Promiscuous and Wanting More

It was at my best friend's graduation party. Diana and I had just finished high school having been accepted to the same university. Both of us were anxious to leave home for college. Neither of us had figured out what we would do once we got there, except for boys of course.

The man standing behind me was Bob Sterling, Diana's dad. He held a drink in one hand, the other on my breast. What do you say to a thirty-nine-year-old man who is caressing your tits while thirty or more people are nearby? I turned abruptly and said, "That's private property, Mr. Sterling."

Apparently, I didn't say it in a disapproving way because it seemed to encourage him. Mr. Sterling pulled me closer for a passionate kiss. He told me how beautiful and mature I looked. He said I had a woman's body, more so than the other girls at the party. Did that mean he knew I wasn't a virgin? Did Diane tell him all her friends were having sex? That's how we justified it with our parents. It didn't matter. Maybe it was instinct or perhaps I had a crush on him, but I kissed him back. I liked the attention and felt so grown up.

That encounter started my affair with Bob Sterling before leaving for college. As it turned out, he wasn't the last affair I had with a married man. There were others and college boys I dated, one-night stands, and a serious boyfriend that I eventually married. This is to say I'm not a prude about sex. I liked it.

Liking sex is different from where I am today which is in my mid-thirties. My marriage with Phil has been good. Our sex life has been okay but not exciting. The truth is that none of my college one-night stands, sex with Phi. or occasional extramarital affairs have given me more than a few orgasms. There has always been something missing, a spiritual ecstasy or euphoric high. I have been a willing and compassionate partner in amicable arrangements. But having sex has only been an arrangement, not the exhilaration of a rollercoaster ride.

Well, that's the past because as I march toward the physical change that steals a woman's fertility, my attitude toward sex has become obsessive. In place of hot flashes, I've had burning sexual desires. The dreaded menopause would have to wait. No, I don't want to get pregnant and have a child. I just want sex and lots of it.

How this intense desire for sexual pleasure happened, I don't know. It seemed to creep up on me slowly, then all at once. However, I remember when it struck me like a lightning bolt. My husband and I were at a friend's birthday party celebrating with people we knew and a few couples we had just met. I don't remember the man's name when he started hitting on me. I didn't care about that, I only imagined wanting to fuck him.

The whole situation surprised the dickens out of me. I'm the chairman of the book club, sing in the church choir, and teach kindergarten kids. I wasn't supposed to act like this. My heart was racing. I began to perspire, and my pussy was dripping wet. As I looked into his steel-grey eyes, I wondered, 'Where did this sudden lust come from?' I mean the guy was nice looking but not overly handsome. He was a little older than me but not old. He put his arms around me, and I didn't object. It gave me a rush of excitement bringing me back to my friend's high school graduation party with Bob Sterling. This time I didn't object and snuggled closer to him. He got the message and asked, "Where can we go to be alone?"

It spiraled out of control. I took him to our van and we fucked our brains out. There was nothing in the way of love or even affection. It was all about our mutual carnal desires. It was the first time I hit the high I had been missing. That was just the beginning, not just with him but with any male with a fervor like mine. They weren't hard to find.

There were a few weeks of guilt after the van affair and I promised myself never to cheat on Phil again but that was only temporary. To begin with, while my libido was at an all-time high, Phil's had been on a steady decline over the past few years. Also, the combination of my hormones boiling over and the excitement of new men acted as a natural aphrodisiac that I couldn't control. It was only a matter of time before I found another lover or a lover found me.

His name was Pedro, our handyman. Ever since I read D.H. Lawrence's "Lady Chatterley's Lover," I fantasized about being Connie and it was my introduction to pornography. The story got me thinking more and more about sex and induced me to begin experimenting with my body as a young woman. Today, the book doesn't seem so obscene as it did when I was younger, but it made me aware that making love was more than hugs and kisses.

So, Pedro became my Mellors. He was two or three years younger than I and not much taller with a muscular chest and powerful arms. His penetrating dark eyes and olive skin qualified him as a hunk. Soon I discovered those were not his only attributes.

One early morning, I discovered that our kitchen sink was stopped up. It was a warm sunny day when I went outside to look for Pedro. Maybe I was too impulsive because all I had on was my nightie, not even a pair of slippers. Pedro was nowhere to be seen so I walked around to the back of the house and spotted him bare-chested peeing in the bushes. That's when I noticed another of his exceptional characteristics. Pedro had a world-class cock winning the blue ribbon in both length and girth. He was every girl's dream. With my middle age condition buzzing between my legs, it was like an open invitation.

I asked, "Why didn't you come inside to use the bathroom, Pedro?"

He tried to cover up, but it was too late. "I thought you were still in bed, Mrs. Kessler. I didn't want to disturb you."

"I would have liked it if you had disturbed me, Pedro." My hint was not lost on him.

"You're a beautiful woman, Mrs. Kessler. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Maybe," I said. "Maybe there is something I can do for you." I didn't have the kitchen sink in mind when I said it

He just smiled and walked closer to me. His zipper was still open, and he hadn't completely pocketed his dick, so I had no trouble taking his full length down my throat. It took only a few minutes before I heard him groaning, then shooting streams of cum filling my mouth. There is a certain gratification in pleasuring a man and feel his cum blasting the back of my throat. After a half dozen powerful shots, some of it began to leak from my lips. I swallowed what I could and let the rest drip on the grass.

I looked up at him and said, "I guess we're fertilizing the lawn this morning."

He gave me that electric smile and said nothing. After helping me up from my knees, Pedro zipped up and went back to work. I floated back to the house and took my morning shower. The next morning, Pedro was less concerned about disturbing me and joined me in the bedroom. He was everything I had hoped for and more in the two hours we were together. Although he was paid by the hour, the extra time was worth every penny.

What I learned from my month with Pedro before he returned to his wife and kids in Trinidad was that size matters but not exclusively. Yes, the physical pleasures were extraordinary but there was a serenity and sensual pleasure from his tenderness and thoughtfulness. Pedro wanted me to enjoy having sex at least as much as he did. Every act he performed was for my benefit as well as his. Pedro knew how to use his gifts to help me feel enchanted and fulfilled. I never felt what we were doing was wrong or cheap. Pedro made me feel tranquil from the joy of having a man so well-endowed deep inside me. I miss him even now.

After Pedro left, I was somewhat disoriented. At first, all I could think of was Pedro but that's not all. I still had powerful urges and wanted more than the little Phil was giving me. Then I ran into Stanley. Stanley was the exact opposite of Pedro. He was studious, thin, geeky-looking, taller than the Eiffel Tower, and extremely nervous around me. For both a challenge and a way to satisfy my sexuality, I decided to seduce this awkward man.

Stanley was the twenty-six-year-old manager of Sports 4U specializing in clothing. Shopping for clothes was a passion of mine so Stanley knew me as one of his better customers. Stanley made a point of greeting me each time I was in the store.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Kessler," he said shyly. We have a new line of Beach Bunny designer swimwear. I think you'll like what they've done with this year's styles."

"Thank you, Stanley. I'm looking for a pair of running shoes but maybe I'll look at the swimsuits first." I found the most revealing suit in the collection and asked Stanley to give me his opinion after I had tried it on. I choose one size too small making my boobs bulge from the sides and the bottoms ride up into my crack. His cheeks flushed and I embarrassed him to no end but the opportunity to make a sale on an expensive item settled his nerves.

"It's very nice, Mrs. Kessler. I think the designer had you in mind when they put this in their new line," he told me.

"Yes, I like it but there was some trouble with the clasp in the back. I wonder if you would take a minute and let me show you the problem."

"Okay, turn around and let me look at it."

"No, I mean in the dressing room where you can see why it is difficult for a woman to clasp it by herself."

So, we both went into the room and Stanley helped me unhook the bra. When it fell to the floor, I turned toward him and said, "See what I mean Stanley, that latch is a bitch to deal with but then, maybe you like this look better." He stared at my tits giving me a broad smile. "Hold me, Stanley. A woman loves the warm firm feeling of a man's hands on her breasts."

He squirmed and didn't know what to do. "Come closer, I won't hurt." I took his hand and wrapped it around me letting him grip my boobs. "Oh Stanley, that feels so good."

Stanley massaged my breasts before saying, "Yes, Mrs. Kessler, you have a terrific body. You could be a model. Not many women have breasts as lovely as yours."

"Thanks, Stanley. Would you like to kiss them?" He didn't answer but pressed his lips on one nipple then the other. The feeling of my tits being sucked sent jolts of electricity straight down between my legs. "What time do you get off today?" I asked.

"Seven," he said with a grin. Stanley was beginning to catch on.

"Let me take you to dinner. I'll pick you up at seven." I wasn't asking him as much as telling him. He looked confused but nodded in agreement. I left the store without the running shoes or swimsuit. If everything worked out as planned, I'd return later for the swimsuit and more.

After dinner that night, I took Stanley to a motel five miles out of town. He seemed to have anticipated my plans and was less shy than I had expected. He turned out to be a good lover, good but not great. His cock resembled his body, long and thin, and he had a youthful exuberance stroking fast and furiously. But what was more notable were his low hanging balls. The feeling of them smacking my ass felt like being lightly paddled with each thrust. That along with his growls helped me enjoy several light orgasms just before he filled me with an endless spray of his seminal fluids.

Stanley was okay for a quickie but not for a longer-term commitment. I wanted to be the mistress of a man promising an exuberance of excitement. That would include a man of means who travels to exotic places and marches to the beat of a different drummer. The man's name was Pierre Lefebvre.

Monsieur Lefebvre and I met at a fundraiser for the city's art museum. He had been a patron of the museum ever since Pierre moved to the United States from Marseilles. The rumor is that he made his money in the Milieu, the French mob, and escaped to the United States before either being killed or sent to prison. Lefebvre was well traveled but never again to France. He preferred French Polynesia where he had his villa. All I needed to do was seduce him which wasn't difficult when the target is a 'coureur de jupons,' a womanizer.

He was cordial when I approached him although we had never met. "Hello," he greeted me in a friendly voice. "What can I do for you?"

"My name is Denise Kessler. I just wanted to take a moment to thank you for your incredible support of our museum."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle Kessler. That's very kind of you."

"It's Madame Kessler but you won't hold that against me, will you?" He wasn't fooled by my shameless attempts at flirting.

He chuckled and said, "Of course not, Mrs. Kessler, not to a captivating woman such as yourself."

"Now who was being flirtatious?" I thought. Then I tried to continue my coquettish tête-à-tête when another woman tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to pose for a few pictures. Although my timing was poor, it wasn't a deal breaker.

I watched the photoshoot then went to the bar for a drink. "Have you tried the Chablis. Madame?" I hadn't noticed he was directly behind me just as I was asking for a glass of wine. I turned toward him with a quizzical expression. "It will go very well with the chicken cordon bleu they are serving tonight."

"Merci, Monsieur. I'll try it."

"Parlez-vous français?"

"Very little. Just a few words that I remember from two years of high school French. I should have taken it more seriously."

"Maybe I can refresh your memory after dinner. You would be surprised how much you might remember."

"Yes, I'd like that."

During dinner, he sat in front with the notable guests with my table toward the back. It appeared that I had lost our connection. As I began to leave after dinner, he reappeared again. "What did you think of the Chablis, Madame?"

"It was wonderful. It paired nicely with the chicken. Thank you for recommending it!" I answered too enthusiastically.

"Do you like French impressionists, Monet and Renoir, you know that crowd?"

"Yes of course but we don't have their paintings here."

"I'm very sorry about that. Maybe in the future, we can afford one or two pieces. However, if you have some time this evening, I'd like to show you several in my collection."

"Oh, that would be wonderful, Monsieur. Do you mean it? I mean I've never seen a real Monet or Renoir."

"They are at home so if you care to follow me. Madame."

I followed his Peugeot sports car for ten or fifteen minutes to a high rise in one of the better neighborhoods. His apartment was on the top floor. On the balcony, the view was fantastic especially at night with the twinkling lights and muffled traffic.

There was never any doubt why I had come to Lefebvre's apartment and it wasn't about French impressionists. In the bedroom, there were a half dozen nude paintings of innocent-looking females that I wanted to ask about but that would have to wait because at that moment I was being undressed. It was a slow delicate process since Pierre didn't seem to be in a rush. It was more like savoring a vintage bottle of wine.

He had the decency of leaving on my thong while he paid attention to my nipples for a gratifying eternity and eventually undressed himself. There was a brief period where his deliberate unhurried approach to my lecherous body was evident with his limp cock showing no sign of lust or even desire. I took that personally until he straddled my face placing his cock over my lips and said, "Mrs. Kessler, you have the most ravishing body I've ever seen. If you don't mind Chéri, there's more of you to savor." I thought that was so gallant of him to say.

With that, he lowered his body over me slipping off my thong and his face buried between my thighs. I wondered what they call a sixty-nine in French, 'soixante neuf'? His dick began to stir, and his lips and tongue played with my clit like licking a bowl of frosting. I had him hard and down my throat before he positioned himself between my legs and penetrated me, tenderly at first, then more vigorously, and then he banged me hard and fast for five minutes or ten, maybe more. My orgasms came quickly, and I came hard just before he poured his 'bon vivant' juices into me.

Pierre held me while we recovered, kissing me repeatedly telling me how marvelous I was. I was afraid he would fall asleep, so I engaged him in a conversation. "Your paintings here are not by French impressionists."

"No, you're quite right. They were done by a relative. His name was Jules Joseph Lefebvre, an early Twentieth Century painter. He was my grandfather's youngest brother."

"It looks like he favored youthful-looking women."

"Yes, he painted a lot of young nudes of that age. Painting beautiful women runs in the family. My cousin, Gabriel, is a painter of nudes. I can tell you that none of his models are as beautiful as you. You should have him paint you. I'd love to have you next to the Mary Magdalene picture."

"Stop joking, Pierre. I don't think I could ever model nude."

"That's for you to decide but I've decided to make you mine for a while longer." He turned me on my stomach and pulled my hips up, so I was on my knees and elbows. He fingered me for a minute squishing some of his cum from my pussy, then pressed his cock inside with less tenderness than earlier. This would last and last, first doggie, then pulling me on top. When he came the second time, it was in my mouth just as I like it.

I showered, dressed sometime after two, and drove home. Before I left, Pierre said he was having a cocktail party the following week and wanted me to be there. He said he would send me a text with the details.

Pierre Lefebvre's cocktail party began at eight-thirty but most of his guests didn't arrive until well past nine. I was one of the early arrivals. There were five couples counting Pierre and me. The men were all French, Pierre's age and I supposed were immigrants like Pierre. "Immigrant" is a strange word when referring to wealthy individuals. The women were younger, but I have something they didn't. I have boobs that are unmistakable when embellished by a good deal of cleavage. The girls couldn't compete. None of them took a minute to say hello, however, the men appreciated my assets. In a short time, I knew their names and their interests. They all had my e-mail address.

The first man who contacted me was Jacques. He was middle age, short, balding, and a partner in a law firm. He asked me to lunch. It was at an upscale restaurant where Jacques made every effort to loosen my morals by offering me a second and third glass of wine. I didn't need the wine for the purpose he and I had in mind. I only needed a man's hard cock inside me since it had been nearly two weeks since Pierre's party. Jacques wouldn't have been my first choice, but he was the first to bring me to a motel for another kind of meal.

He was good at eating pussy. He seemed to know my every desire. I returned the favor with his dick down my throat. It felt so satisfying to have him inside me for the short time he lasted. Jacques seemed to be in a greater hurry than me. I was hoping to get off in the second round but that was not on his schedule. He dressed and ordered a cab. "Merci mon amour. Au revoir," he said and left for the office.

I didn't feel happy or sad about this occasion. It was just one of those quickies that I'd become accustomed to in college.

The next one wasn't quite as brief. Charles contacted me through his connection with Pierre. He said that we had met at Pierre's party and was dazzled by my beauty. He used the word "éblouie." I had to ask for a translation. Charles asked me to accompany him to the opera.

During dinner, we got to know each other better. I asked him if he had a wife. He said not permanently. Charles asked me about my husband. I told him that Phil was a good husband but not a great lover. He was reluctant to tell me about his work except to say his company was engaged in financing. I left it at that.