I was proud of myself. At forty-four, mother of two teenagers, I still looked fantastic. It hadn’t come easily. A healthy diet, swimming one and a half kilometres twice a week, and training for at least an hour three times a week had all played their part. Standing just under one metre eighty, I carried a healthy sixty-eight kilos. Unlike many of my friends I had no cellulite, and my stomach and breasts were still almost as firm as they had been at twenty. My breasts were only a B-cup, but Thomas and I were more than happy with them. My face had matured nicely—soft laugh lines and full lips that ran in the family. People often told me I looked half my age, and I savoured the compliments, especially the ones from men. Women tended to be more critical, either because they noticed flaws men overlooked or simply because they were jealous. [Photo from Liza]
My husband Thomas is seven years older than me. In a few weeks we will celebrate his fiftieth birthday. He is the general manager of a large installation company and spends most of his time at work, with little energy left for a healthy lifestyle. At one metre ninety he weighs exactly ninety-nine kilos. The lack of exercise has started to show: thinning hair and a small belly that wasn’t there before.
We married twelve and a half years ago, after our second child was born. Back then he was a rising star in the company, determined to impress the board and the owner with his reliability and hard work. In his free time he still made space for me—dinners out, evenings at the theatre, quiet nights at home.
Before Thomas I had two lovers. The first relationship lasted only three months. We were both inexperienced and too shy to tell each other what we really liked, so the sex stayed exciting but clumsy. The second was far better. Gabriel was four years older and already experienced. He was more than happy to teach me everything—erogenous zones, different positions, even the thrill of public places and oral sex. We were together for more than two years and I was genuinely happy. Then he moved to France to take over a campsite. We stayed in touch for a while, but the messages grew less frequent until they stopped altogether.
Thomas, before me, had one serious girlfriend and a handful of one-night stands. Our own sex life started slowly, yet within two months we were making love at least once a day, trying every position and every surface we could find. He introduced me to the pleasures of the car, the cinema, and the kitchen table. But all good things end.
Gradually his desire faded. Was it the long hours at work, the stress, or simply age? For a while I even wondered whether he had grown tired of the same body, but I never found any sign of infidelity. Lately we managed sex only once every two weeks, and those encounters were shorter and less satisfying. He still made the effort to go down on me, but everything had become predictable. Eventually I accepted that we were no longer young and that the days of wild, spontaneous passion might be behind us. These days the most I could hope for was an admiring glance or a casual compliment from another man.
I bought a Satisfyer and rediscovered the power of orgasm, yet without his scent, his sounds, or the weight of his body it never felt quite the same. When summer approached, Thomas reminded me of the company’s traditional annual party. This year’s theme was the Middle Ages. Knowing he expected me to arrange suitable costumes, I started searching early. Online I found a dress with a deep neckline that I had seen on a woman at a Renaissance fair. For Thomas I hired a butler’s outfit, half hoping the servant role would keep him close to me all evening.
On the day of the party I helped him into the tunic and hat, then stepped into the heavy dress myself. The bodice worked like a push-up bra, lifting my breasts so high that I had to secure the edges with nipple tape to keep them from spilling out when I walked. I added nearly six-centimetre heels and nothing more than bright red lipstick. When I walked out of the bedroom Thomas’s eyes widened. “Elena,” he murmured, “you look incredibly sexy.” He drew a slow breath. “At least half your breasts are on show.” He licked his lips and kissed the exposed skin. I smiled. “This is one of the few chances I get to show off. Do you want me to change?” “Of course not. I’m only saying every eye in the room will be on you.” “Good,” I said. “A woman my age needs reminding now and then that she isn’t finished yet.”
The venue had been transformed into a castle hall—live music, open fire, long tables. More than half the colleagues were already there, drinking and talking. A large platter of canapés stood in one corner. I have never been a heavy drinker, but I enjoy an occasional glass of wine. Thomas sent me for two cocktails. As I crossed the room I felt eyes on my cleavage—many of them belonging to men whose wives stood only a few metres away. I smiled. Two men approached. One I recognised; the other had joined the company only two months earlier. The newcomer complimented the dress. I laughed and pointed out that several women wore similar styles. “True,” he said, “but none of them look as good as you. Is the butler who left you here your husband?” “Yes.” His face fell. “Pity. I was thinking of asking you to dance.”
I grinned. “You can try, but don’t be surprised if Thomas objects.” He looked confused. “Thomas is my husband—and your director.” He blanched, bowed politely and retreated. The second man stayed. “Madam, I dare say you are the queen of the evening.” “Is that flattery,” I asked, “or are you hoping I’ll put in a good word with my husband?” His gaze stayed on my breasts. “If you did I would be eternally grateful—but I mean every word. You are magnificent.”
Thomas returned with the drinks. I took a sip. The cocktail was sweet and stronger than I expected. I liked it. We moved toward a group of his colleagues and I kept drinking. Before I realised it the glass was empty. While Thomas spoke with two employees I noticed his secretary across the room. Our eyes met; she came over, steered me back to the cocktail table, refilled both glasses and began to chat.
The band struck up dance music. Couples drifted onto the floor. Several men soon approached me. The first was a bald board member in his sixties. He asked politely; I accepted. We danced a slow number while I finished the second cocktail. When the music ended he thanked me and moved on. I looked for Thomas and saw him deep in conversation with three directors. I decided not to interrupt and started back toward our table.
A tall, dark-skinned man stepped into my path. “Beautiful lady,” he said, “I’ve been watching you from across the room. You are stunning, and that dress seems made for you alone. May I have this dance?” I vaguely recognised him as one of the warehouse supervisors, dressed tonight as a pirate. I smiled. “If I refuse, will you carry me off?” He laughed. “The thought crossed my mind, but I hope it won’t be necessary.” He offered his arm. On the floor he closed his other arm around me. Someone called out, “Hey Mateo, dancing with the boss’s wife?” So that was his name—Mateo.
We moved slowly. After a minute a wave of dizziness hit me; the cocktail had been stronger than I thought. I rested my head against his chest and closed my eyes. When the song finished I stayed leaning against him. “I feel a little dizzy,” I murmured.
“It’s too warm in here,” he said, “and this year’s cocktails are heavier than usual. Let me take you outside for some air.” His arm settled around my shoulders and he guided me into the garden. Trees stood thickly; it felt like a small park. We walked between them, my head still against his shoulder. I felt slightly better, though the dizziness lingered. Near a large tree with a picnic table he lifted me easily and set me on the cold metal. “Let me work on your shoulders. You’ll feel better in a moment.”
His warm hands began to knead the bare skin. It felt good. I let my head fall back against his chest and heard myself sigh. After a while his palms slid lower, onto the exposed curves of my breasts. In my hazy state the touch felt wonderful. Slowly his fingers stroked the soft flesh. Somewhere in the back of my mind an alarm began to sound. “What are you doing?” I managed.
“I only want you to feel better,” he whispered against my ear. “So I’m expanding the massage a little.”
The wrongness of it pressed in again. “This isn’t right…” “Should I stop?” he asked. I knew the answer should be yes, yet my mouth would not form the word. He took the silence as permission and continued. His hands were skilled; for the first time in months I felt genuine arousal building. The discomfort faded beneath the pleasure. Then his fingers slipped inside the bodice and found my nipples, circling them gently. “Please…” I whispered.
He kept stroking. “Do you really want me to stop?” Again I could not answer. It felt too good to end, yet too dangerous to continue. I felt him working at the buttons of the dress. I closed my eyes and surrendered. Moments later the fabric fell open and cool air touched my bare breasts. The sensation was delicious, yet a small voice still insisted this was wrong. I tried to ignore it. He felt me yield and turned me toward him. I kept my eyes shut. Then his mouth closed over my right nipple. He sucked softly and a tremor ran through me. Heat spread everywhere; I grew wet. I moaned, caught his head and guided him to the other breast while his fingers finished with the remaining buttons.
When the last one gave way he slid the dress from my shoulders. I helped him. I stood in only my panties. He pulled me against him and I felt the hard length of him against my stomach. The long drought of unsatisfying sex had already drowned most of my objections. Alcohol softened the rest. I was his now, and he knew it.
He lifted my chin and kissed me deeply. His tongue claimed my mouth; his scent and taste acted like an aphrodisiac. I pressed closer. During the kiss he guided my hand to the bulge in his trousers. I no longer hesitated. I stroked him through the cloth. Then he broke the kiss and pressed gently on my shoulders. I opened my eyes and met his commanding gaze. I sank to my knees. “Unzip me,” he said. The order sent a fresh shiver through me. Thomas had never spoken to me that way.
I opened the zip and freed him. The size of him made me catch my breath. Thick, long, the head already glistening. I kissed it, then opened my mouth and took him in as far as I could. He had showered; he tasted clean. As I worked him with my lips and tongue he played with my nipples. Pleasure built steadily between my legs even though nothing touched me there.
Suddenly his body tensed. His hands locked in my hair. I knew what was coming. I pulled back slightly, kept my tongue against the head, and a moment later hot jets filled my mouth. I swallowed quickly, taking every drop. The knowledge that I had made him come pushed me closer to the edge, yet I did not finish. Oral sex was something I had not done in years; I had never even tasted Thomas that way.
Mateo withdrew, breathing hard, and looked down at me with a satisfied smile. “You haven’t come yet. Don’t worry—I’ll see to that.” Any last chance to stop had already passed. My mind held only one thought: I needed to come, nothing else mattered.
He stripped off his shirt, revealing a hard, muscular chest and a navel piercing. He spread the jacket on the grass and laid me carefully on my back. I watched in silence as he finished undressing. Powerful shoulders, defined abdomen, heavy balls between strong thighs. I reached down and removed my own panties. He knelt between my legs, still half-hard, and rubbed the head against my neatly trimmed mound while his hands returned to my breasts. I spread myself open; the friction against my clitoris was enough. The first orgasm rolled through me—mild, pleasant, nowhere near enough.
I felt him harden fully in my hand. He shifted, and the blunt head pressed between my lips. “No…” I breathed. He met my eyes. “Do you want me to use a condom?” For a second I thought the question might save me—or decide me. He reached for his trousers, found a packet, and rolled the latex on with deliberate care. Then he guided himself back to my entrance. We stared at each other. Without warning he pushed inside.
I gasped as the thick length stretched me. I tried to remember the last time Thomas and I had made love, but clear thought was impossible. Mateo began to thrust—deep, steady, then harder. He spoke dirty words against my ear—“That’s it, boss’s wife… you like this, don’t you?”—and I nodded helplessly. One hand gripped my breast; the other held my hip. He pinned me to the table and varied the rhythm, keeping me balanced on the edge for what felt like forever. Once he tried to kiss me; I turned my face away. Kissing still belonged to Thomas and me.
At last he drove deep and came, the condom catching everything. The sensation tipped me over. I climaxed hard, the strongest orgasm I had felt in years. For those few seconds nothing else existed.
We rested five minutes among the trees, me still naked and satisfied on the table, when voices approached. He withdrew, stepped back, and looked at the evidence of what we had done—my glistening folds, the filled condom. He removed it and tossed it into the undergrowth. The voices grew closer. He handed me my clothes. We dressed quickly and moved away.
I still felt light-headed, yet my body hummed with energy. Mateo supported me as we walked. “I know who you are—Elena, the director’s wife. In case you don’t remember, my name is Mateo. I’ll take you back inside.” He brushed a light kiss across my lips, led me to the entrance, pointed toward our table, and disappeared.
I checked the dress for grass stains, then went straight to the ladies’ room. Fresh lipstick, a quick tidy of my hair, and I returned to the table. Most of the guests were by now half-drunk or deep in conversation. A few pairs of eyes followed me, but no one seemed to notice anything amiss. Thomas was nowhere in sight. I sat down and leaned back. At some point I must have dozed, because the next thing I felt was his hand on my arm.
“Sorry, love,” he murmured. “I know I left you alone too long. Something urgent came up with the board. I’ll make it up to you later, I promise.”
We left soon after. My head was still swimming and I felt raw between my legs. Thomas held my hand all the way to the car and opened the door like a perfect gentleman. At home he poured himself a whisky while I showered quickly and slipped into bed. I needed the shower; my skin still carried the unmistakable scent of my own arousal. Half an hour later he came into the bedroom, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “Good night, sweetheart,” before turning out the light.
If only he knew.
