Tracey always watched with curiosity, from a safe and sometimes not so safe distance. What would it feel like to be screwed by an older man? She didn't mean like 10 or 15 years older; but a man almost old enough to be her father. She was 24 and he was 55. He didn't look his 55 years either, he was tall, broad shouldered and in great shape; not muscular or tough looking but strong. His hair was thinning but his eyes were deep brown and his face well-defined, and his skin with a healthy glow (not perma-tan, but the kind of glow acquired from being happy).

He had a deep, brooding kind of a gaze and at times a cheeky glint; which in her mind was a suggestive one. Despite these positive physical attributes he still had a kind of ruggedness about him. She watched him making bread one day and saw the veins and muscles dance while he kneaded the bread with care; this slightly freaked her out, indicating his age, but strangely increased her curiosity and felt drawn to him even more. She wondered what his dick looked like, after fathering 5 children. She wondered what his naked body looked like.

It was in Spain, far away from home where their paths crossed. Little details in his being intrigued her. Like how when they first met, while in the company of adults who were predominantly over-40, that he was the only one who treated her as an equal, as a human being. He didn't parade this 'holier-than-thou' shit with her. He didn't go on like he knew better, or more, just because of his age. He engaged in borderline flirtatious exchanges with her over the course of a few days.

He was wild with charisma, and so damn attractive. Many evenings she watched from the corner of the café nursing a sangria. Every evening he was aware of her presence, she felt it, she knew that he knew she was there. Finally one evening their eyes locked very briefly: eye fuck. She stuck her finger into the bottom of the large glass and picked out the apple segment, and very casually, started to suck it dry of its juices (she didn't want the fruit, just the juice).

He walked over to her from the other side of the room, it felt like life in slow-motion, all sense of time and duration had gone capoot. His stride was confident and meaningful, she knew that something was going to happen, something delicious, something really truly provocative. In her dreams she replayed this moment in her head constantly.

'Beep beep beep beep'....The incessant sound of seven AM. 'Shit! Just 5 more minutes,' says a muffled pillow-voice. She rolls out of bed; a daily struggle between her wanting to live life to be a success and her wanting to lie-in and fuck it all to hell. Turning on the radio she is surprised that there still isn't one channel she can listen to in the morning: not one.

Every channel is desperate to depress and excite people over shit, pure shit that they make up. They are great swindlers, great propagandists, fear-mongers: why should Tracey have to wake up to that? It's bad enough living in this recession-stricken country. Instead she prepares for work in relative silence, kind of depressing, and definitely lonely.

Although, sometimes she relishes that hour before she dashes out the door, with her little rituals: toothbrush, face, coffee, hair, emails, cat, coffee. I need more me-time, she thinks. She realizes this every day but does nothing about it.

After work (which is very boring) Tracey goes to the trendy-bar Zazous with her mates (not from work).

'Tracey, when are you going out with my friend Robert? He's really the most delectable guy, you'd absolutely adore him. You know he has property all over the place!' Fionn says frantically.

Fionn is your stereotypical queer, unfortunately his confidence in making things vocal has caused quite a stir in many of the drinking establishments in Dublin city. Tracey smiles and shakes her head. 'No Fionn, I haven't gone out with Rob, nor do I have any intention to! Now stop with your matchmaking antics!' she says jokingly.

'Martin is such a queen I can't stand him, look at him over there like he's boss of the galaxy!' Fionn excalims in slight jealousy.

Martin Cagney is beautiful; he has a kind of androgynous look that catches everyone like a Venus flytrap; straight, gay, male, female, they all fall under his spell.

'Lapping. It. Up,' Tracey says unenthusiastically, trying to make Fionn feel better, as a good friend should, putting him in the lime-light. She cares about Fionn a lot, he's fierce, theatrical and over-the-top, she cannot rely on him all the time, but he's straight with her (no pun intended).

She gets home about 8pm, after too many cocktails, and thinks about making dinner, but resorts to eating a packet of Jaffa Cakes, followed by an evening-in of self-pitying television watching.

What a fucking disaster of a life. The only way she can escape the daily humdrum of life is in her dream-scapes. She almost can't bear to be alive some days. Her life is full of false things: false relationships with friends to mutually feign interest in eachother's well-being, a shitty job with no prospects, a complicated family life, and a tumultuous romantic life. Fuck it.

She books a flight to Spain, wherever, just not Ireland. She goes through airport security and contemplates taking all her clothes off to be throroughly body-searched. Little sexual fantasies follow her. The following day she arrives at the very bar she dreamed of, where Mark and her first met.

She finds herself in that bar with the sangria, with him eye-fucking her, just like the first time. It is a warm and balmy evening. Her pussy is getting wet and was tense with anticipation, she squeezes her pelvic floor muscles and lets go, feeling the desperation of her cunt. She suddenly feels a surge of sex appeal, she realizes how desireable she is: every little movement from her toes, knees, ass, waist, back, neck, hair, fingers. She sweeps her hair into a loose chignon, stray hairs here and there.

She is drunk by now and her black khol eyeliner and mascara has smudged so slightly to give her a sultry smokey eye.

She knows she is drunk, and she embraces it. She has confidence and slowly raises herself with her arms from the stool, and sashayes towards him. He is in conversation with two people his own age, late 50s even early 60s, she definitely stands out.

'Hello Mark how are you?' she says as if nothing is going on.

'Fine thanks.'

(Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me). 'How are the children?' she inquires (not really giving a shit).

'Oh they're eh....fine...w- would you like a drink?' he stutters.

She says no, she pulls up a chair and sits to his right, and opposite two of his depressed-looking friends. He introduces her to his friends, she forgets their names seconds after being told. Her arm brushes against his, and sends shivers up his spine. Her opaque-tighted foot delicately leaves her stiletto and starts stroking his lower leg. He can't handle it any more. She loves driving him crazy, and she knows she has the upper hand.

She wonders what is going through his mind; she's 24, beautiful, supple skinned? No - he is thinking that he wants to fuck her, he wants to dominate her and have her sucking his throbbing cock. But he knows somehow that she is going to let him stew, he has a huge erection, showing a bulge in his pants, he has to stay sitting at the table or else people will notice. She notices he looks a little flushed, is he blushing?

As if by the pure grace of a higher power, the two friends decide they have to go because their daughter is returning home for the holidays from college. She says goodbye to them, without mentioning their names and walks back to her stool, grabbing her purse. She walks to the entrance blowing air-kisses to Mark, who is left powerless in the company of these two melancholic people.

Mark arrives home to his villa and feels like a failure; 'Why the fuck can't I get it right with women? They come in and out of my life and I miss them, or don't read the signs.' He pours himself a large Hennessy and collapses into his plush leather sofa. He is about to switch on the gigantic plasma TV when he hears a strange sound, it sounds like feet shuffling.

Listen again. Whispering? He stands up suddenly from the sofa, eyes wide open. Tracey appears from behind him, he hasn't seen her yet. She is dressed in a pale pink silk robe and delicate lace bra and panties. There is a chill in the room. With the anticipation from earlier and the sheer thrill of this, her nipples are so hard and pointy. Her nipples point obviously through her silk dressing gown. She feels the soft fabric against her skin. She smells of white musk.

She slowly but confidently walks beind him and he stands still, feeling her presence. She fingers the back of his neck and kisses it tenderly. She turns to face him and doesn't kiss him, she gives an intense look and starts fingering his already hard cock through his navy-blue jeans. She feels that he has strong legs, strong muscular legs, he would be able to take her, take her good.

They begin kissing, just lips, dry sensitive lips, it makes them tingle with excitement. He thrusts his long wet tongue into her mouth and massages hers, while holding her close. She is so small compared to him, he makes her feel protected. She likes a tall man. His two hands squeeze her large breasts, he can feel the hard nipples and repeatedly flicks them, knowing it's making her feel ready.

For a second she wants more, more of him, like two exact versions of him licking, sucking, and worshipping every inch of her body. A threesome, with two of him! They stumble into the master bedroom and fall onto the bed, her on top of him. She tries to untie her dressing gown but struggles so she tears it off, revealing two 36D, heaving and sweat-glistening tits encased in that delicate white lace.

For a second Mark stops, wanting to fully take in this sight; he can see the erect pink nipples through her bra. He looks at himself, and his cock is throbbing, growing, and wanting to be in her tight and dripping pussy. He flips Tracey on to her back with ease and starts fingering her wet cunt, spreading her wet all over her vagina. He takes some of it and rubs it all along the shaft of his dick. She guides his penis into her pussy but before she puts it in, it seems like he is already deep inside her; he knows what he is doing. Here, she thinks, is a middle-aged man, in great shape, fucking me. She can feel his dick against her inside. He thrusts deeply, then several shallow thrusts almost leaving her pussy completely.

They pick up the pace, he is dominating her, and fucks her almost violently. Their bodies are in sync now, regular pulsating fucking. She looks at his face and sees the beads of sweat on his brow and chest, he is wet all over. She starts biting his arm with delight and forces him on his back so she can ride him. Her clitoris is eager to be stimulated and presents itself, the small , perfectly shaped pea-form that men are often bewildered about. She rides him frantically, varying the angle and speed.

She hears him groan, 'Oh...oh...Tracey...you sexy bitch...ride me...ride me like you mean it....'.

Her breasts are bouncing up and down, which makes his erection even more intense. She crouches down further and her hard nipples rub against his slightly tanned chest. He takes her from behind, holding on to her with his hands securely cupped around her waist and. fucks more until his cock cannot take it any more.

Just before he climaxes, this whole situation flashes in his mind: her ass, her pointing nipples, her stare, her touch, her age, her youth, her body. He cums and ejaculates on her back, she finished herself off and curls up beside him.

She feels so dirty, but so fulfilled. If anybody knew, especially her parents (who know this guy), god knows what would be said about her. She didn't care, it was worth it. Thrilling affair indeed.