An Interlude to Cherish

Colette

He'll be here soon. Brice Freeland, I mean, my twenty-year-old former neighbor who also has become my lover. Nothing unusual about that. Except that I'm nearing the half-century mark and I'm married. Nothing unusual about that either, I suppose. People cheat all the time. Other wives and husbands do, but not me. At least that's the way I felt during my twenty-seven-year marriage to James, my husband, who's now over in Paris attending to the restaurant we opened together after he sold his dental practice and amassed enough windfall in the process that he could afford to retire and do something else with his life. Our life, too, because it sounded like something out of a romantic dream. Fun, too.

And it was for a while. We bought a restaurant/bakery in Paris for a few hundred-thousand. Chump change to us compared to the few million we got for the dental practice. We were newbies. Knew just a few French phrases. No matter, we thrived. At least James did. Me, I missed my life back home. My friends, Broadview, our country club, and just communicating without having to lug around a French-English dictionary. Missed our kids also. Edward and Muriel. They did come to visit once. But I wanted to see more of them.

And so, after a year and a half, I tried to persuade James to sell the restaurant, pack up and return home to Maryland. "I'm not even close to doing that, Colette," he said. "I'm having too much fun."

We argued back and forth. Good naturedly at first. But then the arguments got more heated. Our sex life, which had been on the wane anyway, became non-existent. It's amazing how a man you've been married to for close to three decades can almost feel like a stranger. We became strangers to each other. Finally, I said enough is enough. And he said, "au revoir."

I returned to Maryland to the two-bedroom condo we had bought after becoming empty nesters. The condo is paid for, so my part-time secretarial work and savings keeps me solvent. We had asked Brice to watch it for us while we were away. Basically, all it entailed was adjusting the thermostat, watering the plants and maybe vacuuming when needed. That was about it.

We'd known Brice since he was in grade school. In fact, for a few months, I was den mother for his Cub Scout troop. We were neighbors in Ryland Heights, our former neighborhood, a post-World War Two, upper-middle class suburban community where he and his parents still live. James and I had been casual friends with Jenna and Mike, Brice's parents. While away, we had kept in touch, mostly through email. Ryland Heights is only a few miles from our condo, so Brice didn't mind being on "condo duty" while we were away. My grown children live out of state.

I met Brice at the condo a few days after arriving back in the states. We went over some things, and then I thanked him with a generous check. And that should have been that. But it wasn't, because there was a strange chemistry brewing between us. We began talking, talk that soon got personal, talk that led to an intimacy that I never saw coming when Brice agreed to watch the condo. My life took a turn. Oh, boy, did it ever!

Brice

Ever drive with a boner so hard it feels like it's going to burst through your pants? No? Well, try it some time. But you'll need to find the right lady that turns you on so much that the very thought of her makes your dick hard as a rock. That lady would be Colette Henson and right now, I'm on my way to see her.

She was once my neighbor and Cub Scout den mother. I was nine years old then and to me, she was just this nice lady who took us on field trips and supervised various scout projects. Then, with the onset of puberty, I began to see her in a different light, the female species generally in a different light. Raging hormones can take you places that you never imagined in your kid life. In more ways than one, I outgrew my Cub Scout uniform, and Colette became this older woman fantasy, prime jerk-off material for me, a tall, gangly boy struggling to make sense of the changes taking place in his early adolescent body. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think that my Colette Henson fantasies would one day become reality.

Colette's never revealed her exact age to me, but I know she's got to be at least forty-five. And she's still so pretty, with soft features and soft skin that belies her age. She's at the age where a woman's sex drive peaks. At least that's what I've heard, and Colette appears to be a prime example. She's beautiful and sexy and sensuous. And it's not just the way she looks but what she says and how she says it. 'My head is spinning with desire for you to drive that magnificent appendage of yours into my eager pussy.' Not made up. She really said that and then spread her smooth, gorgeous legs, guided me in and then closed her beautiful emerald eyes for most of the ride.

But I digress.

It began as a favor. I'd watch the Henson's condo while they were away in Paris. No big deal. Glad to do it, I said. They'd be paying me, so what the hell? College kept me busy but not so busy that I couldn't make time to do the chores that Colette and James wanted done. Her return to the states without James surprised me. I thought they had a solid marriage. Not so solid, she confided to me. Moving to Paris and opening a restaurant, James' idea, sounded so romantic to Colette. She thought it might revive the romance that had long ago gone out of her marriage. But, with all the work required to keep the business going, plus ongoing issues that no expat move alone could resolve, that didn't happen. She got bored, she got stressed and that was that. She came home. Alone.

She told me all this when we met a few days after she arrived back. Why did she confide in me rather than lean on one of her friends? She said she felt more comfortable telling me because she didn't think I'd judge her like some of her smug, gossipy friends might, including my parents with whom she still kept in touch.

She paid me well for the work I did. The money, I mean, not the sex. Becoming intimate with me wasn't part of the deal. It just happened. Well, not "just." Not long after she got home, she'd call me. She talked more about her marriage but also began asking about me. How was college going? Had I picked a major? Did I have a girlfriend? College was going great, my major was political science and yes, I had a girlfriend, Kelly-Ann Cornelio.

But that didn't stop either of us from becoming closer, first in a conversational sense, and then later in the sort of closeness that I sure as hell never expected. That First Time happened one Friday night when she invited me over for dinner. After telling my parents that I was "meeting friends," I drove over to the condo. She greeted me barefoot, wearing a white kimono and this amazing scent, pungent, penetrating and so seductive. Naïve I'm not, so I had a good idea of where this was going and where in fact it went after we finished this delicious casserole meal she fixed, washed down with some fancy red wine that must have cost a bundle.

One thing led to another. Cliché, I know, but isn't there a sequence to everything? The intimate chatter on the living room sofa which led to hand holding which led to soft kisses which led to passionate kisses which led to touching which led to her bedroom which led to...Well, use your imagination, sports fans.

If reality actually does fail to meet the thrill of fantasy, or so I've heard, my experience with Colette Henson is an exception to the rule. I'd never tell my girlfriend or parents but I'd sure like to express my joy to my guy friends. When you experience something that great, you want to tell people, even though the experience might make me look bad. We're adulterers, after all. Not something I'm proud of, not something she's proud of. But here we are, doing it and locked in a pact not to tell a soul.

After that first time, she said, "Guys like to brag about their so-called conquests. I know that as well as you, Brice."

"Guys do," I admitted, "but not this guy. You can trust me. Scout's honor."

So far, she has and so far, I haven't betrayed that trust. Anyway, I just pulled into the parking lot of her condo, running on high octane, breathing hard with anticipation.

Colette

I've got to be careful. My condo is the garden style variety, where people can see people coming and going. What would they think upon seeing a young, good-looking guy like Brice enter and leave my place? At the very least, they'd be curious. Perhaps they'd keep it to themselves. Or, maybe not. I can hear the gossip now, because some of them know that James is still in France. "He's having too much fun to return just yet," I've told the couple neighbors who've asked, leaving out our marital problems. But the suspicious way they look at me suggests that they suspect it's more than just "fun" that keeps him there and me here.

Yes, it's devilishly risky what I'm doing, not to mention naughty, not to mention repulsive to others who consider themselves made of higher moral fiber. That's okay, they can think what they wish. I'll continue to have my own fun with Brice. Looking out my window, I see him coming up the walk now, with his maroon varsity jacket thrown over his blue Under Amor V-neck, his long legs wrapped in tight jeans, looking like the basketball-playing jock that he is, all six-foot-five of him.

He steps inside and then stoops down to kiss me. "So how's my beautiful, sexy den mother?"

I reach up and ruffle his wavy brown hair, then wrap my arms around him. "She's doing great now that my sexy, handsome Cub Scout is here. I missed you."

"Missed you too," he says, sliding his big hands down the back of my shorts. "You smell so good," he adds.

When we pull back, I offer him a beer. "We've got Blue Moon. Your fave, you've told me."

"That would be great," he says. He removes his jacket, kicks off his sneakers, and then folds his long frame onto the sofa, recently upholstered in an earth tone fabric.

After taking two bottles of brew from the fridge, I join him, sitting sideways with my legs folded under me. Per my asking, he tells me the classes he's taking, his basketball practices and a little about Kelly-Ann Cornelio, his girlfriend. She's an education major at Towson U., he tells me. He shows me a pic of the blond, comely young lady on his phone. "Hope you're not jealous," he jokes.

"Oh, I'll get over it," I respond.

We both laugh. No, I'm hardly jealous because I would expect a kid like Brice to be involved with a pretty girl. Anyway, what right have I to be jealous doing what I'm doing? "But I guess that Kelly-Ann wouldn't be happy if somehow she found out about us," I say.

His wry, toothy grin says it all. "Ah, no, she wouldn't," he says. "There could be like, hell to pay."

"Yes," I nod, "my hubby wouldn't like it much either, even though he basically told me to get lost. 'Va te faire voir,' as the French say it."

He asks if we still communicate. "Yes, by email," I reveal.

He knocks back a swig. Then: "Have you filed for divorce?"

"Not yet. Brice, my marriage is in a state of limbo. I'm not sure where things are going. James is in Paris, doing what he loves, though for how long, I'm not sure he even knows."

I let him think about that for a few moments, while we work on our beers. Then I ask, "Honey, are you having second thoughts about what we're doing? I mean, you have a girlfriend you're very fond of and I'm sure you'd hate for her to get hurt. I wouldn't want her to get hurt either."

He shakes his head. "Nah, I'm cool with this. He starts to rub my legs. "Cool with what we're doing but hot on you."

I place my bottle down on the coffee table. Then he puts his down and we start to kiss. I'm hot on him also and getting hotter by the moment. Sometimes, I'm tempted to ask my close girlfriends if they've ever made it with a six-foot-five, hot-looking, twenty-year-old basketball player. Of course, I know none of them have. Asking that would just be my segue into sharing the wonderful time I've been having with just such a fine specimen of young manhood.

I'm now on his lap, all five-foot-five of me, my legs straddled over his. He's unbuttoning my blouse, and when he does, I reach back and unsnap my bra. "Your tits are so nice," he says. He said that when we first made love, which I took as a great compliment because a Dolly Parton I'm not. His actions speak louder than words. His tongue does also, licking and sliding all over my "nice" tits. His confidence excites me as much as his brown eyes, dark, in a mysterious kind of way. He's sensitive to where I'm sensitive. He's a picture of finesse and know-how.

"Is your pussy still eager?" he asks.

"So eager," I say. "My cunt is like a hot Niagara Falls, flowing and oozing juices all over my black lace panties." He loves it when I talk like that. The thing is, it's not all talk. I really am wet and getting wetter. I'm also wearing black lace panties.

We get up from the sofa and step into the master bedroom. The Master is no longer here. He's in Paris, doing whatever he does, blind to what I'm doing and better off for it, I'd imagine. What once played out in this room between a man and his wife, is now played out between a hungry, naughty woman and her former neighbor turned hunky young lover.

We step out of our clothing; my stained, black lace panties the last to go. Then we climb into my king-sized bed. Brice overwhelms me in the way that I've been wanting to be overwhelmed for so long. Such arms, long and strong, holding and caressing me. I can feel his sense of protectiveness alongside his lust. I see my persona as a mixed bag of roles. Stepmom, girlfriend, cougar. What am I? Who am I? Right now, is it really that important? I can wrestle with that psychological stuff later.

When he gets between my legs and puts his mouth on my oozing cunt, I brush back my bangs and gasp from the hotness that explodes within me. "Ohmygod, ohmygod, you're so good!" I cry.

He looks up and flashes me this proud grin. He's pleased as punch with his performance as well he should be. Because he's pleasing me like I haven't been pleased in years, perhaps never. When he resumes, I collapse once again on the pillow and close my eyes. James never liked to do this. Grudgingly, early on in our marriage, he gave me oral. But then he stopped after a year. Brice loves it. He told me so the first time we slept together. Since then, I douche before he comes over.

I'm getting close now. But I want to come with him inside me. I'm not shy about telling him and he's hardly shy in honoring that request. While on his knees, he pulls my legs up, wraps his arms around them and then enters me. "You're so beautiful," he tells me. His voice sounds like it's coming from some distant, foggy place, so lost am I in the moment. I hear nothing but the slap of his body against mine, see nothing but his handsome face, a picture of joyful intensity.

I'm getting close now, oh so close, and I have no doubt that he is as well. The rhythm and decibels of our bodies slapping together is picking up. Think of Ravel's Bolero. I don't care if it's become a musical sexual cliché, it resonates with me, plays in my head, envelopes me and then, like those orchestral symbols in the score, crashes inside me. I see nothing because my eyes are closed, hear nothing but those imaginary symbols and voices--real voices, mine and his, making sounds that express what we're feeling. Anybody who's ever been here can easily relate.

When we come down, he cuddles next to me and says, "Colette, when we were neighbors and I was still in grade school, I bet it never crossed your mind that one day you'd be sharing your bed with me."

Resting my head on his chest, I chuckle. "That's for sure. And that was only a short ten years ago. Short for me, that is, not so short for you, I'd imagine."

He nods. "Yeah, a whole decade. Still a long time for me. I hope that doesn't make you feel old. Because to me, you're anything but old."

"Age is relative," I say. "You're as old as you feel. And you, young man, make me feel younger than I have in years."

While we cuddle, my mind wanders. Should I file for divorce? If not, why not? Well, maybe I haven't given up the idea of somehow repairing my marriage. Sure, Colette, that's why you're in your bedroom, letting a college kid fuck your brains out. I laugh inside. Funny in a dark, absurd sort of way.

My mind doesn't wander for long. Brice starts to kiss me, first on my lips, then on my breasts and tummy. His "star" is rising and with it, my anticipation of taking him inside me again. This time, I'll be on top, doing jump-squats on his young cock, feeling like the young girl I once was. Other matters can wait. Right now, at this moment, I have more pressing concerns.

Brice

It doesn't take long before I'm hard once again. When you're my age and you're in bed with a woman who was once prime jerk-off material, your dick can't stay flaccid for long. We begin to kiss, taking our time, exploring each other's bodies in the process. She's still "new" to me, and I notice things that either I didn't notice before or didn't pay much attention to. The graceful taper of her calves, the wrinkle that runs across her belly, the prominent vein that runs vertically over her left breast, her dimpled knees and the curvature of her cute butt come into focus. I kiss her all over, including between her legs, getting her panting-hot once again.

She takes top. Great! That way, I get to see her tits bounce, get to see her amazing, tennis-trained legs pumping and squatting, the way they're doing now, while she looks down on me like she loves me. Well, maybe not that, but her smile is full of loving warmth and welcome. She looks so sexy, shaking her hair out of her pretty eyes and moaning up a storm. "I'm close, baby, I'm close," she cries, breathing like she's on a treadmill.

"At your leisure," I say, something I said the last time we met. She loves the fact that I have so much control, that I can delay my climax long enough to follow hers. Of course, it's a lot easier to do that after the first round. Not bragging, it's just my controlling nature in certain situations.

She collapses on top of me, rubbing her sweet-sweat into my hairy chest. "Another slam-dunk, baby," she says, in deference to my chosen sport. "Before you go, I hope you have another basket in you. If you know what I mean." She winks.

Man, this middle-age gal likes sex as much, if not more than my girlfriend Kelly-Ann. "Yeah, another three-pointer," I say. "But grant me a few minutes of halftime."

"Granted," she says. "Meanwhile, I'll make us some refreshments." She throws on a robe, goes into the kitchen and then comes back with a tray of cheese on crackers, fruit and flavored seltzer water. "Our halftime meal."

We sit up against the headboard, munching and chatting. "I guess the peak sex drive for women really does come when they pass forty," I say.

"So I've heard," she says. "But everybody's different. And I'd say it's all relative. Before you came along, I didn't think my sex drive was any higher than any other woman my age."

"Thanks. I'll take that as a complement."

"I think we complement each other," she says, and turns to kiss me. "I mean, there's equal give and take here."

I nod, sipping from the can of seltzer water. "So let me ask you this. What would happen if Mr. Henson got tired of his restaurant business and came home? Would you still live together?"

She puts her hand across her forehead and shakes her head. "Oh, my, Brice, I don't know. It's crossed my mind. After being with you, things would have to change between me and James. I'm not sure we could make it work. We ARE civil in our email correspondence. He updates me on the business and I tell him that I'm being screwed to the hilt by none other than our former neighbor and condo sitter, Brice Freeland."