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How a 62-year old Dane solved the problem of a married couple's need for refreshment
We took a long time - several months - before choosing. The decision was important because we are not an irresponsible young couple playing the field. We are both nearer fifty than forty, in the third decade of our marriage, still very much in love but wise enough to recognise that sex, though pleasurable, was fast becoming routine. Before we got together we had both enjoyed other relationships, I more in number than Monique, but in marriage we had been sufficient to each other. Until now.

There was a lot to consider once we had confronted the idea of another person joining us. Male or female? We concluded that I was probably the one able to cope with watching; and Monique needed that assurance before she could feel comfortable taking another man. It was when we had reached that point that Monique confessed she would like, just once, to try someone with a large endowment. I am not deficient in that department, as she readily acknowledged, but neither am I equipped to be a porn star. Could I deal with what was proposed? The more I contemplated the prospect, the more exciting I found it.

Other factors came into our search, of course; we were not looking for a tattooed truck driver with a big belly however many inches he might offer. We needed someone cultured and imaginative who would be interesting as a person as well as a stud. Older rather than younger. Which is how, after those months browsing, we chose Nils.

Nils was a Danish businessman with his own export-import company. Having lived in Paris for many years, he spoke flawless French with only the smallest trace of accent. He told us he was sixty-two and had been a widower for the last seven years. His suggestion was Sunday lunch at L'Angélique near the Chateau at Versailles. We were not disappointed, either by the restaurant or by Nils.

L'Angélique has a Michelin star so we were not surprised to find it busy and welcoming. Nils, who had reserved a table, was there before us. He looked exactly as he had in the photo he had e-mailed us: slim, square-shouldered, silver-grey hair, deep blue eyes with laughter lines, a strong jawline. He wore a pale blue suit (Armani, said Monique from twenty metres away) with a dark blue shirt, no tie. When he rose to greet us, his handshake was firm, his kiss to Monique's cheek correct and unintrusive.

After a few pleasantries, we devoted ourselves to the menu and the waiter. Nils asked me to choose the wine, although I am pleased I accepted his recommendation to try the 2000 Leflaive white Burgundy. He would drink only mineral water; he was driving, he said, and needed to take care not to impair his performance. If there was a smile, it was only in his eyes, and then only fleetingly. Surrounded by other diners, our conversation perforce avoided any reference to the reason for our meeting. The weather, the economy, the latest Sarkozy speculation saw us through.

We had agreed to reciprocate Nils’ hospitality by inviting him to our apartment for afters; Monique, in any case, thought she would be more relaxed in our own bedroom. Besides, the video equipment was there.

We split up for the journey. Monique joined Nils in his Porsche Panamera Turbo. I followed in our Merc, wondering what might be happening now the two of them were alone together. Monique told me later that when they set off, Nils asked her if she would feel comfortable to turn back her skirt and partially open her legs. It was the first test of her nerves and she found that she had warmed enough to Nils to agree, When the situation permitted, he glanced down approvingly. From time to time, he let his hand settle on her thigh, running from the stocking top to the bare flesh but no higher. It was enough. By the time he had found a parking space near home she was thoroughly wet, consumed with expectation. All those months spent in preparation had not been wasted.

Intuition, or perhaps experience with other women, had alerted Nils to Monique’s state of readiness. When we entered our apartment he spoke a few appropriate words of admiration before saying, “But I think we have all been anticipating this moment for long enough. It would be good not to make ourselves wait any longer. Do you agree?”

To my surprise, it was Monique who responded - not with words but by curling her arms behind Nils’ neck and kissing him, open-mouthed, tongue working lasciviously. Our guest was not slow to accept the invitation. His hands reached behind her, lifted her skirt and cupped her bottom cheeks. I could see his fingers working the black silk into the crevice of her bottom. My penis was already hard. All morning,Monique had been subdued and silent as though nervous of what we had committed to. But I had sensed a different interpretation when, just before we left for the restaurant, she took me by both hands, looked into my face and said, “Do not worry, Chéri. You won’t lose me. I am ready, more than ready, but I am still yours.”

When they broke apart from the kiss, Monique took Nils by the hand and led him to the bedroom. I followed and busied myself with the filming equipment, two cameras on tripods, then ensuring that the lighting in the shuttered room, subdued though it was, would still shed sufficient illumination on the areas where the action was likely to develop. We had agreed that there would be filming but only for the subsequent enjoyment of the three of us; Nils would receive a copy, we would have ours. It was understood that no one else would ever see.

I turned to find that Nils had already stripped to his boxer shorts. We had taken his self-assessment of endowment on trust but a bulge at the front suggested that his e-mail assurances had not been exaggerated. Revelation would have to wait. Monique motioned to me to set the cameras rolling. Then she presented her back to Nils so that he could release the zip of her dress. It fell to the floor around her ankles. She pirouetted slowly, offering to Nils an arms length view: an oval face framed by short wavy hair, brown eyes, a broad mouth; ample breasts supported by a bra that did them justice; a rounded but not oversized bottom, flattered by silk French knickers; long and shapely legs in sheer stockings. Bra, knickers, garter belt and stockings in black were made brazenly erotic by white flesh.

As she used two hands to pull the knicker material tightly across her mound, I zoomed in with the camera to focus on the outlined labia. Fingers appeared in shot. Nils was exploring in Monique’s groin. I widened my shot slightly, confident that the other camera was capturing the broader picture of the two of them embracing. Editing later would be exciting. I reframed the shot to see Monique’s face in close-up. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were closed, distilling the essence of desire which could no longer be contained. When her pelvis began to thrust against Nils, he held her away momentarily. He wanted to undress her.

The bra was removed first. Monique could not deny that her breasts no longer have the upward tilt of her youth but they remain firm. Their glory for me is the nipples, dark and pointed when aroused as they undoubtedly were now. Nils clearly shared that opinion. A brief murmur of appreciation escaped lips that were already about to close on the left little cone of temptation. For long minutes, broken only by Monique’s muttered words of encouragement, the sixty-two-year-old licked, nibbled and sucked. First one side, then the other, then back again. At one point, Monique grasped the underside of a breast with both hands and pushed it forcibly into her partner’s mouth. Again, Nils clasped her bottom cheeks and pulled her on to him. I slipped the camera from its tripod and knelt behind them to capture the urgency of his need.

Eventually, they broke away, both breathing heavily, recovering for a few seconds before resuming. I knew the knickers would be next to go and had the camera back in place in good time. Nils could not have been more helpful to me. He led her to the bed and asked her to bend over. I began to understand that the visual relishing of the black silk stretched across taut buttocks was to be a key moment for him. I repositioned camera two for the general shot, then with my own zoomed in very slowly while Nils stroked and caressed my wife’s bottom.

What happened next is the clearest possible indication of the heated atmosphere in that bedroom and the bond of intuitive trust we had so swiftly developed. Nils turned his head to glance at me with raised eyebrows. I nodded. When his hand slapped hard on her protruding orbs, Monique cried out. I knew it was a cry of surprised pleasure. We had not told Nils that spanking featured in our sexual repertoire, hadn’t even discussed it, yet when the moment was ripe its consummation was perfection. Encouraged, Nils continued. Monique told me later that he asked her more than once if she could take it harder and she had simply nodded.

As the slaps subsided, Nils gently massaged the curves, sliding his hand up through the knicker legs to soothe the reddened cheeks. At last he turned her on to her back and eased her further on to the bed, still reluctant it seemed to relinquish his tactile investigation of the interaction between female flesh and black silk. I have no way of knowing how much self-control he was exercising in prolonging the transition from one sexual phase to the next but I did realise that it was taking Monique on a sensual journey from the foothills to the heights with masterly expertise. Still with her knickers in place, she would undoubtedly have long been ready to welcome wholehearted penetration, but it was not to be. Not for a long while.

Nils widened her legs, pushed the knicker gusset to one side. For the first time he was able to see her shaved opening. I knew it would be glistening with her juices so I needed the close-up. Resuming hand-held, I took the shot over Nils’ shoulder. The lubrication was easy to discern. But I had to reframe because Nils could not resist tasting what he could see. As his head descended I moved to one side in time to capture Monique’s little shudder as her lips were parted and a tongue tip met the exposed clitoris.

Even during our recent less adventurous sex, cunnilingus had always been a way of expressing loving togetherness; in wilder, earlier days oral stimulation could propel her to orgasm after orgasm. I was in no doubt that something similar was possible now. Except that Nils wouldn’t permit it. When his wife was alive she must have counted her blessings to enjoy being serviced by a sexual maestro. And now it was my wife whose pelvis rose and fell under his ministrations. But the more she pressed her distended nerve end towards his face, the more skilfully he denied her the ultimate release. Alternating fingers and tongue, he took her to the very brink and somehow sustained her there, quivering and moaning, wanting the finishing flourish but revelling in being refused it.

By this time both cameras were back on their tripods, trading angles on a master class in licking and fingering. For myself, I could no longer remain totally aloof. We had agreed that this was not to develop into a threesome, but it is true that the voyeur in me wanted nothing more than to be the privileged audience for a show I had never expected to witness. However, something had to give. I opened my zip and took my penis in my hand, stroking gently. My intention was not to precipitate a conclusion, but to reach a point of equilibrium not dissimilar to that being so exquisitely displayed on the bed.

That achieved, not without considerable concentration, I became aware from the rhythm of their movements that something had subtly changed between Nils and Monique. She had surrendered. Nils was in charge and could take her in whatever manner pleased him, because she had learned to trust that he would not betray her. That she was not a victim, merely the secondary partner in an erotic voyage that was heading inexorably to a blissful ending. But not yet. Not yet.

It came as a surprise when Nils suddenly spoke aloud. I knew there had been murmured exchanges between them but this was different, positive, as much for my ears as Monique’s. He had at last decided to dispense with her knickers and his fingers were in the waistband, easing the smooth fabric away from her contours when he said, “Soon we will fuck. But first I will show you my cock and ask you to suck it for me.”

Instantly, the atmosphere had changed once more. Nils had asked in a telephone conversation earlier whether we had any problem with ‘les mots crus.’ Monique and I had conferred briefly. She said she would welcome whatever Nils felt would be helpful. And now that moment had arrived. Foreplay was moving closer to its objective.

Nils stood and handed me Monique’s knickers. While I could not resist using them for a few seconds to maintain my erection, our guest stepped out of his boxer shorts. What was revealed confirmed that Nils was indeed well blessed. His cock was not yet hard - testimony to the fact that his attention had been exclusively devoted to pleasuring my wife - but it was impressive enough in its semi-flaccid state. It was about to get better. But first, Monique beckoned me to her, kissed me warmly on the mouth and then said, “Be sure, chéri, be sure. Je t’aime.”

Kneeling on the bed beside Monique’s head, Nils gently offered a circumcised knob to my wife’s mouth. Opening wide, she reached up and guided it in. Impossible for her to accept it all, but she offered the next best treatment. While her hollowed cheeks showed that she was sucking steadily on the business end, her hand moved at the same tempo along the exposed remaining shaft. When I looked through the viewfinder I saw Nils moisten his lips. Monique set about returning the oral favours she had received with matching enthusiasm. For much of the time she continued sucking and wanking, but occasionally she would remove the cock completely to admire what they had achieved together. Nils now was showing a jutting rigidity that did credit to a man in his sixties. I was excited that Monique was able to extract such a response.

“And now,” said Nils after a long spell of exquisite fellation, “We must experience the final conquest. If you will permit me, chère madame, I wish to join my cock with your cunt.” The curiously stilted formal request seemed somehow appropriate to the carefully structured ritual that had been unfolding.

My wife opened her legs and drew up her knees. In a calm, confident, low voice, she said, “I want it all. Fuck me.”

The moment of initial penetration was delicately contrived. Nils knelt between her legs and with his hand placed his cock head at her cunt opening. Monique then took the shaft in her right hand and eased the long, purple-headed instrument inside her, centimetre by slow centimetre. The sound - half sigh, half groan - that issued from Nils was the first involuntary reaction he had shown during the whole time in our bedroom. Already, their coupling had lasted for more than forty minutes. My camera tapes were sixty minutes in duration. It proved to be just enough.

If the foreplay had been superb in its controlled interplay, the fuck surpassed it. Nils took his time at first, taking care for both of them that the steady build-up didn’t disintegrate in a hasty frenzy. It was not until perhaps the sixth or seventh careful thrust that he buried himself completely. For a moment he rested. His eyes registered Monique’s hands manipulating her nipples before he resumed movement. Monique locked her ankles behind his back and rode with him, instinctively matching his intention to change the tempo by almost imperceptible increments. The reward was theirs.

“Like this?” asked Nils, driving into her.

“Yes, yes. As much as you like. Just keep going.”

“No orgasm?”

“Not yet. I want it. Want it badly, Nils. But not yet.” Her arse rose from the bed with each withdrawal by Nils, then fell back as he probed into her anew. Each time he gave her his full length, his grunt was echoed by her little gasp. These were the only sounds until Monique used her hands to ease him off her. “Wait,” she said. “I was very close. I wanted it but I didn’t want it then. I want you from behind me.”

A gleaming cock slipped from her cunt. Nils helped her turn on to her knees and instantly fed himself into her. Restraint was unnecessary. Monique’s internal lubrication enabled them to set to again with undiminished relish. Only the sounds changed. Once Nils had established his angle of penetration, each complete withdrawal ended with a squishy slurp, while each insertion culminated in the slap of flesh on flesh. In this position, Nils was able to augment Monique’s delight with a firm slap to a buttock.

Of course, there had to be a dénouement, a great shivering, shattering, consuming climax. When it came, Monique was again on her back, Nils above her, but this time supporting himself on strong arms so that the camera could see the alternate exposure and immersion of his powerful cock. Until, with a huge gasp, he collapsed on to her, emptying himself. Somewhere during this final bout, Monique told me later, she had willed herself to orgasm as his groin pounded against her clitoris. At the end they lay, the sixty-two-year-old Dane and my lovely wife, panting in each other’s arms.

After a while they shared the shower in our bathroom while I rewound the tapes, packed away the cameras and tripods in a cupboard in another room. Editing was a pleasure postponed.

When I rejoined them, Monique was offering to make coffee, an excuse for Nils and me to talk. Surprisingly we were able to do so in remarkably dispassionate tones. Nils thanked me for allowing everything that had taken place, speaking in the most glowing terms of Monique’s sexuality and the generosity with which she had expressed it. I returned thanks, making clear that we had deliberated at great length before embarking on the process that had now been fulfilled, telling him that it would take time before we could be absolutely sure that our long-term aim had been achieved. I added that I was confident that it would.

Monique returned with coffee and we made small talk, unexpectedly unembarrassed in the light of all that gone before. The only further reference came as Nils was about to climb into his Porsche at the end of the afternoon. “May I ask,” he said, “whether you view this as a liaison with a future? Or not?”

I looked at Monique but couldn’t read her expression. “Perhaps we need time to consider,” I said. “We will take a few days and get in touch with you one way or the other. And, of course, we will send you a copy of the tape.”

“Thank you,” Nils replied. He lifted Monique’s hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “Thank you for everything.”

Once we had watched the car disappear we went inside. Monique took my hand, looked hard into my eyes and said, “And thank you - for everything.” Then she led me back to a bed of rumpled sheets and we turned back the years. Our experiment seemed to have worked.

The following morning at breakfast, while we had still made no decision about the future, a messenger came with a huge bouquet. There was an accompanying card which read, “Thank you once again. If you feel inclined for another meeting, perhaps you would like me to bring my daughter. She is thirty-four, charming, pretty and very accommodating. Nils”
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