This is my story. I have changed names, places, and some descriptions to protect those in my story. I am not sure if I am proud of this, but I know I am not ashamed of what transpired; maybe I should be, but I am not.

My name is Judith, and when this took place, I was 50 and in the 26th year of my marriage. To understand my story, you need to know a bit about me. I love my sweet husband. He is my person, the man I choose every day, but even though I love him, I never lusted for him. After 26 years, we still love each other. I think he is aging like fine wine, but when I look at him, I feel nothing—no spark, and it's always been like that.

I don't think I am a sexual person, really. I mean, sometimes if the moon is just right and all the stars align, I can be aroused, but I am pretty sure I can count on one hand the number of times I sought my sweet Dale out for sex. My lack of sexual desire weighed on me like an anchor, always there, never really going away. I have blamed my upbringing, my early religion. I have blamed Dale for just being bad at sex. I went through a lot of mess and caused myself a lot of pain. I say all of this not to get sympathy, but to provide context for what happens.

It was the fall of 2023, and Dale's lifelong friend Mark was going through a divorce. This was Mark's first weekend in 20 years of marriage without his wife at home. So on this Friday night Dale packed a bag and a case of beer. He and Mark were going to watch the Raiders beat the Patriots, drink too much beer, and fall asleep. This was okay with me; my week had been incredibly stressful. The young women in my office started making comments about my age this week, and my male boss pushed me to take on more responsibility, but I didn't want it. I was 50. These were supposed to be my winding-down years.

So instead of a night out with the girlfriends, I arranged an evening just for me. A long, warm bath in oils and an at-home massage from my regular spa. I had never splurged on Cynthia to come over before, so this was a first, and I was looking forward to going from the massage table to the bed.

Dale left around six that Friday. I can still remember what he was wearing: a number 59 Raiders jersey and jeans, and I thought, how the hell can he look good in that? Men, I spend an hour getting ready to look as effortless as he does in a 2XL jersey. With a quick peck on the lips, Dale drove off into the night.

An hour later, I was still in the tub reading and sipping on wine. Glancing down at my phone, I noticed Cynthia would be arriving soon, so I got out and went to the shower to shave. I am not sure why I did just that; I felt I had to. Later, I would be so glad I did.

Shaved and dry, wearing only my terry cloth bathrobe, I answered the door when it rang, fully expecting to see my regular masseuse, Cynthia. But instead a six-foot black man stood there; his face and athletic build made him look like a Nubian statue carved from black marble. It took me a moment to realize he was holding a massage table in one hand and a bag in the other. He introduced himself as Frank and told me Cynthia should have texted ahead to let me know he was coming, not her, and if she got no reply, she assumed I was okay with it. When I checked my phone, I found the unread message. I must admit, dear reader, I wasn't tempted to send him away; in that moment, I wanted him there. I have no idea where those feelings came from — maybe the wine, maybe it was just the right moment in time and space.

I showed him to the spare room. He said he needed a few minutes to set up and would be ready. I thought it would be only a few minutes, but it felt like an hour before he invited me back in to lie on the table as he stepped out. My heart pounding and hands shaking, I disrobed and got on the table, covering myself in the provided sheet. I called him back into the room; there he was, tall, barefoot, bare-chested in linen trousers. I am not sure why I didn't immediately think he had a plan for me when he came bare-chested, but all I could see was those abs and sculpted chest. My thoughts in that moment were of curiosity. I wanted to know what abs felt like when you ran your hand down them. Did they feel hard, like rubbing your hands down a washboard, bouncing up and down, finding the dips and hills?

Stepping up to the table, he folded the sheet down to my hips and began to rub my back. He worked slowly, moving down my body to my feet, calves, and thighs. I felt so relaxed and so aroused by thoughts of him. I admit I let myself imagine what his cock looked like, how it would feel in my mouth. You have to remember, I cannot recall having thoughts like this in my entire life, but here they were, unbidden, without my prompting.

His hands were good. Better than Cynthia's. Thumbs in the knot at the base of my neck, palms down my spine. I thought about Dale's peck on the lips. I thought about how long it had been since anyone put real weight into touching me. Then he moved to stand at my head, and the linen was right in front of my face.

His strong hands settled on my shoulders. I closed my eyes, my hands resting on the platform all massage tables have. I was in massage heaven when I opened my eyes, for that is when I saw it. As he leaned over me, his hips pressed into the headrest, and there it was. It looked as thick as my arm in its outline. I didn't resist the intrusive thought, so I pretended to stretch, letting the back of my hand brush against it; it was granite. My heart was in my throat as I waited for some response, but nothing happened.

I still don't know why, but his lack of response gave me courage, so I did it again, slowly letting my palm feel its outline and stiffness. This time I heard a little moan, and his hips moved closer, while his hands slid down to cup my cheeks. For a second, I was lost in the pleasure of his hands needing my bare ass, as my hands caressed the weight of him. I was so wet now my pulse was in my ears. Without a word, he turned me over, exposing my breasts and thoroughly soaked sex. I raised an eyebrow, and he dropped his pants, revealing what he had been commanding this whole time. Before me was the largest cock I have ever seen in real life; it looked like something out of a porn I used to watch to get off.

His head dipped down and kissed the top of my breasts, as his broad hand slid up my thigh, and my legs spread on their own. My eyes rolled back as he massaged between my legs, two thick fingers on either side of my opening. I had never felt anything like it. Shots of pleasure climbed up my body and pooled between my thighs.

Lost in the moment, a memory came in flashes. My hand sliding down Dale's pants while he drove, the feeling of want in my loins. A surge of euphoria brought me back. There I lay, head back, arm out, hand cupping and stroking another man. I felt alive, unbound by life, awash in pleasure, the feeling of a strong, firm prick under my hands, soft lips moving down, kissing my nipples, his thumb turning slow, firm circles on my mons.

Turning my head, I saw it there, almost at my lips. In that moment, I knew I wanted to taste his chocolate. I needed to feel it in my mouth. As my lips came into contact, his deep bass moan caused my sex to clench and pulse. The hard, warm, pleasant taste of him filled my mouth. His hands were now stroking my body as he stood, letting me take him in my mouth.
Standing back, he said, "I think we should move before this table folds," an impish smile playing on his full, kissable lips.

Hand out, he helped me up from the table; his arms wrapped around me, hands fondling me. Gripping his cock, I led us out to the living room. I could feel his eyes on my ass, the pulsing in my hand as his body responded to my movement.

Kneeling on the carpet, I looked up, and he knew what I wanted, and he moved to me. I opened my mouth and took him further than I had ever taken a man. It was so big I feared I would choke, but I didn't. I felt it slide to the back of my throat, touching it, and I could take all of it with no discomfort. I was so wet at this point; one hand down between my thighs, the other moving his hands to rest on my head to guide me, he understood.

With his moans, my pride mingled to bring me to the edge of orgasm. My hand sliding down, fingers slick. Just before I came, he pulled back, hand on the base of my neck; he lifted me to my feet. His strength and command aroused me in a way I have never felt, only fantasized about.

On my knees, a condom appeared in front of my face. Opening it, I roll it on slowly, enjoying the novelty of the experience. His cock stretches it dangerously. Leaning in, I kiss the base of that beautiful thing, breathing in his masculine scent.

No words exchanged, just a look, and I turned, bending over the couch, presenting myself for his use. Instead of fucking, I heard him drop to his knees, hands spreading my cheeks and licking my velvet. His tongue pulled a fuck from my lips. The sensation brought a flash, and I was in college in the back of a car, feet up and a man between my legs, me moaning in pleasure, telling him to devour my pussy.

A new sensation snapped me back. His lips and tongue touched my bud. It alerted me, but a second lick sent pleasure shooting up my spine, and I pushed myself into him, demanding more. A thumb slid into my slick folds, stroking my spot; my knees began to shake. I breathed, trying to stay here in the moment when the orgasm took me over, my first in months, the sounds that came from my lips profane, laced with ecstasy. Before I could collapse, strong hands gripped my hips, holding me up.

He was without mercy as I felt him enter me, filling me, stretching my soaking sex, touching every inch with his glorious manhood. I blacked out for a second, the pleasure overwhelming, as he slid in and out. I begged him to stop and move me to the bed. A hand slid up my spine, entangling in my hair; it gripped me, and he lifted me to my feet. With a delighted smile, I complied. Walking us to the room, his hand smacked my ass, sending sweet little stings through me.

That night he used me, and I loved it. At some point, I lost track of things. He was insatiable, devouring me, using me, worshipping my body. His lips on my body sent fire through my veins. At some point around 2 am I have a clear memory, cradled in haze, of that beautiful point where relaxation meets erotic pleasure. As I lay there drifting in that sea, something in me snapped, and a hunger clawed its way to the surface.

Setting the pace, I moved up and down, loving the sensation of how full I felt with that cock hitting all my spots. As I rode him, he placed both hands on my hips, grasping me. Taking one hand, I wrapped his around my wrist and placed my hands behind my back. He took the other and, in one hand, held my wrists there as he began to take it. Leaning forward, he followed me over until I was face down, ass up on the bed, arms pinned behind my back as he worked my pussy. The words came unbidden to my lips. "Smack my ass and fuck me." He complied without a word.

The sound of flesh on flesh, the warmth spreading, the sting bringing bright contrast to the feeling of pleasure was too much, and I came in a profanity-laced moaning cry. I felt him pull out. The emptiness was sudden. I heard the latex snap off, and for a second the fear shot through me. He was going to fuck me without it, and I went still. Then hot cum landed across my ass, thick and warm, pulse after pulse, and the relief and the heat together pulled a little orgasm out of me. Smaller, just a clench and a shiver with my face still in the pillow, used, empty and full at the same time.

He moved off the bed. I lay there on my stomach recovering, dimly aware of the sound of clothes being put on, then a smack, sharp and bright, on my left ass cheek, then the sound of the door closing. I drifted off, my body feeling so relaxed, my mind quiet for the first time in a long while.

Climbing out of bed, a smile on my face, I walked naked into the kitchen, unashamed of the flaking cum, or my nakedness. I was just living in the moment. After a deep drink of water, I started stripping the bed, did the laundry, and straightened the house, in my nakedness, unashamed of my body.

Later, as the warm water cleaned the scent of a strange man off me, the events of the night hit me. First it was fear, shame, then guilt, then a voice screaming, NO, find that moment; don't lose it this time.

Then the memory of my dream, only it was no dream at all but a forgotten stretch of real nights. I stood under the shower and looked back at the flashes. I remembered the heat of me wanting and taking, and I examined each one as the warm water sluiced down my body. Why in the heat of the moment had those memories felt alive and almost beautiful, but now they turned shameful and dirty in my hands and made them shake.

Were these my memories or my traumas? Was I a willing participant? Looking past the fear and the shame, I saw another version. There she was, a smile on her face, a burning sexual desire. The woman in the memories unabashedly used her sexual power without any inhibition. She was glorious.

I saw then what happened. With the rising sun, guilt and shame arrived and rewrote my story. I explained my want and power away. It was the drink, or I was trying to please. I made certain the hunger never belonged to me, never my wants, never my desire. The 'reasons' became bricks I hid the memories behind so I would never have to face my desire, my lust. Good girls never want.

But the whole careful structure fell apart the moment I thought of Dale. It was me. All me. Gloriously me. I was a sexual woman, and for fifty years I had bricked her away, feared her, hated her, and been ashamed of the woman who wanted and took. I could see it clearly now. I had become my own traumatizer, my own abuser. My shame cycle had trapped me and turned my own mind into the villain of my story.

Standing in the kitchen in nothing but a bathrobe, I waited for Dale. When he came in, he could see something different in me. I told him everything:g no tears, no begging for forgiveness, no asking for a second chance, just the plain information. I knew things were over for us. I had ruined it, and it would hurt, but maybe I could become a whole woman now. At the end of my story, fear finally gripped my heart like an icy fist as I looked into Dale's eyes. I did not see anger. I saw something closer to pity mixed with love.

He looked at me with wet eyes. "My love, I am so happy you found the rest of you," he said, and he kissed me right there in that moment. I wept because I had found myself, and we were not broken.

No, I did not become sex obsessed. But I no longer fear my sex, my want. I don't fear the intrusive thoughts anymore; I follow them more now, and I am happier than ever.