tagMatureMid-life Crisis

Mid-life Crisis


Craig was an outstanding tennis player. When younger he had been almost, but not quite good enough to play at Wimbledon and be a pro. He had been the club champion at my club so many times he had stopped entering it to give others a chance. We had been paired together for a home counties 'junior and senior' tournament for people of our disparate ages; he just qualified being twenty, the max for the junior was twenty one, but I made it easily being in my early forties, the minimum for the seniors being thirty five. This meant travelling to away matches up to fifty miles away and spending considerable time together both practising and playing and of course in the car. Although we had known each other for a few years we got to know each other much better and I liked him even more, worryingly more. Even after a few weeks of becoming increasingly closer, I still didn't have any sexual thoughts about him, but looking back, I could see how they gradually came about.

Due to his tennis ability, he had been a 'star' from an early age. He acted like one. Not cocky or arrogant, but confident and assured. He was about six three and muscular, yet lithe, as male tennis players need to be nowadays. He was nicely tanned and had longish, dark brown hair. He was handsome and all the younger girls at the club as good as 'swooned' over him, but then so did some of the older ones. His tennis ability had had another enormous influence on his life. He had neglected his studies, but his high degree of raw intelligence was very evident to me; he had the same level of panty dropping intellect as I had seen in Kevin, my husband, many years ago.

I hadn't really known Craig well, other than seeing him at the club, nodding to him and smiling occasionally. We'd played in mixed comps at the club a couple of times and had danced once or twice at club dos, but that was it, before I was asked to partner him in this competition.

I was quite a reasonable tennis player in my teens, county standard, but hadn't played for ages when I joined the club, largely out of boredom about three years ago. I needed something to do.

That was before Kevin and I had separated for the second time. This time I had asked him to leave after catching him fucking some young floosy who worked in the company we both owned, but in which I no longer worked. In some ways I wished that I still worked there for then I would have had some control over him, but we both felt that it was better for our twelve-year-old daughter if I was home most of the time. So I had gone back to my original occupation of copywriting. It was an interest, it stimulated me and provided a few bob, not that we really needed that for the promotional company for oil and gas related companies we had built up was doing very well indeed.

It was an odd existence. Still married, but living apart from my husband in the five-bedroomed detached house in leafy Chigwell, a suburb to the east if London, I had time on my hands. The tennis and to a lesser extent the golf club helped me fill that time. Kevin didn't play tennis, but did play golf so we had made a tacit arrangement that I would only go to the golf club on ladies mornings and he wouldn't, not that he ever did, go to the tennis club. So there I was free!

But there were other issues. Kevin and I had been together for over twenty years, living together for three and married for seventeen. Mostly they had been good times and mostly our sex had been good. Alright he had 'strayed' a few times that I knew about and I had had a six month affair a few years ago, but overall we had been very active sexually. I guess we had sex three or four times a week, say three point five time a week for twenty years; that's one hundred and eighty two times a year, three thousand six hundred and forty fucks in twenty years and I was missing that. I was permanently frustrated, I masturbated every night, I needed affection, I needed a man for yes, I needed, very badly indeed, sex.

Craig and I practised a few times and I enjoyed it. We played a couple of matches, one away and one at home, we won them both. As is traditional we kissed after a match. We talked on the way back in the car. Even looking back now and trying to recall any hints, there was nothing in those early days to suggest what would happen over the next six weeks or so.

It started at an evening practise session. When we finished, he put his arm round me and pecked me on my cheek. Then as we walked off the court he kept his arm round my shoulder. That happened a couple more times as we walked off with other pairs there. It looked innocent, I think. But looking back as I do so much now, that was the start, the first incidents and I have to own up, it felt nice. But then, what forty something woman wouldn't find it nice having a twenty year old man's arm round her?

A few evenings later we had a practise session prior to a match the following day in Croydon some hour or so away by car. The same thing happened. I ask myself now if I could have done anything different, but have no answer. That session I had felt his eyes on me looking down my low front, watching my tits jiggle as I ran. I swear the fact that I was not wearing a big, ugly sports bra, but instead a lacy, pretty ordinary wear one was unconscious, just as was the lowness of the front of my top and the shortness of the pale blue skirt I had chosen to wear.

"Looks as though we're the last here," he said as we walked into the club house.

It was often the case that a few of the members stayed late and the club had a system whereby the last away had to telephone the secretary who explained how to set the alarm.

"Yes so it does," I replied feeling a little uncomfortable, but also I have to admit slightly tingly because his arm was still around my shoulders.

"Are you going to have a shower?" He asked as we approached the small clubhouse.

"No I'll have one when I get home."

I didn't feel that comfortable stripping off in the ladies with Craig as the only other person in the building. On top of that my long, wavy, chestnut coloured hair took ages to dry if I washed it and would go all frizzy if I showered with a plastic shower cap on. I didn't want him to see me like that so I just ran my hands under a tap and kept my hair in a pony-tail.

"Your husband still in New York?"

"Yes he is, another couple of weeks yet," I told him as we walked up the steps his arm still draped round my shoulders.

"Do you miss him?"

"In some ways yes, but I am used to it."

As we walked through the narrow doorway he had to remove his arm. I felt relieved, but then he placed it in the small of my back. It's sometimes so difficult to know with men, when they are making a pass and when they are just being friendly and polite. I just had no idea about this twenty year old Adonis' intentions.

"Which ways are they?" He asked, starting to provide me with clues on his intentions.

"Never you mind young man," I replied smiling, turning and looking at him.

"But Amanda I do mind, after all I don't want my partner upset and off her game do I?"

"How do you mean?"

"You know."

"No I don't."

"Well you know what I mean."

"Let's leave it shall we?" I said feeling a little flushed and awkward as we walked through the clubhouse.

"Would you like a drink Amanda?"

"How can we?"

"I've got a key to the bar."

"Where did you get that from?"

"They lent us the key once and we got some extra ones cut."

"That's very naughty," I said, realising I was sounding very mumsy.

"So? What's wrong with a little naughtiness if no one gets hurt?" He asked.

I ignored the second part of his phrase; I could see where that might lead.

"No I'm fine."

"Amanda I know full well you are fine," he said as we walked down the corridor towards the back door where we had to phone the secretary. He put his arm back round my shoulders. "Very fine."

"Craig, careful," I stammered seeing clearly where this was headed.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm a married woman," I replied rather ridiculously.

"I know that and so what?" He said as we reached the door, his arm still round my shoulders.

"I think you should remove your arm."


"Yes, really."

We stopped by the door. We faced each other, his hand now on my shoulder, not round them.

"We have to phone Clive, you or me?" He asked.

"It doesn't matter," I stuttered as he reached across me for the phone on the wall. He didn't pick it up.

I turned, pressing my back against the wall. He stood in front of me, his arm was across me, his face very close. He moved closer. We were just inches apart. He reached down and gripped both of my wrists. I felt powerless to stop him. He pulled both of my arms upward and outwards. My back was pressed against the wall. He pulled my wrists until my arms were stretched from my body in a crucifixion position, which pushed my full boobs out.

"No," I groaned as he leaned forward.

"You sure you mean no?" he asked, his lips almost touching mine.

I didn't know what to do. I couldn't move or say anything. I was transfixed, scared, excited, worried, concerned and, yes I had to admit it, well I do now, I didn't then, interested and aroused. I didn't answer his question.

His mouth found mine. I pulled away.

"Stop it, please," I said, knowing full well I sounded totally unconvincing.

I didn't pull my body away, I didn't really struggle and I certainly didn't move away as his lips found mine again. This time he kissed me. I began to gain an understanding of the conflicts with rape; my body was saying yes, but my mind was screaming no! I didn't kiss him back, but then I didn't tear my mouth away. He was still holding my wrists with my arms pulled away out from my body and my back pressed against the wall. He pressed himself against me squashing my breasts and thrusting his erection against my stomach. His tongue was pressing against my closed lips, probing and enquiring. I had never been in such a situation. I felt my lips moving, they were parting, my mouth was opening. It was unconscious, involuntary and completely unplanned, but I was accepting his enquiry. His tongue surged into me finding my tongue and gums, pressing against them and licking all round my mouth. He let go of my wrists, one arm went round me downwards and the other landed on my breast. He squeezed and I moaned.

At last, somehow and I have no idea where the resolve came from, I regained my senses.

"No Craig, stop it this is ridiculous," I said sternly, pulling myself away from him.

"Ok, Amanda, I'm sorry," he said very contritely. "I didn't mean to push you like that, I wouldn't want you to do anything you don't want to do."

We didn't say much more to each other that evening. I went home and showered and then found myself masturbating. You can guess what was in my mind as I stroked and rubbed and caressed my breasts and nipples and my lips and clit. And he was an exceedingly good mental fuck.

Perhaps the worst aspect of my evening was when Sara, my daughter, came home from a friend's house and asked if I'd had a good day!

We lost the next day. In fact we were well beaten by a pair against who we should have won easily. I would happily own up if it had been mainly my fault, but it wasn't. I played ok, Craig was well off form, doing many double faults, not getting his angles correct and missing several easy vollies.

In many ways I was pleased that we were travelling home separately for it meant we didn't have to confront the situation of last night. But we had to confront it again a few days later for once more we were the last two at the club.

As we left the court, I was hellishly nervous, even though Craig didn't put his arm round my shoulders. It was quite a lot cooler that evening than it had been the last time we practised so we were both wearing track suits over our tennis clothes. I had, though removed the tracky bottoms, but had kept the zip up top on. This time I was wearing a big, sports bra.

"I guess you don't fancy a drink do you?" He asked as we got near to the small bar.

"Probably best not to," I replied as we passed the closed and locked door and got to the back door of the club, right where we had kissed a few days ago. I stopped in roughly the same position and for some unexplainable reason I turned so my back was almost against the wall. He faced me.

"I really am sorry for the other night Amanda."

I smiled. "It's ok?"

"Really?" He quipped back quickly.

"Yes really."

"So you didn't really mind?"

"No, yes, look I didn't say that, I mean oh sod it."

"What, why sod it?"

"You're making me tongue tied," I stammered, realising this wasn't going at all in the way I wanted.

"Oh dear, sorry," Craig said, seeming to me to move a little closer.

Part of me wanted to move away, pick up the phone, lock the bloody club and rush away. Another part, I began to realise with quite some alarm, didn't. I was curious, intrigued, sort of interested in how this might pan out. 'Surely' I thought' I don't want that to happen again?' My mind was racing and I was confused as he leaned further forward. 'Surely I don't want him to go further, oh fuck.' I was thinking as he put his hand on my hip, moved his face very close to mine, smiled and said quietly.

"How can I stop that?"

I didn't know what he meant.

"Stop what?"

"You being tongue tied of course," he said one of his fingers slipping across the collar of my shiny track suit and softly rubbing my neck. I can't explain why, but for some reason that was one of the most erotic gestures I had ever experienced.

"Oh Craig."

"Oh Amanda," he smiled. "What?"

"I don't know."

"Don't know what?" He whispered, his hand sliding round my waist. I didn't and couldn't reply. "I know how to stop the tongue tied thing."

"How?" I asked realising our faces were just inches apart.

"Like this," he whispered, his hand moving up and pressing on the side of my face as he closed the gap between our faces.

We kissed again. Once more my lips were closed. I wanted to stop, I wanted to go, I wanted to finish this ridiculous activity, I wanted him to leave me alone, I wanted to be faithful to my husband and family, I wanted to avoid getting involved with a man and I wanted to stop this almost teenager making advances towards me. Wanting all those things, what did I do? I opened my lips. And I guess by that relatively simple gesture I accepted his request. Parting my lips was me effectively agreeing with him and accepting his need. Yes, by opening my mouth to him I was effectively saying to him that he could have me. He knew it and I knew it. We both knew now that he was going to fuck me.

What neither of us knew, though, was where and when. Those questions were answered in the most graphic, obvious and exhilarating ways possible very quickly.

He was tongue fucking my mouth and I was going with his every surge and plunge, even though much of me wanted to stop.

I was writhing my lips against his as equally strongly now as his were against mine, despite me knowing I shouldn't. But then I shouldn't have let him squash my breasts against his chest, thrust his erection against my stomach or put his hand on my bum. I should have stopped there and then. I should not have let him cup my breasts outside my tennis top, but inside the unzipped track top. And most certainly I should have stopped him slipping his hand inside my top at the front and up my skirt at the back.

But I didn't, something was preventing me stopping him. I simply couldn't. I was kissing him furiously and, or so it must have felt to him, hungrily, but that was how he was making me feel. My body was hungry for him, he had teased and titillated it primed and manipulated me and was now taking what I guess he thought was rightly his.

My tracky top came off and he pushed my top up. He was caressing my breasts in my big, tight sports bra and fiddling his fingers inside it right onto the tingling, sensitive flesh. At the same time his hands were on my panties, they were on my bum, inside the thin knickers and on the flesh of the two cheeks. He was rubbing and squeezing them. As he did those things he was also thrusting his erection harder and more firmly against me, sort of dry fucking me.

Any last vestige of resistance I may have had was now vanishing rapidly. The tiny bit that was left, for it still hadn't occurred to me that we might fuck right there and then, rushed out of the window when he took my hand, pulled on it and placed it right on his bare cock, which somehow he'd exposed. That was the last barrier removed. I was his now; I was putty in his hands.

His cock was awesomely big and welcomingly hard.

My panties were pushed down, maybe off, I didn't know. He lifted the hem of my short skirt and made me whimper as he pressed the end of his cock right against my clit. He was holding and squeezing both cheeks of my bum as his mouth ravaged my breasts and nipples. He lifted me up. I couldn't believe what was happening, my legs were wrapped round his waist, my back was pressed against the wall as his cock slid effortlessly into me. As we started to fuck our mouths clamped together so that scene from Basic Instinct where Michael Douglas shags the psychiatrist against a wall came into my mind.

Back to reality.

I was mortified at what I had done. I felt terrible over the weekend and couldn't bring myself to go to the club.

It was the first time I had been in any way intimate with a man since David some four years ago. But that was different for we loved each other. This wasn't love, this was pure lust. We had fucked because we both wanted sex, nothing more, nothing less. And that was something I had told myself I would never do. And on top of that I had gone with a kid, a fucking tennis jock at that.

I felt lucky that I was living apart from Kevin and that Sara was at her grandparents for the weekend; I could not have looked them in the eyes. I spent a morose weekend holed up in the big, soulless house in Chigwell. I had lots of work to do for I was helping an agency put a presentation together for the Lejaby lingerie account. But my planning and thinking were continually interrupted by thoughts of that scene in the clubhouse. I could hardly believe it. I kept saying in my mind 'I was fucked by a twenty year old in the tennis clubhouse.' How fucking sordid, risky and ridiculous was that? I had decided never to go back to the club. That way I need never see Craig again. How ironic that thought later became.

Craig had called me on my mobile. We'd chatted. He had asked about the next match and I had told him I wouldn't be playing.

"Why not?"

"I can't"

"You mean you won't?"

"Yes, but won't can't what's the difference?"

"Nothing they both add up to the fact that you don't want to see me?"

"Not don't want, but know I shouldn't. I can't."

"But you would like to?"

" That's irrelevant, I shouldn't have let happen what happened."

"Why not?"

" It's wrong, I'm married with children and old enough to be your mother." I said very primly.

"You're separated, not married."

"I'm still married, just separated.

"Did you enjoy it?"

I didn't reply, I couldn't"

"Well did you?"

"That has nothing to do with it."

"It has everything to do with it Amanda."

"No it doesn't."

"It does, because I think you enjoyed it, I know you did."

I didn't reply.



"Well did you?"


"Enjoy it?"

"That's not fair."

"Well did you?"

I stayed silent.


"Craig stop it."

"Did you? Tell me? You did didn't you?"

I stayed silent again.

"Didn't you Amanda?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," I whispered, hating myself as the words came out.

"And really you want more don't do?"

I stayed quiet again.

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