-fashioned way: through her bloodline of robber barons. Miraculously, it has sustained four generations of greedy, grubby hands, including mine.
Life as a trust-fund kid has been, well, highly satisfactory. I noticed early on that I seemed to worry way less than my less fortunate friends, hardly ever experienced shame and never heard “no.” I have a passion for fast cars and even faster women. As soon as they find out who I am, they seem to go down on me like it’s a competition for Slut of the Week, with the prize being a chance of becoming my wife.
As if! At age 26, I like things just fine just the way they are, and plan to keep them that way. A lifetime of fucking is kind of what I have in mind.
Over breakfast Mother reminds me, “Douglas, remember to wear your Armani tux tonight,” adding, “You have to look your best for the auction.” While I roll my eyes, our live-in maid Dolores refills my coffee cup. I’ll need all the caffeine I can get flowing through my veins in order to get through tonight.