Written by OldButNotDead

27 Oct 2016

This happened ten years ago when I was 57. I was married at 19 to a wonderful man six years my senior who turned out to be a wonderful husband and lover to me all these years, a fabulous father to our children, and my best friend. He was my first lover and the sex had been wonderful but, after 38 years, the reduction in frequency to once or twice a month seemed to be sufficient.

Throughout our marriage, like most women, I would occasionally come in social or work contact with a handsome man who attracted my interest and I would have the passing thought of what it might be like to be seduced into an affair, but those temptations would only last a few hours. However, in my late 50s, I started having thoughts about my eventual mortality, and the idea of going through life never knowing another man started to bother me, a case of regretting more the things one didn't do than the things one did do. But I never did anything about it - until France.

We lived about an hour from Sarasota in southwest Florida, and Mme. Poullard owned a small painting gallery in Sarasota that specialized in contemporary European landscapes from lesser known artists and she also taught painting. As a lifelong amateur painter (emphasis on 'amateur'), I was taking her classes when I found out she had a friend connected with the Claude Monet house and gardens in Giverny, outside Paris; and she had a special arrangement whereby she could bring six students there for one week in early July when they could paint in the actual gardens each morning before they opened for the tourists.

It was a fabulous opportunity since the Monet gardens usually does not allow people to bring painting items into the gardens, but we would be allowed to enter at 8, well before the daily opening at 9:30, but had to put away our easels, etc, by 10. We would then continue painting under Mme. Poullard's guidance from 1-4 in the garden of our rustic pension from the photographs she had made of our subject views that morning in the Monet gardens.

I signed up as a single since my husband was not interested in accompanying me as the non-painting partner for a double room. When July came, I flew out to New York on the appointed Saturday, connected to the overnight Paris flight, and was ensconced by Sunday lunchtime in my single room at the pension of Mme. Poullard's cousin just outside Giverny. I was ecstatic, my first time in France, and I was going to see and paint in the famous Monet's gardens. The other five students all safely arrived and we had lunch together with Mme. Poullard. That's when I met Jean-Paul, Mme. Poullard's cousin who owned the pension, a handsome man in his early 50s who was tall, slim and fit, and very charming as are most handsome French men of that age. He sat next to me at lunch and I was instantly enchanted.

He talked to me all during our two hour lunch in his French accented, but very adequate, almost fluent, English. We talked of the beauty of France (I am an avid Francophile), travel, landscape painting (he is also a lifelong amateur), philosophy of life, and a myriad of other subjects. Instead of then resting from the jetlag like all the others, Jean-Paul and I continued talking over wine for another hour or so, until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. I fell asleep in my top floor garret type small single room thinking of him instead of my husband.

When I awoke to my alarm clock in time for dinner, I felt arousal between my legs. Lying on my back with my nightgown bunched around my waist, I slid my hand down over my stomach and into my slit. I was wet and swollen. As I slid my fingers along my wetness, I imagined Jean-Paul kneeling between my open legs, slowly stroking his hard erection as he watched me playing with myself and getting more and more aroused. I looked up at him with lust in my eyes and actually whispered, "Yes, put it in me and fuck me. Fuck me now!", as I shoved three fingers inside and fingered myself hard and fast, imagining it was Jean-Paul fucking me with great gusto. I came almost immediately with audible gasps of intense pleasure as my hips thrust upward off the bed. My climax lasted just a short time, but it was more intense than any I could recently remember. When my composure returned, I couldn't believe I had fucked another man so realistically in my mind, and being unfaithful to my husband in thought, if not in deed.

We had dinner in the garden out back since at that time of the year it is light until past 9. Jean-Paul sat next to someone else, but opposite me and mostly talked with the two people on either side of him. He did occasionally glanced my way with an odd smile on his face, as if he had witnessed my fantasy fuck and knew what had happened in my bed when I awoke for dinner. When the last course was finished, he asked if I might like to see some of the surrounding countryside since we had a bit over an hour of daylight left. I was of two minds about accepting. On one level, it was an opportunity to expand my visit experience by seeing some of the wonderful French countryside. Of course, on another level, the one tying knots in my stomach, it was more - so much more.

As I accepted Jean-Paul's offer, I actually thought of my unsuspecting and loving husband, but my thoughts were that he would never know about my passionate nap awakening self-orgasm that afternoon, nor about my eagerness to take the sightseeing ride with Jean-Paul.

Jean-Paul drove us through some of the pastoral portions of the countryside surrounding Giverny. It was beautiful, far more beautiful than I thought possible. As the light started to fade, he found a wonderful view over the countryside from an unpaved farm road and we parked just off it in the grass. He held my hand and I put my head on his shoulder, enjoying the scenery as well as the touch of his body where I leaned against his. After a little while, when I had relaxed enveloped by his arm around my shoulder, he swivelled his head and brought his lips to mine, not quite touching to give me a chance to pull away. I felt like a teenager with knots in my stomach about to have her first kiss. In a way, it was a first kiss, a first kiss of forbidden fruit, and I couldn't help myself.

I closed my eyes as a sign of surrender, and he touched his lips to mine and we kissed and kissed, and kissed some more, slowly and gently at first, then with more force and heat, soon kissing the way new lover's do, with rising passion and abandon. Our tongues slipped and danced together and, I sucked his, drawing it further into my mouth, surprising myself since I am usually not so forward with my husband unless I am in heat and can't wait for him to be in me, the frequency of which had become rare. The decision had been made by my lust to experience another man, and I couldn't help myself.

Jean-Paul's passion had risen as rapidly as did mine and he soon was caressing my breasts through my clothing. When he started unbuttoning my blouse, I closed my eyes, kissed him with renewed passion, and moaned, all signals to him to proceed. He soon had the halves of my blouse fully apart and my front opening bra open with my breasts exposed to the cooler night air, which caused my nipples to swell and harden even before he touched them. His hands felt wonderful: strong, knowing, and expert in manipulating my flesh. He soon had my breasts swollen with desire and my nipples hard and yearning to be nibbled and sucked, which he soon did. I swooned like a virgin ride and moaned as he rubbed one nipple between his fingers while sucking the other with his lips.

When he slid a hand between my knees and started to advance it upward along the inside of my thighs, the sudden image of my husband watching us came into my mind. I froze and my arousal suddenly vanished. Jean-Paul felt my body shrink from him and asked what was wrong. I told him what I was feeling and said we needed to stop, that I realized I could not be unfaithful to my husband despite my desire to experience another man at least once before it was too late. He hid his disappointment well, kissed me on the cheek, and drove us back to his pension while I fixed my clothing.

I felt awful for teasing him with the offer of sex and then getting cold feet. There is a name for women who do that, and I was not proud of myself, but then, I thought of my husband waiting loyally at home for me and felt equally bad for my attempt at unfaithfulness. Jean-Paul escorted me to the bottom of the stairs leading to my wonderful garret room, gently kissed me on the lips, and said, "For what might have been." I again felt awful for unintentionally teasing him as I climbed the stairs and entered my room.

It was late and I prepared for bed. There was a bright moon out and the room was bathed in moonlight coming through my window so, even with the lights out, it was quite bright inside. I lay on my back in my nightgown on top of the covers with my head on the pillow trying to fall asleep, but without success. I replayed the events of the evening drive and, despite strong thoughts of loyalty to my husband, my arousal returned accompanied by thoughts of regret. My mind wavered between fidelity to my loving husband and lust for another man in his room one floor below, who obviously wanted to ravish me in the way I wanted to experience.

The moisture between my legs returned as did my strong arousal and I soon was pulling my nightgown up around my waist and then my hands made their way downward over my abdomen to the top of my thighs. I moved my legs apart and raised my knees as I slowly slid the fingers of one hand between my swollen outer lips, pushing the lips apart and holding them open. With the fingers of my other hand, I explored my inner lips and found them wet - really wet. I touched my clit with the tip of one finger and immediately my hips reacted by giving a little jerk back. My clit was hard, swollen and slippery with my juices.

As I started to stroke myself, I glanced down along my body and saw the wide 'V' my open legs made with my knees raised and splayed outward, ready for a lover to mount me. As I stared, the image of Jean-Paul appeared kneeling between, slowly stroking his hard manhood, just like that afternoon when I had awakened from my nap before dinner. My fingers increased the speed and pressure of their movement as I 'saw' him remove his hand from his manhood and lean over my upper body with his face above mine with lust in his eyes. As he slowly lowered his hips between my legs to mount me, I heard a very light tapping coming from my door. Reality returned and the image of Jean-Paul about to mount me disappeared.

I retrieved my hand and raised my upper body as I again heard the tapping on my door. I called out, "Who's there?", but there was no answer. Getting up, I grabbed my long, thin robe off the back of the easy chair facing the window and put it on. I opened the door and Jean-Paul stood there dressed in a long belted robe, obviously dressed for bed. As I looked out past him to see if anyone was watching, he said in a low voice, "No one saw me ascend. Maybe I should come inside before anyone sees me at your door this late at night."

I nodded and he walked in past me as I closed and locked the door. He sat on the side of the bed. Without thinking, I sat next to him and said, "What are you doing here?" He stared into my eyes and replied with his sensuous lips, "We have unfinished business. I think you want what I want. I have not been able to sleep thinking about our kisses and the way your body felt in my hands. I saw the way you looked at me, wanting the passion we both feel for each other. I think you are awake like me with your body smouldering with desire. Let me love you the way we both wanted earlier."

Those smouldering eyes, that sensuous mouth and lips, and his hands gently holding my upper arms as he spoke, all got to me. My desire for him came back with a rush and I instantly knew I desperately wanted him to make love to me. I needed to experience another man taking me, possessing me, owning me, if only for one night before it was too late. He saw my decision in my eyes and leaned in to kiss me. I put my arms around his neck and pushed my lips against his and let him in, losing all restraint and control.

I ran my fingers through his hair as I hungrily kissed him, our mouths ablaze with arousal as we shared deep, wet, passionate kisses like those earlier that afternoon. I felt a gush of wetness between my legs and heaviness in my breasts. My nipples hardened against his hands as they rubbed my breasts through my nightgown and robe as he plundered them while we kissed. My only thought was I desperately needed his fingers and lips doing magical things to them, and to my other parts.

When he opened my robe, pushed my short nightgown up, and put his hands on my breasts, I almost panted as I said, "This is very special for me. I want you to take me as a man does his woman, but afterward, I want to savour it, so please go slowly - very slowly, and make me feel like no other woman in your life. I am yours tonight." It sounds 'over the top' now, but that was exactly how I felt in the throes of my passion at that moment.

He said simply, "Yes," then pushed my robe off my shoulders and pulled me up off the bed. We stood facing each other, my robe sliding to the floor, and the bottom of my short nightgown bunched around my waist and exposing my lightly haired mound. He stared at it for a moment, then he unbelted and opened his robe, and took it off. He was naked beneath it, his manhood fully erect and standing tall. I stared at it unabashedly, fascinated by seeing another man's wonderfully erect cock for the first time in my life. He gently took my hand and placed it on top. My fingers automatically enfolded it and I felt its hardness and power, as well as its velvety outer surface. My fingers explored it as I mentally compared it to my husband's and knew Jean-Paul would be able to give me satisfaction as a woman.

As I explored his manhood with both hands, he pushed my short nightgown up above my breasts, and I felt his mouth and one hand caress and kiss my breasts. Then I felt his other hand slide up between my thighs. I moved them apart a bit to give him access to the 'V' at the top, and soon felt his fingers slide along my furrow, now totally wet. It had been years since I was last so totally wet down there. My passion was now at its height and I needed penetration and satisfaction.

I moaned my need and he slipped his fingers inside the entrance to my pussy and proceeded to finger me with urgency at the same time his other hand and mouth were sucking and tweaking my nipples. My head soon rolled backward as I let myself become one with the movement of his hands and fingers and lips. I spread my legs further apart, both to give his hand more access to my centre and to steady my body. I then placed both my hands on top of his shoulders to further steady my trembling body as I felt myself soaring with passion from a rapidly approaching climax.

His fingering became more and more urgent until I was moaning steadily. When my orgasm finally hit me, I gasped and cried out, then panted steadily as my hips shuddered and pushed hard into his rapidly thrusting hand. He pushed back with his fingers inside and I went wild with a strong climax and lost all control. The only reason my body didn't fall to the floor was I had interlocked my fingers behind his neck and held on even though my whole body trembled and shuddered for what seemed like forever. I finally gasping and panting as the jerking of my hips finally subsided.

I was still panting when Jean-Paul laid me on the bed on my back and moved my legs apart. He knelt between them and entered me with his rigid manhood. As I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and placed my legs behind his thighs in response to his initial thrusting, I moaned into his ear, "Take me. Take me hard. I want to come again. Then I want to slowly savour it for a long time. But take me now!" I was more passionate than I had been in years and I wanted to experience those heights again.

Jean-Paul thrust in me with power and depth, and he later told me each of his thrusts was met by a deep moan by me as I urged him onward. My moaning turned him on even more than he already was and he soon pounded me to another orgasm, this one just as powerful as the first. I loudly gasped as my hips jerked beneath him and I held him in a death grip with my arms and legs as I worked through my long and powerful orgasm.

When finally finished, I relaxed beneath him as he slowly continued to stroke his hard manhood in me. He hadn't come and I asked him about it. He told me we had all night. I then told him I wanted it slow the rest of the night like I had said earlier. About ten minutes later with him slowly stroking in me, I felt my arousal heighten and the first stirrings of another climax building. I told him what I felt, but said for him to continue at his steady pace as I would eventually come. Another five minutes or so, and I came again, this time more sedately, with milder bodily movements and low mewing. While I was enjoying my latest orgasm, he sped up and came in me, flooding my insides with his hot liquid.

He continued stroking inside me for a while, and when he didn't go soft, I asked why. He replied they had the 'little blue pill' in France also and he would probably be good for quite a while before going soft. That suited me as I wanted to feel him stroking his manhood in me forever. And I did, for about another hour. I came at least three more times before he came again, then finally went soft. We fell asleep in each other's arms, then awoke a few of hours later. He made love to me passionately, giving me another come, then the slower way I requested for a while before we fell asleep again.

We luckily awoke about 5 in the morning and he was able to get back to his bedroom undetected after a final quick fuck with him pounding me at the end as he came again. It was our first day at Monet's gardens and I luckily awoke to my alarm clock an hour later, feeling well used but sore 'down there'; and very tired from a combination of second morning jet lag and a long night of fabulous sex. Guilt had not started yet and I refused to think of that aspect as I enjoyed the vivid memories of Jean-Paul in me as I washed and dressed.

We painted for our two hours in Monet's gardens, then returned to the pension for lunch, then continued painting for a few hours under Mme. Poullard's guidance in the garden of our rustic pension from the photographs she had made of our subject views in the Monet gardens that morning. This would be our daily routine for the rest of the week.

Jean-Paul was nowhere to be seen at breakfast and lunch. When I asked Mme. Poullard about him, she gave me a knowing smile and said to me that her cousin had business elsewhere that day but would return for dinner. Then she added with an approving smile, "These old houses have very thin walls and the hallways and stairwells transmit sound excellently, even between floors." Before she turned to leave, my face got red showed my shock at her words. Luckily, my husband had never appeared in her gallery at home, so she had never seen us together, but she knew I had a husband.

At dinner, Jean-Paul again sat separated from me at our long table, but asked me afterward if I wanted a sightseeing ride. I refused, telling him privately what Mme Poullard had told me. He then proceeded to gently enlighten me about the casual French attitude about extra-marital sex and that his cousin told him his visit to my bedroom had gone unnoticed by the other five guests. But I still refused, knowing he would visit me again that night in my garret room.

When his light tapping on my door came around midnight, I opened it just in my short nightgown. After locking the door, we stood tightly embracing and kissing deeply. His robe had fallen open and his naked and rigid manhood slipped easily into the 'V' at the top of my thighs as we kissed. I opened my legs a bit and his slow hip thrusts pushed his cock along my slippery furrow as we kissed. The combination of his kisses and the upper surface of his cock rubbing my already engorged clit was too much. I was so inflamed with passion, enhanced from the hours of anticipation since dinner, I was like a bitch in heat. At that moment, I needed his cock thrusting in me so badly I blurted out to him, "Now! I need you in me now. I can’t wait, Fuck me. Fuck me hard and deep, and make me come!"

He ripped off my nightgown as his robe slid to the floor and lifted me onto the bed on my back. I quickly opened my legs and raised my knees as I splayed my legs wide open. Just as quickly, he got between them and shoved his rigid cock up me in a single thrust. I gasped as my head snapped back from his sudden penetration. His first few hard and fast thrusts set the pace. My mouth opened and I moaned in time with his thrusts with my eyes tightly shut, willing him to make me come quickly. I wrapped my arms and legs around his thrusting body and fucked him back, bucking my hips up into him.

My orgasm came quickly and I cried out my climax, my body shuddering beneath his hard thrusting hips. My intense passion must have transferred to him for he came with me, bellowing out his own climax into the pillow next to my head to muffle his outburst of passion. I felt his hot liquid shoot into me and the feel of it prolonged my orgasm. We continued to fuck each other hard until our joint passion was finally spent. We hugged and cuddled with him still in me, his cock still rigid, until I felt him start to thrust into me again. We fucked to another intense mutual climax, then fell asleep for a short time. We awoke and fucked more sedately for quite a long time, then fell asleep once more. This pattern continued until first light, when Jean-Paul very reluctantly returned to his own room.

I had my French lover in my bed each night thereafter. Saturday was a free day for sightseeing and he and I spent the whole day and half the evening away on our own in his car sightseeing and kissing and touching, and more sightseeing and kissing and touching, until we finally found a place to park in the countryside and had a quick fuck in the rear seat, almost being caught by some hikers passing by. That night, my last before leaving the next morning, was bittersweet. How could I survive not having such intense sex every night, and how could I avoid behaviour that would alert my husband I had taken a lover.

Sunday morning came and we parted after a final long, drawn out and intense goodbye fuck, me telling him I would return the next year for a week painting in Monet's gardens during the day and making love with him in my garret room at night. All during the flights home, I could think of nothing but Jean-Paul having me. It was so bad, I finally had to line the crotch of my panties with paper towels from the plane lavatory to keep them from becoming soaked with my wetness.

That evening, my husband met me at our airport and, on the way home, I bubbled over with enthusiastic descriptions of everything I experienced - with one exception, of course. All during it, I was remembering having sex with Jean-Paul and arrived home wet and in heat.

When my husband said he guessed I was tired and needed to get some sleep, I looked at him with, as he told me later, lust in my eyes and told him I had missed him terribly and it had been too long since we had some fun in bed. I told him to forget my luggage and take me to bed. He was a bit surprised, but was also horny, so we went upstairs. I kissed him hungrily and we quickly undressed each other standing next to our bed. When we were both naked, I slid to my knees and sucked his cock, something I had not done in several years. I got him hard and then led him to the middle of the bed. I pulled him between my legs as I lay back and urged him to eat me.

He enthusiastically lapped his tongue up and down my furrow and sucked my clit exactly the way I like it. I soon came with a shout, my hips trembling. I then pulled him onto me and guided his cock into my waiting entrance. I told him I needed it hard and fast, and he fucked me that way until I climaxed. My passion pulled him along and he came soon after, shooting his cum up me, then collapsed on me. I cuddled him for a long time. That whole time, my passion came from me imagining it was Jean-Paul doing me.

We fell asleep, but I awoke a few hours later and wanted sex again. I managed to suck my husband to an erection and we fucked again. He didn't last long enough for me to come, so I had him eat me to a climax. The same thing happened in the morning. Over breakfast he said he enjoyed very much my passion, but wanted to know what had happened in my absence. I told him being away from him for so long made me realize how much I loved him and the absence had made me horny. My husband nodded in acceptance, but I suspected he guessed the truth; but he didn't press the point, probably grateful for my sudden display of renewed passion.

At my suggestion, he started taking Viagra and our sex life zoomed. Mostly at my initiation, we soon were fucking at least three or four times a week, including new things like doing it outdoors where there was a chance of being discovered. Or sexual rebirth lasted that whole next year and sometime during it, I realized my passion was caused not only by my memory of sex with Jean-Paul, but by my desire for sex with my now much more passionate husband due to his use of Viagra.

The next year, I returned to paint in Monet's gardens by day and have sex by night in my garret room with Jean-Paul. It was a wonderful week of intense passion and, when I returned to my husband, we fucked like bunnies that first night just like the previous year and immediately resumed our wonderful sex life.

The pattern of a year of passionate sex with my husband and then a week of even more passionate sex with Jean-Paul in France continued until four years ago when my husband unexpectedly died. I'm convinced he realized I had a lover for that week in France each year, but was wise enough to not mention it and possibly spoil the benefit he got from it. After all, looking the other way for one week was a small price to pay for the fabulous sex he got the rest of the year.

Since my husband's passing, I still see Jean-Paul for that one week, but I remain for three more weeks and he shows me Europe. We have fucked all over Europe and I'm having a ball. At home, I have a married lover about ten years younger than me whose wife has gone off sex and who doesn’t mind him getting what he needs from me. He visits one or two afternoons a week, usually when she is at her many club meetings.

There must be something a woman who is available for sex gives off that men recognize because I am constantly being flirted with by men, most much younger, who are quite open about wanting to have sex with me. If I weren't so satisfied with my current married lover, I would be tempted, but my ego is very satisfied knowing that at 67 (albeit a youthful looking 67) I'm still a sex object for other men.