Ours is a second marriage for both my husband, John, and me. His first began when his 21-year-old girlfriend informed him she was pregnant. He was seventeen at the time. Their very Catholic parents decided they should marry.

Thirteen years and two children later, John decided enough was enough and left New England for the West Coast to relive his adolescence.

My first was more conventional; I was 24, and graduated from college. When the marriage got into trouble, I took a job at the same company as John. Within months, we were a couple and living together. I am ten years younger than John, hence a mere eight years older than his oldest son, Glenn, and his contemporaries.

Thirty years later, we are retired in Arizona. For the last several summers, we have returned to Massachusetts to escape the desert heat, staying with Glenn.

This summer, while we were there, Glenn heard from an old school chum who wanted him to help organize their 40th High School Reunion. The friend resides in Savanna, Ga., but spends two weeks each summer at Old Orchard Beach, Maine, a mere 40 miles from Glenn's house.

They agreed to meet for dinner the following Sunday at a restaurant midway between the beach and home. Glenn included his girlfriend, Cathy, and us at the dinner.

Peter, the friend, turned out to be a tall, attractive single guy who entertained us with stories of his extensive travels. He is a freelance writer who can do his work anywhere, hence he has been everywhere. He and Glenn reminisced about their teenage antics in Theater Group.

When he said that he often goes to Tucson for winter golf, John’s interest piqued, and they exchanged contact information.

Peter flirted a bit with me and Glenn’s girlfriend, but nothing out of order for a bachelor raconteur. We were all charmed by him. At the end of dinner, he invited us all to the beach the next day, his last before moving on. Glenn and his girl had to work, but John enthusiastically accepted for us.

I had heard about Old Orchard before. For a hundred years, it has been a major vacation destination for Canadians from the Maritime Provinces. It is the northernmost white sand beach on the East Coast, and in Summer, it is packed with bikini-clad Canadian women. I wanted to see it.

When we got home that night, John learned that he had an invitation to play golf the next day, one that he would not pass up. When he saw my disappointment, he encouraged me to go to the beach without him, explaining that the drive is a short one on a freeway the entire way.

My GPS brought me directly to Peter’s unit, and I parked behind his car. I arrived at 9 am, and after explaining John’s absence and that I had no trouble finding his place, he showed me around his tiny apartment. It only took a minute.

The place was exquisite and neat, as only a lifelong bachelor would keep it. For a moment, I wondered if he was gay.

“I rent the same unit every year; I’ll reserve it for next Summer before I leave tomorrow.” He hefted a large beach bag.

“Well, I’m all set for the beach,” he told me then. “I have everything ready. Do you need to change into your bathing suit? It’s best to leave your valuables here.”

I accepted the offer and changed in his bedroom, leaving my street clothes on his bed. I sent a quick text to John, telling him that I had arrived OK. A moment later, my phone dinged with a smiley face emoji.

When Peter saw that I had no hat, he dug around and found a big floppy one for me, no doubt left by a paramour.

After a short walk, we stepped onto a seemingly endless white sand expanse, nearly covered by humanity on blankets. It was beautiful, as were many of the people on it.

Peter led me to a blanket that was already spread out. On the way, I heard a lot of French spoken and noted that several women were topless. “Do you speak French, Peter?” I asked him.

“Un petit peu,” he replied, “but all Canadians speak flawless English, and women from Montreal and Quebec are very cosmopolitan. If you take your top off, apply lots of sunblock, that’s a rookie mistake many women make.”

“There appear to be lots of single women here for your delectation,” I said, looking around.

“Not only single ones. Many husbands bring their families but have to go back home for work. It can be a free-for-all at times here. I suspect many have mistresses back home. I actually prefer wives, particularly older ones; fewer complications.”

I would not be removing my bikini top today. We walked down to the water, which was very cold, then along the shore for a while. When we returned to the blanket, Peter poured a cold drink that was clearly alcoholic, then removed his shorts to reveal a Speedo-covered bulge that drew looks from nearby women.

We were enjoying the sun and surf while sipping the fruity, but potent drink that he had concocted. While we baked, he told me about his hobby of writing erotic stories for a website called Lush.

It seems that the main subject in the genre involves men who wish to see their wives have sex with another man. After hearing some of the stories, I slipped up and mentioned John’s Erectile Dysfunction. I never tell anyone about that; he values his privacy.

Peter only commented that some couples try using cuckoldry as a remedy for marital issues, with limited success. By noontime, I was a bit tipsy and needed a break from the sun. We went back to Peter’s apartment, where he had lunch makings.

“Why don’t you take a little rest while I put lunch together?” he suggested. “Better yet, take a shower.” That sounded heavenly to me.

I had just rinsed the soap from my hair when the shower door opened, and there stood Peter, buck naked, sporting an impressive erection. He quickly stepped in and closed the door.

I was so surprised that I didn’t even try to cover myself; I just stood there staring at his cock. I had not seen a hard cock in years, and the sight caused blood to rush to my head, then my nipples; my pussy fluttered.

He stepped forward, placing a finger under my chin and, tilting my face up, kissed me. “You are beautiful; I’ve been wanting to do that since last night,” he said.

Then he kissed me again, his tongue insinuating itself into my mouth. His hard cock lay against my belly, throbbing and hotter than the water that washed over us. My knees went wobbly, and I felt my vagina moistening.

I swear, I involuntarily put my arms around him and returned his kiss. The first adult mouth, other than John’s, I have kissed in many years. When he kissed and licked my nipples, I almost fell to the floor. My brain was mush.

He slumped towards the floor, kissing my abdomen, and pressed his face into my pubic area. He commenced to lick my pussy with water sluicing over his face. It was surreal. He looked up and said, “I have to fuck this beautiful pussy.”

I pulled him back up. “Not here,” I whispered. We kissed again.

He turned the water off, reached for a large towel, and began to dry me, starting with my face and hair, then working his way down to my toes. I spread my feet apart to facilitate towelling, and got a quick lick of my pussy as a bonus.

I grabbed a towel and dried part of him before he took my hand and led me to the bedroom. My street clothes were quickly moved out of the way, and with another thrilling kiss, he sat me on the bed. My god, am I going to cheat on John with this man?

I was on autopilot by this time; he could do anything to me that he fancied. He spread my knees apart and kissed his way up my thighs until his lips touched my pussy, the place John’s had been only hours before.

Somehow, though, this felt entirely different, more thrilling. I was trembling as I anxiously waited for him to reach my clit with his tongue. When he did, I exploded.

“Oh, Peter!” I gasped as I came. He stopped licking for a moment to let me recover, and then resumed his assault.

I would not have been able to walk away if I wanted to, not that it occurred to me. My legs were jelly. I laced my fingers into his hair and encouraged him further. I am committing adultery, and I love it.

Soon, I couldn’t take any more oral stimulation, so I pulled him up until I could kiss and lick his mouth, tasting my womanhood. His throbbing cock pressed into my abdomen, oozing precum; I love the taste of precum.

It was my turn now. I rolled him over onto his back and kissed my way from his mouth to his pubic patch, burying my nose in his hair and breathing in the sweaty musk of his masculinity.

I worked my way around his hard cock to lick his balls, glad that he had not washed the beach from them. When my tongue neared his taint, he shivered and groaned, telling me, “Oh, don’t stop!” I had no intention of stopping.

I held his cock, admiring the big purple head, much larger than its barrel, wondering if my out-of-practice pussy could take it. I sure meant to find out, but first I tried to slip my lips over it. That caused his hips to rise off the bed, and suddenly, I had a mouthful. Oh god, how I have missed that feeling.

“You’re going to make me cum,” he warned as I pumped his shaft.

I stopped and asked, “Do you have more than one in you?” He nodded, so I proceeded, getting a full load to swallow. I kissed him with my cummy mouth and lay in his arms while he recovered.

“You are very naughty, seducing your friend’s stepmother. I have never cheated on my husband.” I couldn’t say his name to the man I knew was going to fuck me.

“You really haven’t yet. Do you want to stop here?” His arm squeezed me tighter. I only had to think for a moment.

“No, you can’t stop now. My pussy is hungry for your very experienced cock to stuff me full, first with cock, then with cum.”

I could feel his erection growing again, and my legs were regaining their strength. I rolled on top of him and guided his monster to my pussy lips. By the time I had crammed his glans between my labia, I was cumming, and I never stopped until he was entirely lodged in me and held there steady.

I alternated between asking him to be gentle and begging him to fuck the hell out of me.

I leaned over and we kissed more, then his hands found the cheeks of my ass and began raising and lowering me. The orgasms started again, leaving me too limp to assist. I was a rag doll moaning and, oddly enough, I started crying.

He stopped again, thinking that he was hurting me. “Should I stop?” he asked.

“Don’t you dare! You keep fucking me until you fill me with your cum. I haven’t had a hard cock in years, and never one as beautiful as yours. Now keep going.”

Well, he didn’t have to be asked twice. He rolled us over into the missionary position and began slow, deep strokes, to the music of my gasps and groans.

He gradually sped up his motion until, with a yell, he emptied himself in me. Then he collapsed on me for a few moments, panting into my neck.

I thought, Was sex ever this good before? Did either of my husbands drive me nearly into a coma with their cocks? What have I missed all these years?

We lay together in a sweaty pile for a long time, basking in the afterglow of an earth-shattering experience, at least for me.

“My god, you are amazing. How can your husband not get hard every time he looks at you?” The mention of John brought me up short.

How can I lie here under this man, with his cock still in me as it goes soft, knowing how it would hurt my dear husband to learn what I have done? Should I add insult to injury by keeping it a secret?

Sensing my unease, Peter said, “Let’s have that lunch now.”

“I really should go. May I use your shower again?” He nodded his approval.

I took a long, hot shower, imagining somehow that I could wash the guilt from myself, but my brain kept replaying the last hour, making me smile to myself.

After towelling off, I padded barefoot out of the bedroom. There he was, naked, humming to himself as he prepared a cold lunch and poured red wine.

His flaccid cock swayed as he moved. It was surprisingly long, even in repose, and its head was now cute, pink, and tempting. I stood and watched for a few moments, then went to the table.

His open phone was sitting there with a text thread on the screen:

Peter: Hi John, Phoebe is enjoying herself, but I may have over-served her. I think she shouldn’t drive for a while.

John: Definitely not, especially if it’s after dark. Go for it.

I couldn’t suppress my smile.