I wasn’t looking for companionship. In fact, I was tired from a long day helping a team at a famous cancer hospital revamp the material and information flow of their diagnostic testing department. But when I saw her sitting at a tall table by the fire, I was intrigued. I think it was her beautiful, long, grey hair. She sat straight and proud, her hair hanging down almost to her waist, holding a cup of tea between her hands and staring at the flames. I guessed she was at least sixty, but her long, straight, silver-grey hair gave her an ageless quality. At the outside, she may well have been seventy-five years old and still beautiful. I walked over and stood by her table. 

“Excuse me,” I said. “My name is Chumba Poxwally. I’m in town doing some business consulting at the hospital. When I’m traveling, my wife lets me have dinner with beautiful women, but only if they aren’t more beautiful than she is.” I emphasised the word “more” then added, “May I join you?”

She came back from somewhere far away and met my eye. 

“Well,” she said with a smile, “aren’t you a cheeky one.” She gestured to the chair across from her. “Yes, please sit,” she said. “I could use some company tonight.”

I was pleased to find a beautiful woman with a sense of humor to talk with.

A young waiter appeared at her elbow and set a spinach and chicken wrap in front of her. He said, “Would you like more tea, Miss Bettine?”

“Yes, Stosh. Bring Mister Poxwally whatever he wants and put it on my tab. Perhaps a Long Island Iced Tea and a steak.”

Well, I thought, this is a woman who knows how to take charge. I gave young Stosh my order and just like that, she started talking. This is her story.

1.

I’m here for my final cancer checkup. Blood cancer. Either I’m cured, or it’s going to get me at last. I’ve lived a good, long life, so I’m okay with it either way. But here, at what might very well be my end, there is something that weighs heavy on my mind: My greatest failure. I want to tell you about my first marriage, and how it entirely changed the course of my life. 

I met Victor on the slopes of Zermatt in Switzerland. I still remember the very first time I saw him. We were at the top of the mountain. I was looking at the Matterhorn rising like a great, ice pyramid into a radioactive blue sky. He slid into view, his long skis spraying snow. He wore black wool pants, and goggle-style sunglasses--dark and intriguing. He was laughing with his friends, and then he saw me, he took off his goggles, looked right at me and smiled.  

His smile alone made my legs weak, and my breath caught in my throat. He was in his early twenties, like me, but I distinctly remember thinking: This is a real man. Not some college boy, like my mother wanted me to find. Not some junior executive, like my father had pointed out to me. This is what a man is supposed to look like. I wondered how a tall, gangly girl like me was ever going to attract a man like that. I had no idea, but what the hell did I have to lose? 

“My name is Bettine,” I heard myself saying. “I’ll race you down to the lodge. Loser buys dinner,“ I looked around at his friends, then added, “for everyone.” 

One of the guys said, “Drinks too. Make her buy drinks, Victor.”

Victor looked at me and smiled, a challenge in his eye.

“Drinks too,” I said, “but only if you win.”

“You're on,” said Victor, and he had a real man’s voice: resonant, with a slight Italian accent. 

My breasts felt suddenly hot inside my jacket. 

“Read-set-go!” I yelled, pushing off and taking a head start. Always cheat. Always win. That’s what my grandfather taught me. 

By the time we reached the bottom of the mountain, Victor was ahead of me and letting me almost catch up. He won, of course. Easily. As promised, I bought dinner and drinks all around. The costs went on my family’s tab. By the end of the evening, I was hopelessly in love with him. My cheeks hurt from smiling at his smile. My throat was rough from talking over the live music and the jokes and everyone cutting up. Most of all, my whole body ached for him. My lips tingled for his lips. My breasts throbbed for his hands, and my insides ached and burned to know him.

We were married one month later. 

2.

His family had a villa in Northern Italy. We had a “little cottage” just down the road from Zermatt in Central Breithorn, and that’s where we tied the knot. We invited his family, and my family, plus all our friends, which between us was everyone who was anyone from Geneva to Milan. Our day went by in a loud, crazy blur. A string quartet from the Lausanne Conservatory played Vivaldi. A local children’s choir sang Ave Maria--in Italian, of course. We had dinner from Greece and desserts from Spain. Then, because we planned to honeymoon by staying right there in my family’s cottage, everyone trickled out before 9:00. The last guest to leave was my baby sister. She wished me luck, stole one final look at my Victor, then she was gone, and we were alone.

I closed the living room door, leaned my forehead against the carved wood and sighed. Such a day. Such a wonderful, wonderful day, and my life was about to begin with the man I never thought I would meet. One who could love me and all my boney angles and razor-sharp cheekbones. I was so happy. 

When I turned around, Victor was staring at me with hungry eyes. 

“Good day,” I said with a sigh. 

“Good day,” he agreed from the other end of the front hallway. 

“Now what?” I asked innocently. 

“No more waiting,” he said. “No more family, or friends, or crazy long nights of partying. No more midnight skiing with tiki torches. It’s just you and me.”

He looked so good in his black tux. I felt an electric shock zing down from my spine into my clit. I gasped. 

He noticed my excitement and smiled. 

Victor took off his bowtie and threw it on the floor. He took a step toward me. 

I stood up straighter.

He took another step and took the cufflinks out of his sleeves and set them on a sideboard. He yanked his frilly white shirt out of his pants and unbuttoned it slowly. 

I kicked my low heels toward the wall. I was wearing a miniskirt, a near-copy of my wedding dress, and not a lot more. 

He took another step, then stopped. He removed his belt and unzipped his pants. 

I hiked up my white, frilly miniskirt, unbuttoned my garter belts and nearly fell over while pulling off my black fishnet stockings. 

We both laughed, but we stopped laughing when he took off his pants and underwear. Victor’s cock was huge, and the head glistened with his desire. 

I squealed playfully and pulled at my panties, but he stepped forward quickly and took my hands in his.

“Leave them on,” he whispered in my ear. 

I had no idea what he was going to do next, and not knowing tickled me all the way to my bottom. 

Victor pulled my panties down, just a little, just enough to slide his cock in between my pussy lips. Then, looking me straight in the eyes, he began to rock back and forth. 

I moaned aloud when his thick cockhead touched my clit, bumping against it going forward, then bumping back again when he pulled back. 

“Oh, baby, yes!” I said. “Rub that big dick on my clit. I want you to. Do it hard. More!” I said. 

He did. Victor took turns thrusting forward and pulling back, nearly entering my pussy, then rubbing up and down against my clit. Then, when I was totally wet, and I nearly crying out to have his thick, hard dick in my pussy, he began stroking his cock. He pushed it right up against my clit and stroked his big dick with short, rapid movements. Then he put the tip of his penis inside my vagina as far as it would go at that funny angle and stroked his dick with long, full movements. That’s when he started moaning. He stroked his cock faster and faster and faster, pumping in short strokes in and out of my pussy opening. 

He gripped my shoulder with his free hand. “I’m cumming, Bettine. I’m cumming in your wet pussy.” Then he yanked his dick out and pushed it hard against my clit. “I’m cumming all over your big, hard clit!” 

The rest was garbled moaning and thrusting and jerking and cum, cum, cum all over my clit, his hand, inside my vagina and dripping down into my black, lace panties. 

It felt so good to be used by him. So good to be wanted, to be his own personal and desperate, desperate need. 

By now my clit was ringing with electricity. I stuck my fingers past his dick and into the middle of all that cum and pussy juice. I shoved them into my vagina, scooped out his cum and rubbed it furiously against my clit. With my other hand, I reached for him. I grabbed the back of his head and pulled his lips to me. Then, moaning into his kisses, I rubbed once, rubbed twice and BOOM! I came and came in electric waves of bliss. I came in a flood of color. I came surrounded by dozens of sparkling white lights. I came until my legs buckled. 

He half caught me, and we fell to the floor in slow motion. We were sweating and laughing and crying all at once. The cool wooden floor felt so good against my naked bottom and my flushed, tear-stained cheeks. After a few minutes, after we caught our breath, Victor scooped me up and carried me to our marriage bed.  

As we lay together, arms intertwined, I felt sleep fast approaching. I had time to think, That was the best sex I’ve ever had, and it’s only the beginning. Oh, if only that had been true--if only it had been that simple--who knows what my life might have become! 

3.

The next night, we didn’t make love. I had a horrible headache, a legitimate headache, probably from too much champagne and stress. He didn’t mind. Then the night after, he was very tired. I didn’t mind, much. By the end of the week, he had to go back to Milan on family business. I was certain that he would take special care to make love to me before he went away. He did not.

I worried the whole time he was gone. My stomach was in knots. My heart ached. I wondered what I had done to offend him, to insult him, to displease him. I was so young, I didn’t even realize how very sexually frustrated I was. I didn’t know what to call it. I just knew that I cried myself to sleep every night that first week he was gone. 

What could I do? He didn’t tell me what he wanted. He hadn’t shouted at me for doing anything wrong. He didn’t look at me with anger. In fact, I thought in the spinning darkness of my empty house, since we were married, he hadn’t looked at me much at all. 

Well, that was it, I had let myself go! I was married and I wasn’t dressing for him. I wasn’t aiming to please. I was becoming my mom, starting week one! What a fool I had been. Practically ruined my marriage in week one before it was really started.

Then, my worry turned to anger. I was married! I didn’t have to keep him turned on. We were a couple. We were life partners. We were supposed to be everything to each other. We were supposed to tell each other everything. I wasn’t sure, but part of me felt he wasn’t pulling his weight. He wasn’t trying to be attractive to me, or trying to be attentive to me, or showing me that he still loved me. 

It was horrible. 

Finally, driving to the airport in the Land Cruiser, I decided to win him back!

Three days later, he came back from Milan.  

At the airport, we were once again in the Land Cruiser. We kissed. He was glad to see me. He shared everything about his trip, and his family’s business plans. They owned a glass works and manufactured Tiffany-style stained-glass lamps at a little factory outside of Milan. I was so happy. Everything was going to be fine. 

But it wasn’t.

That night, I kissed him before bed. He kissed me back. I was sure he was going to take me then. But no. He fell asleep, and I lay there throbbing with desire. Well, this just won’t do, I thought.  Apparently, I am not communicating my desire very well. 

The next night, I prepared for bed by putting on a black negligee and brushing my long, blond hair 100 strokes. When we went to bed, I kissed him and licked his lips. He kissed me back, laughed happily and went to sleep. 

Okay, I thought, not explicit enough for him. 

The third night back, I took a shower--with the bathroom door open. I shaved my legs. I shaved my pussy. I walked around our bedroom naked and thoughtfully pulled out outfit after outfit, holding them up and interrupting his reading to ask, “Should I wear this tomorrow? Or do you like this one better?” When we crawled into bed, I held his face and kissed him. Then I stroked the front of his silk pajamas. His penis was hard. He kissed me back, with gusto. Finally, I was going to get what I so desperately needed. Then my beautiful manly, mature husband turned away and went to sleep. 

It was horrible. 

Then he went back to Milan--again. 

This time I was angry. Oh, I was so angry! Now, I’m not the most beautiful woman in the world, not by any means, but I have always been thin, always blessed with wonderful long hair. Pretty enough to attract my share of attention in high school and college. Since I studied economics at the University Aix Marseille, and did financial research in Rome, and spoke English, French and Italian, I figured I was smart enough to deserve better treatment than Victor was giving me. 

For the first time, I started to think that dreaded word: divorce. Or, after barely a month and only one sort-of-half-sexual encounter--certainly not full, loving, married-husband-and-wife intercourse--I wondered if what we needed was an annulment. Starter marriage. It kept coming into my head. 

I’d eat breakfast alone, then call Victor to help him plan his day. Starter marriage. I’d go to lunch with my girlfriends, not so many now because we were all graduated and getting married. Starter marriage. The snow was gone from all the lower elevations, so I walked up to the lodge. Starter marriage. I ate dinner at the lodge, slowly, savouring my solitude, but those words followed me like a gypsy curse. Starter marriage. To turn my mind off, I imagined Victor there eating dinner with me and our friends, but my mind was playing tricks on me. “Oh no, honey,” I  heard him say, “I’m not in the mood tonight. Why don’t you fuck some of your friends? No, I don’t mind. You go ahead. Do them right here on the table if you like.” 

Suddenly, I saw myself naked on the table. Victor was stroking my hair while another man fucked me. Then Victor reached forward and stroked my breasts. “He has a really big cock, don’t you think, honey? And look at the line!” My overheated imagination saw a line of men waiting to take their turn sliding their dicks into my cum-soaked loins. Even the teenage busboy was there. I startled back to reality, and found my panties were soaked through.  

I stood up, threw my napkin on the table and fled to the bathroom. I checked the stalls and confirmed I was alone. Then I ripped up my blouse and unhooked my bra. My tits bounced as I jerked down my slacks and panties. I could smell my own pussy juice. It was practically dripping out of me, and in my mind I imagined it was dripping with the cum of a dozen men. Everyone wanted me. Everyone wanted to fill me with his seed. 

I leaned my back against the side of the stall. I reached down between my legs. 

“Cum,” I whispered. “So much cum,” I said in my innocent teen voice. “Where did it all come from?” I stuffed my fingers inside my vagina, then pulled them out and rubbed both my nipples. “Look, your cum is all over my breasts too. You boys are so bad!” 

I put two fingers of my left hand in my pussy and rubbed my clit with two fingers of my right hand. I shoved those fingers in as far as they would go. I pulled them out, reached around my back and shoved them in me from behind. I stroked my clit faster and faster. I felt my legs getting weak. I felt myself starting to slide down the side of the stall. I pushed my shoulders back and my hips forward and rubbed my clit hard, harder, so hard it nearly hurt, until I came in a big, wet, throbbing orgasm. I came so hard that my fingers were literally soaked with pussy juice, so I pulled them out and shoved my left hand up under my blouse and squeezed my right breast so hard that I cried out in blessed agony. I rocked against the wall of the toilet stall as wave after shuddering wave tore through me. 

When the storm passed, my legs suddenly went limp, and I had to sit on the toilet for ten minutes, just to cool down.

Once I could breathe again, I realized I felt good. I felt fine. I felt I was entitled. I felt satisfied and maybe even a little hopeful. Finally, I stood up, my clothes in a tangle, and started to pull myself together. I adjusted my bra back into place and pulled my blouse down. I oh-so-gingerly pulled up my panties and settled them over my raw vulva. Then I reached down to my ankles, undid the belt on my slacks and pulled down the zipper. Reluctantly, I pulled my slacks back in place, buckled the belt and zipped the back. Then I left the stall. 

When I left the stall, I saw myself in the mirror and was stunned. I had just had the best orgasm of my life. I had cum, in a toilet, like a total, sex-crazed slut and, except for my tousled hair, I looked exactly the same. How could it be? How could the new me not show on my face? I washed my hands. I splashed water on my face and used the same fingers that had just been stuffed in my pussy to rub my lips. I stared at myself and slid those fingers inside my mouth to taste them. Nothing. Still me. I found my purse, thrown in haste onto the sinks, and brushed my hair. Nothing. Totally the same. Totally me. Totally different. 

I walked home in a warm, golden bubble. A few minutes later, I crawled into my giant bed, alone but at peace. I stuffed a pillow between my legs and against my still sensitive clit and, satisfied at last, I slept well for the first time in two months. 

4.

Victor came back. We spent time together for a change. Walking. Having dinner. Avoiding sex. Well, he was. I opened a post office box in the next town down the road and ordered a hand-carved, very realistic ebony dildo from Paris. While I was waiting for it to arrive, I started to explore my body. I wanted to see how many fingers I could fit in my pussy. All four. I tried shoving them up my ass, but I quickly learned I didn’t like that much. I did discover that I liked to press my fingers flat against my asshole and push inward. I discovered I could drag two fingers across my hole and “lick” my own ass. I discovered that little move made me cum even harder. 

Coming back from a shopping spree in Geneva, I convinced Victor to stop for an afternoon schnitzel. While we were waiting, I excused myself to buy him a newspaper, and stopped by La Posta. In my box was a small package from Paris. I gasped and looked around in shame. No one saw my red cheeks. No one was paying me any attention at all. I ripped open the box and looked inside. There it was: a red velvet bag and inside, a hand-carved ebony dildo. It was covered with black veins and bulges and ripples. I slipped the red bag into my purse and threw the box in the trash. Then I stood up straight and proud. Nothing to see here, I thought. Just a young woman ordering sex toys from France. 

I don’t remember what we ate for our snack. I don’t remember dinner. I don’t remember watching anything on TV or reading the papers. I do remember that my pussy was so wet, I could smell it. 

Can’t you tell, Victor? I thought. Can’t you feel my restlessness? Don’t you wonder why I’m so quiet? 

But no. 

Before we went to bed, I stared into Victor’s eyes. 

See me, I thought. See me. I’ll do anything for you. Ask me. Take me. Fuck me. Make me show you all I’ve learned. Take away my dildo and show me that big dick of yours is all I’ll ever need!

Victor said, “Such a good day. Nice to get out. Well, goodnight then.” He kissed me on the cheek and turned away. In five minutes, he was snoring, and I lay in bed with my pussy aching for release. 

Ga! So frustrating. But what to do? Sneak away and jerk off on the living room sofa? I could, but there was no fire tonight, and if started a fire, he might come downstairs and see me. I certainly didn’t want that. 

Jerk off in the bathroom? I could. I’d done it before. But this was my house. This was my bed. The bed where I’d cum so many times in the last few weeks. 

Could I? Should I? Do it right there? What if Victor woke up? What would he say? Would he be mad? Would he join in? Would he throw my new toy out the window and shove his big dick inside me instead? I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. I couldn’t stop myself. Victor was snoring like a train. He’d never woken up before. I decided that I would get my new toy, dammit, and just try to cum very quietly. 

I flipped off the covers. Victor didn’t move. 

I slid my feet off the edge of the bed and touched them to the soft shag carpeting. His breathing was slow and steady.  

I didn’t dare keep my hand-carved ebony dildo in my nightstand for fear he might find it. No. My toy was safely hidden in the bottom of my purse where, one day, I could pull it out of my purse in a crowded pub, and slide it under my dress and inside my dripping vagina. All while surrounded by my unknowing strangers. Yeah, right! 

I tip-toed over to my closet, the one by the window. Outside the closet was my “dressing chair.” That’s what I called it because I always put my shoes under the chair, my purse on the seat and my coat on the back. That way, I could always find them. 

I sighed when I reached the purse and picked it up. So far, so good, I thought. I was a bit distracted, and my fingers were clumsy from thinking about secretly using my dildo in public. But I had used it so much in the last few weeks that I found it with little effort or fumbling. Still no change in Victor’s breathing. 

I scurried back to our bed, then slowed and eased myself in under the covers. 

Oh, this is going to be good! I thought. At least he’s here. It felt sort of, not really, but maybe a little, like we were having sex again. 

I pulled my panties down and off one ankle. I nearly giggled at the silly, dirty fun of it all. I really wished Victor would join me for this. I imagined him kneeling across the bed from me. His legs spread. His big dick in his hand. Long, slow strokes. Stopping to rub the precum with his thumb. Oh, baby, I imagined myself saying. I want to see how many fingers you can shove up your ass! I moaned then, and found I was already rubbing my clit and sliding the dildo into my pussy. Did Victor stir? No. I don’t think so. I must be quiet. He can’t find out. I held the dildo still inside me. Letting my pussy adjust to the cool, hard wood, feeling the mushroom head of the realistic dildo just inside my vaginal opening. 

Snoring. He was snoring again and I was safe. 

I leaned back and sighed. I settled into my pillow and eased into a gentle rhythm. I pushed the dildo partway inside my wet pussy, then pulled it nearly out, then pushed it back in all the way, then nearly out, then in all the way in, then finally I used the middle finger of my other hand to rub my clit in three slow, firm circles. It was a slow game. A teasing game. A good game to make me cum ever so gently. Partway in, nearly out, all the way in, nearly out, then all the way in and three circles of my clit with my other hand. I started to moan but stopped myself. All was well. I stroked myself more. Not too much clit. Just slow, teasing strokes. 

Then I made a mistake. I started to relax. It was easy. My husband was home. He was warm beside me. He loved me in his own way, and he was here, and he was blissfully asleep. I stroked harder, firmer, wetter. The dildo sliding in and out of me. My pussy was dripping now. I slid the dildo in faster, imagining it was him fucking me. Imagining his big, hard dick sliding all the way in, then all the way out, then all the way in. I began rubbing my clit slowly, constantly, then faster and faster. With my eyes closed, I could imagine him over me, moaning, ready to cum inside me, ready to fill me with his seed. In my mind, we were going to cum together. Ready. Nearly there. I was just about to, just about ready to--

The light snapped on. I jumped as if hit by 10,000 volts of electricity then froze. Eyes closed tight. In shock. Unbelieving. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Victor said. Then he said something else; I’ve blocked out what it was, but I remember being shocked, and hurt, and angry. He grabbed my arm. He yanked my hand out. Saw the dildo. He swore. I screamed. He started yelling at me in Italian. And I opened my eyes and saw his disgusted face. And it hurt me. It hurt me and ripped something inside my chest. I could literally feel my heart breaking, tearing, ripping apart, and it hurt me so much to hear those horrible things from him--the man I was supposed to trust with all my heart. 

Then I was yelling at him. I was throwing things at him. All my anger came pouring out. I said all those terrible things I had been wanting to say. I couldn’t stop them. I don’t know what I said. I’m sure I didn’t make any sense, especially to a wicked, hateful, heartless man like him. And he tried to hold me, tried to shake me, and when I wouldn’t hold still, he tried to slap me. 

I ran to my dressing chair. I grabbed my clothes. I remember reaching the car--starting the Land Cruiser and throwing it into reverse. I remember nearly hitting him in the driveway. There was a jolt of terror that I had run him over and killed him. When I pulled forward and saw him half-naked, running after me in my rearview mirror, there was a wicked pang of disappointment that I had not squashed him flat. 

I remember almost nothing else about that night. Fleeting bits of driving. White lines and sudden curves. Nearly sliding off the road. My next conscious memory was of waking in a strange place.

5.

The literal translation is, “I have the mouth of wood.” J’ai la gueule de bois. Loosely it means, "I have a hangover," but I didn’t literally have a hangover. I knew something was wrong. My bed was really hard, and I felt terribly hot and prickly. Was I sick? Had I crashed the Toyota? My face hurt and when I touched it; there were pebbles embedded in my cheek. I squinted my eyes open. 

Nothing made any sense. 

I was looking at the ocean. I recognized the bay as Rade de Villefranche near Nice, France. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what the bay was doing in Switzerland. Then I looked down. Well, I was on the beach too. I was lying under some bushes. Once, when I was in high school, I stayed at a beachside hotel in Nice with some friends. I looked over my shoulder and there it was. The same hotel. But last night I was in Switzerland. I was so confused. 

I stood up on shaking legs. I took three steps forward. What the hell had I done? Had I stopped off and gotten drunk and passed out? It had never happened before. Had I had a nervous breakdown, and blanked out something horrible? But I remembered Victor’s horrible words to me, and I would gladly have forgotten those. It didn’t make any sense. I sighed. I must have driven all night and passed out here. Merde!

Then a voice called out of the echoing, morning stillness. 

“Bettine?”

I almost recognized that voice, but it was so bright, I couldn’t tell who it was. 

“Bettine? My god, you look like hell. Are you okay?”

I knew that voice. “Who …” 

I squinted into the sun and saw two figures. A man and a woman. The man rushed toward me and took me by my upper arms. I knew him then. It was Edward, my high school boyfriend. He brushed the hair out of my face. I jerked away, but he pulled me close. 

“Oh, Bettine. What happened to you?”

Yes, it was him. I knew his arms, his chest. I gasped and tensed. I was so confused. But I knew him. I knew I was safe with him, and I melted into his arms. 

When he stopped hugging me, I opened my eyes and there was Edward’s beautiful wife, Micheline. While Edward was my age and looked like a happy Viking, Micheline was older. She was small and athletic-looking with short, boyish black hair and a seriously undaunted expression. 

“Can’t you see, Edward?” said Micheline. “She’s had a fight with that fool Victor and ran home to find her high school sweetheart.” 

“What?” I said. “No,” I insisted. “How?” I said. 

Micheline took a step forward and put her arm in mine.

“Don’t worry about it, Bettine,” said Micheline. “We have a little cottage across the bay. Let’s get you some breakfast, and you can tell us all about it.”

6.

We walked around the beach to the other side of the bay, to the town of Villefranche-sur-Mer. Their “little cottage” was nearly as big as my family’s “little cottage” in Central Breithorn. It was three floors with a pool, and a deck with an incredible view of the bay.

Micheline served me coffee. Then I ate eggs and croissants while my Edward and Micheline stared at me. When I finally noticed them staring, I felt suddenly sick. Micheline must have seen me turning green and gestured for Edward to hold me. With his strong arm around my shoulders, the nausea passed. 

I looked up shyly. “I don’t know what to say.”

Micheline said, “Take your time, Bettine. We are all friends here.”

What could I say? I certainly couldn’t admit to masturbating in our marriage bed. It was shameful to admit my husband didn’t want me sexually. I wasn’t going to say one word about trying to run him over with the Land Cruiser. My breathing steadied and I decided to tell them as much as I could. Their kindness deserved all the honesty I could muster. 

I told them that Micheline was right: Victor and I had had a fight. I left out the intimate details and only said that he was away a lot, that he had yelled at me when he came home, tried to hit me, and that I didn’t want to be with him anymore. I told them I didn’t know what to do next and started to cry softly. This time, Micheline moved her chair over and put one hand on my leg. It helped. 

As I gathered my wits, Micheline gave Edward a meaningful look, but the meaning was between them. Ah, wasn’t that how a marriage was supposed to work? Knowing looks. Secret languages. I sighed and shrugged. 

I said, “C’est simple comme bonjour." Ah, but saying hello wasn’t always so simple, was it?

Micheline smiled and patted my leg. “You will stay here, of course, until you decide what to do. I would drop his ass like a hot potato, but that is up to you.” She glanced down at the pool. “You can stay in the guest apartment downstairs. I suggest you get a shower, maybe take a swim. Then you might need a nap. No?” She looked at Edward. “Can I see you for a minute in the kitchen, my little cabbage?” 

They disappeared into the house. I breathed the cool morning air. A minute later, Edward stuck his head out onto the deck.

He said, “Micheline had to go out for a few minutes. Let me show you the guest apartment.”

The house was almost Greek in its beautiful simplicity. Everything was white, yellow and blue. The rooms were small, but the furnishings were perfectly matched. The Mediterranean sunlight gave everything a warm glow. Being alone with Edward, in his beautiful home, in one of my favorite cities, well, it made me nostalgic for something I could never have, not with him. 

He showed me the basement apartment. It was darker, of course. The living room had a cute little free-standing fireplace and two loveseats. The bedroom looked out on the bay and featured a huge bed.

“You can get a shower and join me outside,” said Edward. “I’ll bring you one of Micheline’s bikinis.” 

“Thank you, Edward.” He started to go, but I stopped him. “I didn’t intend to come here. I didn’t even know you lived in Villefranche-sur-Mer.”

“I know, Bettine. We haven’t stayed in touch, but we heard about the wedding.”

“You did? But I didn’t invite you! I’m so sorry.” 

“Bettine,” he said, taking my hand, “It’s fine. We were a couple five years ago. In high school. Micheline knows Victor from when she went to college in Milan.” He turned away, then turned back. “Still,” he said, “it is good to see you. We don’t mind you coming, really we don’t.” 

His smile was so warm that I just melted. 

7.

I cleaned up in the shower. A disturbing amount of sand washed out of my hair. When I crept out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around me, there was a string bikini on the bed. Lime green. I felt suddenly shy to be wearing another woman’s swimsuit around my old boyfriend. I was appalled to find that the thought of it was making me wet. I clicked disgustedly at both my prudishness and my apparently uncontrollable sexual urges. Maybe Victor was right--there really was something wrong with me. I could feel my lips compress into a hard line of anger at Victor’s comments. I was not a slut or a pervert. I was not. I threw off the towel and slid into the bikini, tying the sides and the back. 

I found the sliding door out onto the stone patio. It was getting warm and Edward, my happy Viking, was already sunning himself on a chaise lounge by the little pool. I nearly gasped. He looked even better than he did in high school. Thicker. Stronger. More manly. My face flushed. 

He looked at me and said, “Wow! You look great. ” He jumped up and pulled a huge beach towel out of a little cubby. He took the towel and draped it across the chair next to him. He gestured for me to lie down and get some sun.

I crossed to him. I felt awkward: suddenly aware of the stone patio, my feet, my legs and the completely inappropriate throbbing between them. I wondered if he could see how flushed I felt. 

As I approached him, he stepped forward to meet me. 

As I reached him, his kind, blue eyes looked deep into mine. 

As I stopped in front of him, he leaned in to kiss me. 

“Don’t,” I said, so wishing that he would. “You have a beautiful wife. I didn’t come here to ruin that for you.”

“I’m a grown man. I’m allowed to be a grown man.”

“But I’m a married--”

“A married woman? I hardly think so. He doesn’t deserve you.”

It felt so good to hear that from him: such kind words from someone who knew me, who cared about me.

“Let it be my idea,” he said. “My fault. Let me take you right here and give you what you need.”

I sighed. I hesitated. I slowly, almost imperceptibly, nodded. 

He kissed me then. He bent down and took me in his Viking arms and kissed me like a man is supposed to kiss a woman. Like he meant it. Like he wanted it. Like he wanted me--consequences be damned! He took my face in his hands and ran his fingers through my long, blonde hair and kissed me some more. Then he pulled me to him. He pressed himself against me, and his penis was hard. It was hard and huge and I gasped when I felt it throbbing against me. 

“Take me now,” I said. “Do whatever you want to me. Fuck me like you mean it, Edward. Fuck me like you can’t live without me!”

Edward nodded his head and untied one side of my lime green bikini bottoms. The air hit my bare vulva, the wind, the sun. It felt so good and hot. The wind made my clit throb.

Then Edward pushed my arms toward the stone wall. Oh, yes, he liked it from behind, and I was going to give it to him. I pulled one hand off the wall and spread my ass cheeks for him, exposing both holes. 

“Look at me,” I said. “Look at me!”

“Oh, God, Bettine. That is so hot!”

I thought he would shove himself inside me right then, but instead he threw a towel on the stone patio and kneeled behind me. He pushed away my hand, pushed open my butt cheeks and pulled my hips to him. Somehow, his long tongue reached between my legs and he licked my dripping pussy. Kneading my ass cheeks, he licked my pussy front to back, front to back, then shoved his tongue in my vagina as far as it would go.

I moaned, then said, “Give it to me, beautiful. Just give it to me!”

He stood up and ripped down his shorts in one motion. Then, guiding my hips with his hands, he slid his big dick right into me. I was so wet with desire and frustration that his penis slid half the way in with one push. 

“Yes!” I said. 

“God, your pussy is burning hot,” he said.

Then he began to thrust, slowly at first, going a little further each time. Soon, he was three-quarters of the way in. He held his manhood there, giving me time to adapt, time to open to him. After barely a moment, his throbbing dick suddenly slipped inside me up to the base. 

I lifted up on my heels, and drove my hips back onto his manhood. I was bucking and rocking. My movements were slutty, intentional and purposeful. I pulled my vagina off his dick, I felt the head almost pop out of my flowering vulva, then I slammed back onto his penis. Again. Again. Again. So wet. So hot. His dick was so big, and getting harder, getting harder still. 

I didn’t feel bad. I couldn’t. I knew it was wrong, but I needed it so much. I needed his cock slamming into my tiny ass, sliding into my pussy, stretching my lips, pulling at my clit. I pulled a hand away from the wall and started to rub myself. Two fingers in a V-shape, stroking up and down my clit. My clit felt huge. 

His legs began to shake.

My pussy began to throb. It was coming. I was nearly there. 

Then he was pumping faster and harder. Jerking my pussy onto his cock. Pushing me away. Jerking me back. He stiffened. He shuddered. He came.

“Oh, Bettine! You are so hot. So hot. I’m cumming!”

I thrust against him. Felt his cum in my pussy. Felt it dripping out. Suddenly, I needed more. I ripped myself away, turned to face him and fell on my knees between his legs. His huge cock was still squirting wildly. I grabbed it--cum splashing all over my face--and sucked him into my mouth. He roared as I pumped his dick into my mouth. It flooded into my mouth in one huge gush, another big spurt, then more and more smaller, quaking, throbbing splashes of cum, cum, cum. 

“Oh, my God, Bettine!” he said, then he was falling backward. I actually had to let go of his cock and catch his hands or he would have fallen. I guided him back to his lounge and he collapsed. “Oh, I … well,” he said. “Not every day... wow … I mean, you’ve really grown up.” He stopped talking and laughed. He closed his eyes. “Just for a second,” he said. “I swear. Just let me catch my …”

“Don’t you dare!” I said. “Don’t do it.” But he did. He fell asleep. Ga!

I stomped my foot and shook my fists in frustration. I stopped. I shook my head. I smiled. My pussy was throbbing in a wonderfully sexy, nearly satisfied way. I would probably never get to fuck him again, not with such a beautiful wife as Micheline. I sighed. I sighed again. I breathed. I looked around, shaking my head and taking in all the beauty that was around me. 

“It’s okay, Bettine,” I told myself aloud. “You’ve still got it. You can move on. You can do it. You just made a married man pass out from fucking you, so, hey, not bad!” It was a terrible thing to think, and I instantly regretted it, but kind of didn’t. 

I picked up a towel and wiped my face. I scooped up my borrowed bikini bottoms and pulled them on. By the time I had tied the side and straightened them on my hips, Edward's cum was already soaking through the thin material. Better clean up, I told myself. The lady of the house could be back at any moment. How jaded I was already. How very practical. I walked inside the guest apartment. I turned back around to slide the door closed. When I turned back around to walk across the living room--there she was. 

Micheline was standing there holding a pink, paper bag. She was staring at me with that seriously undaunted expression. She looked out the patio door, where I am certain she saw Edward passed out on the lounge chair. 

Without taking her eyes off the view out the patio, she set the pink bag on a side table.  Then she turned her gaze and stepped up to me. She stood so close that our breasts were touching. Then she sniffed. She leaned close to my face and sniffed my lips. Then she looked me down and up.

My face flushed. She knows it all. I knew I was in for it, but why on earth was she smelling me?

Micheline looked up into my eyes and said, “I invite you into my home. I feed you breakfast. I go out for five minutes to buy us pastries, and while I’m gone--without even asking me first--you fuck my husband half to death. He’s passed out. Him and I are going to have a little talk about that shortly, but for right now, we need to get something clear between us.”

My sides started to tremble. Micheline was a very beautiful woman, but there was no messing with her. I knew that, or at least, I should have known that before fucking her husband. I turned my face away.

“Look at me,” she demanded.

I looked back into her eyes, and there was anger there, and sexual desire, and a weird playfulness. 

She reached up slowly and put her hands behind my head. She brushed her nose against my lips. 

“He came in your mouth. Didn’t he? I can smell it.”

I winced.

“All of his cum is mine. All his cum, is mine! One way or another, I get it all.” 

Then she pulled my lips to hers and kissed me. 

What the hell?

Her tongue was against my lips. Insistent. She pushed her tongue between my lips and into my mouth. Questing. Seeking. Sucking. She pulled away.

“And your pussy is dripping with his cum too. I can see it dripping out between your legs.” 

Then her hand went inside my bikini bottom, and sure enough, I was drenched. She shoved two fingers inside me. They slid in effortlessly.  

“All this cum?” she said, “All mine.”

Her eyes still boring into mine, Micheline pulled her fingers out of my pussy and shoved them into her mouth. When she pulled her fingers out from between her lips, they were clean. “Mine,” she said again, then she kissed me. We both moaned. 

She moaned with her sense of control, and I moaned because as she kissed me, she pushed her thigh between my legs and ground her leg against my throbbing clit. 

I pulled back and whispered, “Oh, my God!”

“Go and stand by the bed,” she ordered. 

What is happening? I thought. What are you doing? This is not you, I thought. My mind said no, but my body seemed to be on autopilot--she knew what she wanted. 

As instructed, I crossed to the bed.

She came and stood before me. Micheline started by untying the back of my bathing suit. 

“Your husband doesn’t want you, and you feel like a failure,” she said. 

She pulled the sides of the bikini away and the cool air flooded my breasts with a feeling of freedom.

“You wonder what is wrong with you: If any man will ever want you again.”

She pulled the bathing suit top up over my head and threw it on the floor.

“Maybe you feel guilty for fucking my husband without asking--and you should.”

Micheline gave me a wicked smile and untied one side of the bikini bottom. She did it just like her husband had and I shuddered. Then she took off her top.

“Now, since I strongly suspect you’ve never been with another woman, you are probably thinking, What the hell?”

My bottoms dropped to the floor. She took off her shorts and panties, then stepped toward me. When our naked breasts touched, once again I started to tremble. What was I doing? Losing time and passing out on the beach. Fucking someone else's husband. Now, I was about to get in bed with another woman. I had completely lost it. Maybe Victor was right: I really was a nymphomaniac! That thought rocked me. I grabbed Micheline’s arms and pushed her away.

She said, “Do you want me to stop? Really? Because--”

I shushed her and she froze.

I was not a nympho. I was not a total slut. I was just lost, lonely and …

Micheline put her fingers to my lips. “You are  overthinking this, ma cherie.” She pulled my chest against hers and rubbed our boobs together. I shuddered to feel how hard her nipples were for me. I couldn’t think straight. My mind was a whirl. I was about to cry, and about to cry out for release. My legs collapsed and Micheline guided my hips back onto the bed. My mind rebelled, and in the same instant, my resolve fell away. I opened my legs to her. 

Micheline knelt at the side of the bed. She leaned forward and whispered, her lips against my pussy lips: “My cum. Mine. All mine.” Then she stuck her tongue right inside my dripping pussy. She moaned. I moaned. 

She licked and licked my throbbing vagina. “So much cum,” she said. “No wonder he passed out.” Then she pulled me toward her slightly and tipped my hips down. “I’ll bet there is cum on your clit.” She sucked my clit between her soft lips. I shuddered and nearly came right then.

“And what about down here?” she whispered. “Oh, I can see it--a bunch of cum dripped right down onto your asshole.” 

“Don’t,” I mumbled, but she didn’t hear me, or she didn’t care. 

Micheline stuck out her hot tongue and licked my ass. She licked it hard. She licked it like she really, really wanted all that cum and she didn’t care where it was.

I gripped the sheets and gasped with pleasure. This was what I did with my fingers: straight across my asshole; pushing in, but not going in. I shoved my asshole toward her.

“Oh, we like that, do we?” she said. “How about this?” Micheline pulled back, stuck one finger in her mouth to get it wet, then started to push it into my bottom. 

“No!” I said. “Just lick me. Lick my asshole, Micheline. Lick me more.”

“Too much,” she said, “too much too soon. Okay.” She pulled her finger out of my asshole and replaced it with her tongue. 

“Yes,” I said aloud. “Yes!”

Then, with her wet, hot tongue firmly against my asshole, she slid two fingers of one hand inside my vagina. I bucked my hips, doing my best to push my vagina onto her fingers. 

Finally, she found my clit and began working the thumb of her other hand up and down. I had another woman’s tongue on my ass, her fingers in my pussy, and her thumb stroking my clit like a human vibrator. It was too much. Too much. Much too much. 

I threw my head back and forth. With my hands, I ripped the top blanket out from under the mattress. I thrust my asshole, and my pussy, and my clit against her and then I came. I came in a huge roller coaster drop. I came in a huge explosion of pent-up frustration and lust. Shuddering. Legs quaking. Tits jerking. I let go of the bedspread, grabbed Micheline’s head and shoved her tongue into my asshole and screamed! 

A moment. A moment. Frozen. Paralyzed with electricity. A moment. Another. Then I slowly let her go.

Micheline laughed. “Well,” she said, “That’s the hardest I’ve ever made anyone cum. Ever. Wow!”

She crawled up next to me, pulled me to her so I wouldn’t fall off the bed, then wrapped her strong legs around me. 

“That was …” I gasped. “Never once …” I tried to say. 

She put her pussy soaked fingers on my lips again and shushed me. “Just sleep now. Sleep now, my new love. Let it all go.” 

There was only an instant before blessed sleep took me, but in that moment, I realized something. Maybe my mind cleared when the sexual frustration was finally released. Maybe I came back to myself when Micheline made love to every part of me. Whatever the reason, I was myself again, and I knew I was not defective. I was not a nympho. I was a normal woman with a normal woman’s needs. I was young. I was free, or I would be, shortly. Everything would be okay. I would make sure it was.  

.-*-.

It took me several long minutes to realize that my new friend had stopped talking, that we were sitting together by the fire, just the two of us, here in the lounge at the little inn. I stirred. I was stiff from listening so hard to her story. 

“That was …” I started to say. I cleared my throat. My manhood was slowly returning to normal size. My brain started to work again. “Thank you for sharing that.”

She said nothing. She just stared at the fire.

“Whatever happened with you and Victor?” I asked.

She came back to me then, and looked me in the eyes. A wicked gleam showed there. “I told my grandfather about what had happened. Not with Micheline and Edward, of course, but with Victor. We had him evicted from the family chalet. He threatened to sue me, in Italian court, for everything I owned. But we fixed that: I flew to Milan with the paperwork and met him at his lawyer's office. I wore my sexiest dress, a pushup  bra and black fishnet stockings. I told the lawyer that I was looking forward to testifying in open court about how my husband was nearly impotent. Basically, a sexual eunuch. I told them I would be glad to say that he was unable to satisfy me, or anyone else. ‘Maybe we can get some of his past girlfriends to testify too,’ I said. Italian men are so proud. He quickly agreed to have the marriage annulled.”

I laughed. “And what about Micheline and Edward the Viking?”

“It turns out that Micheline, the little minx, had told him to fuck me. That’s why she went out for pastries. We lived together for a year. They introduced me to other people like them--people who liked to play adult games. Everyone warned them I was trouble. They said I was too pretty, and that we were playing with fire. But when their marriage remained strong as ever, I got a reputation: A reputation as a safe woman to take into your bed, to share with your husband, or to enjoy privately on the side.” She smiled proudly. “I played the field with my friends for ten years. All that time, I traveled around Europe, fucklicking my friends and evaluating companies and company managers. I did the groundwork, then my grandfather and I made loans, bought companies, purchased real estate and more. I became the family accountant and investment advisor. We all made a lot of money.”

Then her face changed. It started to glow. “When I was thirty-one, I met a man who would become my husband. He was bisexual, like me. He was strong and secure, like me. He was patient, like me. We had twenty glorious years together. No children. Mostly by choice. But I was a wonderful aunt and supporter for my sister and her children, and my brothers and their children. He died too young at age fifty-one. Now these last twenty years alone. Finally to this--this day that may be one of my last.”

“Oh, I hope not, Miss Bettine. I hope you have many, many more wonderful years. I think the world is a better place with you in it.”