Funny story. How, you might ask, did it come to be that I was bent over a toilet in the casino’s ladies’ room getting fucked by my ever-loving husband? The answer is uncharacteristically simple—day drinking at a wine festival. 

It’s not my fault. I would never have found myself in that position without the bad influences of some of you who are reading this. You know who you are. I blame and thank you.  

We planned for two nights away at a very nice hotel, and there were twelve or ten or twenty wineries represented at the festival (I honestly can’t remember). 

We bought the enhanced tickets so we could start at noon. I mean, so that we could get the per-bottle discount. (Yes, let’s go with that.) I’m sixty-six and my husband (I’ll cleverly refer to him as “Hubby”) is sixty-four. (Yes, I like ‘em young.) We use coupons and get discounts and look for early bird specials. We’re walking stereotypes. 

Mostly. 

We’re a very charming couple. Hubby told the folks pouring the wines that we had just met outside in line, and I told the truth, that we’ve been married for most of our lives. When you’re charming and when you buy a bottle after the first taste, the pours get bigger. 

What does this have to do with the aforementioned bathroom sex? Think about it. Do the math. Sometimes we’d get a fourth or fifth heavy pour. On the way out, we needed to get a rum slushie. And one of the wineries had a tasting room right around the corner and, as you might have guessed, we had been given a coupon for a free tasting. 

What does a charming senior-ish couple do drunk at four in the afternoon? Why, they walk to the nearby casino is what. 

The story, sans sex, should have ended there but for once in our lives, we were winning at the slot machines. That added to the buzz and I started telling Hubby, with increasing volume, what I was going to do to him when we got back to our hotel room. 

That’s a whole different level of charming, and a lot of people were smiling at us. Personally, I believe that I was quite discreet when I grabbed at his crotch. Hubby begged to differ. 

It occurred to me in a hazy flash that we didn’t have to leave the casino to have sex. (This was due to the bad influences that I mentioned earlier.) I told Hubby to walk me to the ladies’ room. I looked inside and then said to him, “Come with.” 

“What?” 

“Come in with me.” 

“Why?” 

I gave him my (patent pending) look. He knew that look. 

“Oh, no-no-no,” he said. 

“Oh, yes-yes-yes,” I countered. 

He considers himself to be the more level-headed one. “No.” 

I was also quite discreet when I pulled my panties out from under my dress. His lips might have been saying “no” but the lump in his pants said, “I’m seriously thinking about it.” 

“We shouldn’t. What if we get caught?” 

“If you won’t fuck me, then I’ll find someone who will.” 

Hubby hates ultimatums. “Good luck with that.” 

Can you tell where he went wrong? 

“Don’t you think I’m desirable enough?” 

“That’s not what I said.” 

“You think I’m old.” 

“No, not at all.” 

“Oh, I’m ugly then, am I?” 

“Stop it.” 

“Excuse me, sir,” I said to a man entering the men’s room, “Would you turn me down if I…” 

“Cut it out!” He was getting pissed at me. “Ignore her, please.” 

“You gonna fuck me now?” 

“Shh! No!” 

I shoved past and pushed the men’s room door open. “Hey, You! Don’t put it away just yet!” 

“Fuck!” Hubby said. He dragged me into the ladies’ room and into a stall—the caveman. I love him so much. “You want to get fucked in the bathroom? I’ll fuck you in the bathroom.” He spun me and bent me over the toilet, flipped my dress onto my back, and gave my ass a solid swat. 

Angry sex can be good sex. This was going to be better than I had hoped. I arched my back and turned the other cheek. “Stand still,” he said after I got my second spank. He tested the waters with a finger and dropped his pants. The first thrust is the best one, when anticipation becomes a sensation. He pulled back and I braced myself. 

He pulled it out. 

“Hey!” 

“Beg for it.” 

“You fucking bastard, I’ve been begging…” 

The second thrust was good too. 

I might have forgotten where I was until I heard the door open and a couple of women talking. Hubby doesn’t always pay attention to what’s going on around him and I was quite sure that he hadn’t heard them. I tried, really, to keep quiet but a little squeak escaped. 

They stopped talking and I heard them whispering. I didn’t want Hubby to stop so I said nothing and tried not to be so vocal. However, drunk me is quite vocal. “Oh, God,” I moaned—discreetly. 

“You liked that, huh?” 

I did, but that wasn’t the point. I looked down between our legs and locked eyes with the girl looking under the stall. 

The nerve! 

There was only one thing left to do. 

“Oh, God, yes, what a stud, fuck my sopping cunt, you angry, angry man!” 

“Shh! Someone will hear us!” 

“Too late. YES! A cock like none other! I swoon with every stroke!” Or something like that. 

“What do you mean, ‘too late,’” he said with a loud whisper. He stopped. 

Dammit. Then I heard one of them ask the other, “Should we tell someone?” 

I had to stall them from the stall and launched into the loudest, most absurd (and entertaining) fake orgasm I could come up with. I opened the door before Hubby knew what I was up to and there they were, slack-jawed at my performance and Hubby’s glistening boner. 

“He’s all yours, girls,” I said as I left. 

I heard Hubby say he’d be right back and he quickly caught up with me. “Run!” 

I put my arm in his and told him to slow down as we leisurely headed for the exit. When I discreetly (more or less) looked back, they were talking to a vested employee. 

“Them!” 

“Where?” 

“Those two! Right there!” 

“Near that old couple?” 

As the door closed, I heard them say, “Not near them—them! 

“RUN!” 

For those of you who were worried, I got my bell rung a couple of times once we made it back to the hotel. The hangover after our naps was far less sexy, so I’ll stop there.