Hi, I’m Lucette. 59 today. Husband’s prostate cancer hit two years back. Sex life flatlined. Forty years together. Only him. Until last summer. Our Basque coast branch office. Sunny Saint-Jean-de-Luz vibe. Breakroom like a pool. Love my coffee dips.
Day two. Spot him. Damien. Tall. Muscled. Eyes glued on me. Sipping coffee. Relaxing. Curvy body. Not bad for age. Tinted glasses hide my stare. He inches closer. Chats up. Nice kid. Trust builds fast.
The Mounting Tension in the Open-Space
Day three. Printer whirs outside. Mouse clicks echo. He confesses. Wife bedridden. About to pop their first. He’s 27. Thrilled dad-to-be. Age gap? No issue. Jokes fly. I quip I’m mom-age. His hints? He wants this mature pussy.
Coffee steam mixes my perfume. Tension crackles. Between dossiers. Open-space glances burn. Day four. His nudge. Ditch conservative blouse. Floral low-cut. Two-piece tease under skirt. He grins. Breakroom brushes. Effleurages turn touches. Bet slips out. He’ll soap me in the shower. Massage my back. Love massages. Laugh. “Deal!”
Lunch nears. Husband texts. Home soon. Head to office shower. Door almost shut. He slips in. Click. Locked. Heart pounds. “Always honor bets,” he smirks. Let him. Pari won. Water sprays. Keep skirt hiked, blouse damp. His soapy hands hit shoulders. Neck. Back. Hips. Bliss. Eyes shut. Moan soft.
Feels wrong. Not hands. Cock nudges ass. Spin. Gasp. Naked. Huge erection. Longest I’ve seen. Thick. Points at my hardening nipples. “That’s you, sexy lady.” Stunned. He grabs my hand. Wraps it round shaft. “Your turn to soap.”
Normally? Out. But drought. His touch. Stroke it. Hard. He unbuttons. Bra drops. Mouth on tits. Tongue swirls nipples. Body betrays. Leans in. Turns me. Bend over shelf. Skirt up. Panties mid-thigh. Pussy soaked. “Slow,” whisper. Slides in easy. Huge. Fills me. Grips hips. Pounds fast. Tits swing. Bite lip. No moans. Water drowns slaps. Desk outside? Imagined creaks. He grunts. Jets hot cum deep. Pulls out. Drip.
Adjust fast. Wipe glasses. Blouse straight. Skirt down. Perfume masks sex stink. Door clicks open. Back to open-space. Cool pro face. Husband picks me. None wiser.
Explosive Release and Cool Cover-Up
Two weeks project. Fucked daily. Accessible shower. Space. Off-peak. Bit more head than hubby’s forty years. Discovered joy. His kink? Finish on my glasses. Gush ropes. Learned to love taste.
Days from end. Husband bikes out. Till noon. 9:30. Damien knocks conference room. Saw hubby leave. Torso bare under shirt. Me in robe? No, blouse fresh. Coffee offer. Knows better.
Door locks. Click. Suck him deep. Lick balls. He devours dripping cunt. Sixty-nine on table. Wife skips this. I deliver. Desk fuck marathon. Forty minutes. Missionary. Legs wide. Then doggy. Slaps on fat ass. Balls smack. Grips hips. Tits massaged. Youth vigor. Orgasms rip me. Never with hubby.
“Love these cheeks. Anal?” Wife no. Me neither. Try. Lube from lotion. Gland too big. Hurts. Abort. Back pussy. Final assault. “Cum inside. No mess.” Desk bangs. Chair squeaks. Printer hums cover? Hope colleagues deaf. Roars. Floods womb. Hot. Full.
Pull apart. Wipe. Adjust. Glasses clean. Perfume spritz. Coffee scent lingers. Back to desk. Meeting next. Stone face. Pro again.
Husband later: “Vacay next year?” Grin. “Same Basque spot, love.”