Last week, I did something completely shameful, lewd, and perverse.
My name is Sue; I am a married woman of 58 and a mother and grandmother. I have been with the same man for more years than I care to count. I have never wanted to leave him, nor have I ever considered cheating on him.
Until the day I did the latter.
As his physical inclinations for me steadily diminished these past few years, I found my desires for male attention mounting. I had begun to see horny men everywhere I turned. And actually, I was quite alarmed that I wanted to let a relative stranger push his hard dick into me, but even more so that I let it happen. Even as I write this, I've let him do it again and again after we made love the first time.
My husband Jim just turned sixty-seven last month. He's a great guy and has always been the love of my life, and he remains so. He's a good Christian man and father of two strapping sons, both of which have long since moved away and have their own families now.
About twelve years ago, he was diagnosed with a mild form of heart disease; he's been on medications ever since. Slowly, he had become partially flaccid with erectile dysfunction. Though he sometimes endeavors to please me in other ways, he's a meat-and-potatoes type of lover who can no longer enjoy his woman as he prefers.
With just a bit of foreplay, if any, he would tend to rub his fat dick at my pussy before he mounts and screws me deeply till I was full with his cum. I had become accustomed to his very direct and too-the-point way of using me. It was my favorite of the many things that I loved about him. I'm a spoiled woman, well, at least I was.
Before he came along, the boys that courted me would try to impress me with their extended foreplay and cock prowess. Often, I just wished they'd just screw me deep and hard. In hindsight, I guess I've always been a meat and potatoes fuck myself. But when I met Jimmy, I knew he was the man for me by the way he took charge and made me his.
In the past few years, sex between us has dwindled to nearly nothing. I do my best to release his pent-up stress when he allows, but as he doesn't get hard anymore, he tends to resist my advances.
In more recent times, I've rarely been inclined to approach him for obvious reasons. I've grown to suspect he masturbates himself in secret for relief. And I am more than ok with that.
A little over a month ago, an older man moved into the neighborhood. His house is across the street and one down to the left of ours. The family that lived in it previously lost the place to foreclosure.
Gary and his wife pulled up in a big box truck one morning, and for the whole day, they unloaded and sorted their things into the house with a couple of guys helping from the Home Depot.
My curiosity, of course, begged me to spy and see these new people, but as soon as I got a glimpse of him, I felt something inside begin to swoon.
Gary is a bit shorter than my husband, as he's six feet easy. But Gary probably stood a mere five-ten or eleven. Still, he's a mite taller than me at a tiny five foot-seven.
He's a thin, lank of a man, but he definitely had a very masculine way about him, lifting and caring boxes and furniture as he did, it left no doubt. I would discover later that he was a truck mechanic at one time but is now disabled due to an accident, though you could hardly tell by watching him.
My husband still works full-time, he's a district manager of distribution for a big box company. Often, he would work ten or twelve hours a day, two or three days a week, depending on the season. As such, this would give me plenty of time alone at home to do as I pleased or when I wasn't running errands as well.
A week or so after they moved in, I went over with a basket of baked goodies for them to welcome them to the block. Gary wasn't at home, but his wife was plenty gracious, and we chatted briefly at the door.
Now, this woman was sweet as pie, but she was very overweight and in terrible health, judging by her swollen ankles. It was something I couldn't help but feel bad for. Nonetheless, we got along nicely during our little conversation.
I know I'm no spring chicken, and I sure don't spend hours at the gym, but I could not help but wonder, at her size, if they were still sexually active with one another. I found it hard to imagine her and him fucking at all.
With my husband and his condition, who would suspect that we don't have a sex life anymore just by looking at us? I mean, he's tall and handsome and still strong enough to handle himself in every other way, but sadly, he's lost his wood and his confidence.
On the other hand, she looks as if she'd be more interested in a slice of cake than a man's cock. And I can't help but wonder if her husband still found her desirable at all. I feel guilty for thinking it, but every time I saw Gary, I wondered what he'd be like in bed or how long it's been for him. My unwarranted curiosity was being fueled by my own horny neediness.
Gary was retired, though he spent his days working as a handyman for cash. There was something about seeing him in his worn-out jeans that I liked. He was a man in every way that I could see, from across the street, as it were.
Pretty soon, I was peeking out my front window as often as I could, looking, trying to catch a glimpse of him as he was coming and going. I would watch as he did his yard work in the front, and I watched through the open garage door when he was muddling around in there.
I liked his long, lean stature, his stern and weathered face, and the way he wore his old work jeans, tattered and threadbare.
The fabric was worn thin and white on his knees, thighs, and crotch, particularly from the constant rubbing of his hands and such. The obvious fraying of threads was like little windows, probably revealing his underwear or maybe his bare skin underneath. However, he was always too far away for me to tell. The placement of those rather obvious frayed areas forced my curiosity; I often wondered whether he even wore underwear.
My husband was a strict jockey underwear man, though I did very much enjoy seeing him swing freely in his Pj's or casual shorts early in the mornings and evenings.
That being said, I wasn't ever a woman concerned with the size of a man's cock. Until I met my husband, that is.
