I followed the sound of gasps and knew I would not be disappointed. The brass handle to the room was cold to the touch; I was grateful it opened without a creak but silently against the noisy pleasure that widened my eyes. Bathed in sunlight, the plump fresh linen indented, she is prone, knees bent, toes pointed, and his pumping glutes force the air from her naked body.

This was inevitable, sunshine, alcohol, scant dresses, and sexual desire. Divorcees always make for eager lovers, they have so much to catch up on, and she had her prize between her legs. Thrusting as his athletic body flexed, driving deep with snakish hips and those fat balls wet with her arousal.

Her lover is Remi, the son of mutual acquaintances. It was about time he got his cock wet; I never thought it would be with Camille. Yet, I suppose old habits die hard. As he paws her breast, one of my oldest friends bays for him. She is the one that lost it first at seventeen. The experimental one, the one that dipped her hand into my panties as we camped out under the stars on holiday. The third person I ever kissed and the first person to fuck me. The one that taught me I was bisexual, the one that fixed me up with an ex for a skilled introduction to fucking men. She still had it at thirty-eight, slender, energetic, and clasping his behind, teaching another young lover all the right places to hit.

Her flowing locks rest as a flaxen puddle on the brilliant white sheets as they desecrate my martial bed. Yes, divorcees make fine lovers, as do neglected women at the apex of their wiles. Her narrowed eyes smile into mine. She pulls him close so I am not a distraction, and I can see the sheen of sweat down the canyon of his spine. Muted words reward him, providing confidence as his youthful body flexes under her tutelage. I bet he does not get anything like this at University.

Doing as he is told, she presses on him. Half-in, half-out, sawing, making Camille groan, it tightens her body and brings her hips to life. How my dress falls is silent, as are my panties, and I breach the tawdry heat between my legs. I am determined, and this was our conspiracy. We both caught Remi admiring us. It was not a competition but nostalgia fomented by one glass of wine too many.

I know what Camille wants as she rasps it into his ear. Pressing on his taut behind, a solitary finger beckons, and then it joins the others that press into his pumping flesh. We have done this before, and adrenaline adds spice to their overwhelming need to ejaculate. From his thrusts and his ragged gasps, he is close. Of course, he is young, everything is so sensitive, and the sheer novelty of an impromptu fuck is too much. Camille has him with undulating hips, feet planted onto the bed, writhing and smearing her cunt against his purposeful member.

He flinches with shock as my knee presses into the bed. The sinews in Camille’s hands tighten to fix him in place, and my warm hand makes a direct plea to his predicament. She shushes him and mutters the dirtiest words into his malleable mind. The caress of my thumb on his taint, the temptation of my hand grazing the tight smooth sac of his balls.

He croaks, and his once fluid movements seize like drying concrete.

“Cum, Remi,” she purrs, “Ines is here to help us both."

"Yes, to help you both,” I surmise. “Put it inside her. I want to eat it out.”

We grin at his groan of defeat.

“Have you ever seen two women having sex?” I whisper, “You can watch, Remi, and when you are hard again, you will fuck me too."

Pulling him down to nuzzle her breasts, he stutters, and the livid pulses of his orgasm are captured in my softly squeezing hand.

“Empty them,” I murmur as a coquettish punctuation to his effortless orgasm, “Nice and deep… yes, good boy, push it all the way in.”

Rolling from her, the flush of his cheeks matches the blotchy pink of his athletic body. Four hands and two lips roam over his panting body. Camille always tastes good as I lick his shaft, enjoying the faint twitches as the hinterland between a fading climax and his second arousal. Her pointed tongue draws a teasing, swirling line from my breast, flicking at my nipple, and edges down my midriff. Temptress' fingers graze, linger, and edge closer to the tawdry heat of my loins. A pulse of blood follows, and he is swelling in my mouth.

Remi's eyes are glued to Camille. As she pries my legs open, I want him to witness the moment she dives in to lick my smooth cunt. I will show him its pleasure in these obedient and lascivious eyes; this is his personal pornography to keep forever. I know he approves, hard in my worshipping mouth; such is the good fortune of youth.

We will make this easy for Remi, directing him behind me. Curling my spine, he will find the view impossible to resist, the soaked pillow of my sex, glistening and available, with its pink lips swollen. Guided to that snug warmth, when he plunges for it, Camille has the rasp of my long tongue wriggling in her folds. Bittersweet in taste and silky in texture, it lingers on the palette, and I am ravenous for more.

Just like in two-thousand-and-two, we seduced a stranger in a bar on a humid August evening. On the beach, remote in the dunes, Camille and I showed him how women liked to have sex. He might have been a three-minute wonder with us both; we made up for that later and all night. Our stud this afternoon is cut from the same cloth, thrusting harder, and I lose contact with Camille’s pronounced mons. The pure white sheets sullied to parchment grey, soaked with semen and her juices. Gripping it tight, I push back, squeeze, and it over-animates our young charge.

Oh, I distracted my husband with the effervescent Yvette. We do not have a surplus of time for this, and she will not keep my errant husband occupied forever. He was always susceptible to a flirtatious redhead, and his overfed ego will be his downfall. In the garden, there are sixty guests, and we have caterers attending to all their whims. I will not be missed for a while, and they are mostly his friends, except for a few of mine. I despise how they look down on me, and today, on our wedding anniversary.

Camille grins, and this is our conspiracy made real, the break-glass moment as my marriage lies wrecked on the rocks. This is my vengeance for my husband’s affair. Tonight, I will confront him, thanks to Yvette, my honeytrap.

The bed complains, suddenly talkative after months of neglect. I will not change the bed linen. I want my husband to know what happened here with his flaccid shaft sticky from Yvette’s attention. Remi is neither masterful nor in control, and he bucks with all the unalloyed enthusiasm of a novice. He is blessed with girth, clattering my behind, driving his swollen shaft forcefully up my married cunt. The scent of fucking carries on the sweet fresh air from the open windows. Camille clasps my hair from behind and hands it to Remi for his crash course on how to fuck a whore.

Oh, it is building; this is what I am, and denied by a deceitful vanilla husband who lacks the honesty to take what he wants. Yvette is doing that to him right now, probably in the summer house. Perched on a chair, with his face smothered by her voluminous breasts, riding the essence from his balls.

I lay on my back, musing on Remi’s handsome features contorted by ecstasy. Camille’s fingers are there, working my clit. Fuck! I have missed those. The elegant circles, the zig and zag of skilled digits, and I must clamp onto him. My instinct is roused, and evolution demands it; Remi is helpless because he knows no better. Of course, she provides the perfect encouragement, offering him her body to maul. My yelps and her licentious words appeal to his unrequited fantasies.

I am liquid with squishy sounds, and his low moans compete with my rising clamour for orgasm. Grateful to Camille, he does what he is told. The familiar sawing movement returns, and we find the symbiotic moment. I am still lithe enough to grip and convulse. It is not an explosion or the peals of thunder from a leaden sky storm. It is a climax, fierce enough to squeeze, undulate, and ripple on his shaft. As the hot glow of relief melts away my sexual frustration, I have the gift of speech to demand the same as Camille received. He delivers it as bounteous hard pulses and his creamy seed is shot deep enough inside to make it leak from me for hours.

Camille dives in when Remi slumps onto the bed, lapping up his cum, spicing the zest of the fading aftershocks.

I will still feel him there for the rest of the day, perfect for what I have in mind. Astride my husband tonight, it will froth like an emulsion around his tired shaft. I will ride him to heart-bursting oblivion, thanks to Yvette’s demands of his body. This is what we had, and this is what we could have had.

I will take my husband as if it was my last fuck on earth… and it will be for him with me.

Remi will recover soon enough, and the party will continue into the small hours. Camille and I share silent words, and Yvette might be interested in our novice stud. If he manages three different women in one day, he might show some promise yet. Helping him dress, he nods at our need for a secret and smiles with vacant eyes when despatched him from my bedroom.

We are there, in a close embrace, the door is locked, and we retire to the en-suite shower.

Her lips on mine cannot be quenched easily, cool as we drink in the tepid water.

“Just like old times,” she muses.

“Yes, and for the many times to come.”

We have our excuses prepared on this tacky hot afternoon and freshen up, kissing, caressing, and eating cunt under the cool raindrops.

We will just omit the kissing, caressing, and eating cunt part to anyone that asks.

Everyone except Yvette…