"Oh, this is so COZY," my girlfriend cooed as she pushed open the door to the rental apartment and flipped on the light switch.
I stepped in, stomped the snow off my boots, and drank it in as Charlotte stepped forward and did a slow pirouette. And I wasn't just taking in the view of the room. The warm, muted accent lighting glinted off her snow-dappled hair, and also perfectly highlighted the cowl-neck sweater stretched tight over her ample chest and the black tights that were honoring her toned ass and legs.
"Fireplace! Bearskin rug! Look at the comfy sectional, dear! And very cool decor!"
The unit had knotty pine walls, exposed beam ceilings and a ski resort vibe — antique skis and snowshoes on some walls, an old ski-run sign with double black diamonds and the words "Novices Beware" stenciled under it; and some 1920s-era European style posters depicting ski racers, in The Alps, presumably.
I reached back outside the door, grabbed the handles on our luggage and turned to see Charlotte hunched over something in the middle of the room.
"Hon! Look!" she exclaimed, lifting a basket from the coffee table in front of the fireplace. "It looks like ... a split of champagne, and ummm, a couple cheeses and a small box of crackers. How sweet!"
"Looks like there's a card in there, too," I said, unzipping my coat. Charlotte sat the basket down, slipped her finger through the envelope and pulled out a note.
"Welcome to our home. Here's a little something to ring in the New Year," she read. "Have fun, Lance and Olivia."
"Ah, man, that's awfully nice," I said. "Wasn't in the rental description, but what a great way to kick off our ski weekend."
She shifted into a kittenish pose and lifted the bottle up to her cheek with both hands, as a model would. She flashed a come-hither smile and said, "Start the weekend now?"
I glanced at my watch, then smiled. "Reservation's at 7 -- I think we might have time for a glass. Let me put these in the bedroom." I lifted one travel bag in each hand and headed toward the hall at the end of the living room.
The bedroom carried over the design theme -- rustic, and warm. The bed was a brass four-poster queen with a pile of pillows and thick quilted comforter on top. Out in the kitchen, I heard cupboard doors followed by the clink of glasses and then, expectedly, the pop of the champagne cork.
I zipped open my travel bag and was transferring underwear and socks and sweaters into an antique bureau on the wall opposite the bed. Charlotte swept in and shrugged her shoulders in delighted way. She grabbed the sides of my face and pulled me into her.
"This is going to be perfect," she said, kissing me deeply and tracing the tip of her tongue around the sensitive inside of my lips before darting in to find my tongue.
"Our glasses are on the table," she said. "I need to freshen up from the road, and then I'll be right in. It's a gas fireplace — can you turn it on?"
"Yes, yes and yes, sexy," I said and got in a nice smack of her ass as she turned toward the bathroom. She skipped a step and gave a satisfying yelp as she disappeared into the bathroom.
I flipped the switch on the fireplace, and it sparked and coughed to life. It was set at a high level, and almost immediately if felt the warmth from the unit. I bent to pick up one of the glasses of champagne, and notice that the coffee table was a live-edge pine slab, beautifully lacquered. "Oh boy," I thought, "Charlie's been after me for one of these. This might seal the deal."
I sank into the sectional, took a sip of the bubbly and looked around. It had been a long year; a good year for Charlotte and me, as we were finding new and innovative ways to turn up the heat in our seven-year marriage. This New Year's ski trip was a celebration of the work we'd put in, on vulnerability and sharing, trust and honesty. All of which are good fundamentals for all aspects of a relationship, but this work had really manifested itself through our intimate life.
First, this had been the year that saw a breakthrough in fantasies. And by fantasies, I don't mean acting them out. But rather, accessing them and sharing them as an accelerant for our love life. I'd always had bisexual fantasies and had even had a few encounters with men before I'd met Charlotte. They were transactional in nature; an exchange of pleasures with zero true intimacy. I wasn't interested in pursuing that as a lifestyle and had never really accessed the why's and where-fors of my behavior ... before I met Charlotte.
This was the greatest love I'd found in my life, after a couple well-intentioned false starts and crossing the age-60 threshold. Charlotte was a bit younger, at 57, but we were both young-looking and very active, so energy and passion weren't an issue.
The relationship truly had been transformative, teaching me to trust be who I was and to believe that who I was ... was worth being loved. Charlotte's unconditional love and acceptance emboldened me to be the person I was, and the more I did, the more she said she fell in love with me.
It also had an interesting side effect: As I shared some of my experiences, and incorporated them into my fantasy life with Charlotte, she allowed her sexual self to roam. Some of it was in the form of shopping for and using new toys together; in a more extreme "trust fall" experience, she wore a strap-on and pegged me -- a session that was notable for vulnerability that was deeply emotional, rather than orgasmic pyrotechnics.
And in a first for both of us, she let me go down on her after I'd cum inside her. The taboo nature of the act gave her a shattering orgasm.
Most recently, she'd confided after one of her spectacular squirting climaxes that her fantasy had been men — including me — masturbating near her as a sexy female stranger had gone down on her. Charlotte was 100% heterosexual, but our liberated fantasy life had allowed her to access some new taboo themes that she never would have imagined.
More and more, our ability to share our fantasy lives rewired my prior life of having secret desires and then acting dysfunctionally on them. The more we shared, the hotter our love life became, the more we trusted each other, and the deeper our commitment grew.
I heard the toilet flush, and seconds later Charlotte bounded out, smiling, and flopped dramatically onto the couch next to me. She flung both arms over my shoulders and pulled me into a deep, sensuous kiss.
"Mmmmmm," she purred. "That champagne tastes good. What is it?"
"Cheap stuff," I said. 'Maybe that great taste is us."
She smiled, kissed me again, and then pulled away with a twinkle in her eyes. "Oh, I know our taste. This wine is good, but nowhere as good as us."
I laughed and instantly my entire being, wired up in anticipation, vicariously relived that taste and smell and feel. We were so damn hot together.
She reached out, swept her glass off the table and took a long drink.
"Oh, Cameron! Look — live edge! You know how much ..."
"You want one of those!" I finished her sentence, my voice rising in mock enthusiasm. "A New Year's resolution!" I leaned into her, took the glass from her hand and put it back on the table. "Your wishes are my command, baby. Especially this weekend."
I leaned into her spectacular, huge breasts and shifted my weight partially on top of her. My left hand went behind her neck, under her cute blonde wedge haircut, while my right hand slipped down her left side, to where her hip met her ass. I pulled her into me, and she sighed as our lips parted and we mingled champagne, and the lust that had built over four hours on the road.
The instant her tongue flicked over the edge of mine, then up to the roof of my mouth, my cock surged against the constraints of my underwear and jeans. My right hand slipped up under her sweater, feeling the heat radiating from her firm abdomen, and then finally finding the perfect, pendulous underside of her left breast. My tongue met her probing with equal enthusiasm, and she exhaled sharply as my finger and thumb found her rock-hard nipple and pinched and twisted it.
She shifted so she could put both arms around me, and then slid abruptly down and back into the couch, pulling me into her and grinding her crotch up into my rapidly growing bulge. I swore I could feel the wet heat of her pussy right through denim.
We came up for air simultaneously and looked at one another wide-eyed, and then without prompting dove back into our passionate kissing. At once, her hands were working on my belt buckle and once disengaged, the button of my jeans. She shifted her hips away from my torso to give her hand freedom, and then as soon as she had room, tugged my zipper down and plunged her hand into my jeans, onto my thickening cock.
I moaned through our sloppy, passionate kiss with her first pump, then more as her hand quickly slid over the cotton down to my full and aching balls.
I freed my left hand and it joined my right under her sweater, one hand each on a supple, firm globe, each set of fingers pawing areola, and she exhaled ragged breaths in a cadence that betrayed her arousal.
Suddenly, she pushed up on my chest with both hands, wriggled from underneath me and then continued to push me backward, until I was reclined opposite her. She downed the rest of her champagne, then tugged her sweater over her head. Her cleavage swelled between the cups of her double-D bra, and she shook her hair once, then looked at me with a wicked grin.
"This will be my appetizer," she said, and fell forward into my groin. Both hands worked on my jeans and briefs until they were down my hips and ass, and my rigid cock was bouncing up against her neck and chin.
Her left hand went straight under my balls, cupping them in a firm grip, and she flung her head down and forward. In an instant I felt warm and wet and pressure and suction and tugging ... it was an overwhelmingexplosion of sensations, and my hips shot off the couch cushion, bucking my pelvis into her face.
"Mmmph" she grunted as my spasm drove too much of my 8-inch cock into the back of her throat. She backed off, the beginnings of tears in her eyes, but her left hand never stopped kneading my balls, and her right never stopped pumping my foreskin over the saliva-slicked mushroom head of my cock.
I pulled the hair back from her face, and her eyes rolled up to meet mine. If you could smile with your eyes, she was doing it as she resumed pumping her mouth over my glans and top half of my shaft. I noticed she'd reapplied lipstick in the bathroom, and the red ring sent another jolt to my overloaded nervous system.
