An Interesting Lunch in France

Paris always brings out the wild in us.

Every time Kobus and I return, it's like slipping into another life--one where we're not just a married couple in our fifties, but ageless, desirable, and dangerous. The French seem to understand this hunger for indulgence. Maybe it's the wine, the language, the way they flirt like it's an art form.

We had met Philippe on AdultFriendFinder years ago--charming, experienced, and absolutely delicious. That first night ended in tangled limbs, whispered filth in French, and the kind of orgasms that ruin you for a while. So naturally, when we returned to Paris, we reached out.

Philippe had something new in mind.

"I've been playing with another couple," he said over the phone, voice low and coaxing. "They'd love to meet you. A beautiful woman, very open. The five of us... it could be decadent."

My pulse jumped. Kobus smiled as he listened in on speaker, his hand casually sliding up my inner thigh. "We're in."

But the morning of the meeting, Philippe called with a disappointed tone. "She's out. Drama with her husband. But Ivan and I would still love to see you."

I hesitated. Three men. Just me.

Kobus leaned in and whispered, "You can say no at any time, love. But imagine... three men worshipping you like a goddess."

My thighs clenched.

"I'll come," I murmured. "But I'm not dressing like bait."

I wore a black dress--conservative neckline, but tight around the hips. No bra. Stockings. Just enough to make a statement.

Ivan's apartment was effortlessly sexy: moody lighting, jazz humming from hidden speakers, the scent of garlic and rosemary already filling the air. He greeted us with two kisses on each cheek, and a gaze that undressed me instantly.

"You're even more stunning than Philippe described," he purred, taking my hand. "May I keep you for dessert?"

I laughed. "Let's see if your cooking is any good first."

In the kitchen, wine flowed and touches lingered. Ivan brushed past me, his hand resting a moment too long on my waist. Philippe slipped behind me, whispering in my ear, "I've missed the taste of you."

I was already wet.

Kobus leaned in and murmured, "Take off the stockings."

"Really," I whispered.

"Good," he said, biting his bottom lip.

As Ivan stirred a pot, he leaned close. "I collect memories, you know. Photos of lovers. Moments frozen forever. Would you pose for me, Hilda? Topless... on the bike?"

I shivered. "Tempting. But not today."

"Shame," he said. "You'd look glorious with your nipples catching the morning sun."

I took another sip of wine, throat dry. The air was electric.

At lunch, we sat around a circular table. I was between Philippe and Ivan. Their hands drifted. Ivan's fingers slid under the tablecloth, brushing my bare thigh. Philippe rested his hand on the small of my back, tracing soft circles.

I widened my legs just slightly.

They noticed.

After dessert, Ivan dimmed the lights. A smoky playlist took over the room. He held out a hand.

"Dance with me, belle."

The first dance was gentle, hands at my waist. But by the second, his hands cupped my ass, pulling me close. I could feel his cock pressing against my stomach--hard, thick. His breath was hot on my neck.

Philippe joined us, standing behind me. Now I was pressed between two cocks, two sets of hands. My body lit up.

They started undressing me slowly, deliberately. My dress slipped from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. I stood in nothing but lace panties, breathless, nipples tight and aching.

Philippe's voice rasped against my ear. "You're going to let us devour you, aren't you?"

I whimpered, "Yes..."

Ivan knelt in front of me and slid my panties down, kissing my thighs as he did. My legs were trembling.

Kobus sat back, watching, stroking himself. "Look at my wife," he said, voice thick. "Look how ready she is."

Ivan leaned forward and licked me--slow, deliberate, tongue parting me with expert precision. I cried out. Philippe held me steady, cupping my breasts, pinching my nipples as Ivan feasted.

When I came, it ripped through me--sharp, sudden, intense.

Then Philippe dropped to his knees and took Ivan's place, his style rougher, faster. Ivan kissed me as Philippe made me come again, my cries muffled in his mouth.

They carried me to the bed--soft sheets, dim lights, music thudding slow and deep. Philippe kissed his way down my body as Ivan opened a bottle of lube and began fingering me, spreading me wide.

And then--God--Ivan slid into me.

Thick. Deep. He pushed in with a slow, teasing rhythm, every thrust hitting the perfect spot. He whispered filthy things in French I couldn't fully understand--but didn't need to.

Philippe kissed me as I moaned into his mouth. "How many times can you come tonight, ma belle?" he whispered.

"More," I gasped. "Please... more."

They took turns--Ivan inside me, then Philippe, then Kobus joining in, all three taking me in every position, every angle, pushing me to the very edge.

At one point, I was on all fours, Philippe inside me, Kobus in my mouth, and Ivan playing with my clit.

It was raw. Primal. Beautiful.

When the men finally came--one after the other, with loud groans and trembling bodies--I collapsed between them, soaked, used, worshipped.

We lay tangled together, drinking wine, laughing, touching. No rush. No guilt. Just pleasure.

As we left, my legs could barely hold me up. Kobus held my hand, whispering, "You were magnificent."

I smiled. "I still can't feel my thighs."

We never saw Philippe or Ivan again. But every time I close my eyes, I can still feel their hands... their mouths... their heat.

And Paris? Paris will always be ours.

From Kobus's Perspective

France has always brought out something wicked in us.

Paris, especially. There's something about the city's sensual undercurrent--how everything from food to language is touched by pleasure--that makes Hilda and I more daring, more willing to give in to our shared hunger.

We've played all over the world, but in Paris? We become our wildest selves.

This time, we reached out to an old friend--Philippe. We'd met him years ago through AFF. The man oozes charm and sexual confidence. Our first night with him ended with Hilda moaning into a pillow, legs shaking, my cock buried in her mouth as Philippe took her from behind.

She loved every second of it. So did I.

So when Philippe suggested we meet again, I was already half-hard.

But then he added a twist.

"There's another couple I've been seeing. She's exquisite. They'd love to meet you both. Imagine... five bodies... one afternoon."

I looked at Hilda. Her eyes lit up, then narrowed slightly. She's not shy, but she likes to choose the moment. After a long pause, she nodded. "Let's meet them."

But that morning, Philippe called back. "She had to cancel. Some drama. But Ivan and I would still love to host you two. Lunch. Good wine. Maybe... more?"

Hilda hesitated.

"Three men and just me?" she said, giving me that look. "That's a setup, Kobus."

"Only if you want it to be," I told her, my hand sliding between her thighs. "If not, we eat, we leave. But if the vibe's right..."

She bit her lip. "Fine. But I'm dressing down."

That was her version of modesty--a black dress with no bra, her nipples already stiff beneath the fabric, and stockings. She didn't say it out loud, but I knew she was curious. Already imagining three hard cocks and all the ways they might worship her.

And I wanted to watch it all.

Ivan's apartment was exactly what I'd expect from a French seducer--open, stylish, delicious smells coming from the kitchen, low jazz humming through hidden speakers.

And Ivan? Silver-haired, lean, and flirtatious in a way that was both charming and hungry. His eyes clung to Hilda's curves like he was already unwrapping her.

"You must be Hilda," he said, lifting her hand to his lips. "Philippe undersold you."

She blushed. I knew that blush--it meant she was already wet.

Over wine, we talked about food, travel, and inevitably--sex. Ivan showed us a few photos of past lovers. One was a topless woman straddling his motorbike.

"You'd look even better on it," he said to Hilda, voice low. "Naked. Wind in your hair. Thighs gripping the seat."

She gave a polite laugh, but I caught the flicker in her eye. That fantasy landed hard.

While he cooked, we moved through the kitchen like a slow dance. Philippe brushed Hilda's back. Ivan trailed a hand along her thigh. Every touch made her more electric. She started shifting her hips when she walked, subtly inviting more.

She disappeared to the bathroom and returned with the dress riding slightly higher, stockings gone. Her long, bare legs gleamed in the kitchen light. I was already rock hard.

"Mon dieu," Ivan muttered. "Bare legs? You're trying to kill me."

Hilda smirked and took another sip of wine.

At lunch, she sat between the two men. Their hands were beneath the tablecloth, brushing her thighs, stroking her waist. I watched her lips part slightly as they touched her. Her eyes flicked to mine.

She was giving in.

After dessert, Ivan dimmed the lights and turned on soft music--seduction jazz. He held out his hand.

"Dance with me?"

She rose like she was floating, already entranced. Their bodies moved slowly together, too close for innocence. His hands slid from her back to her hips. He whispered something in French that made her giggle--and then gasp.

Philippe joined them. Now she was sandwiched. I watched four hands moving over her back, her sides, cupping her ass. Her head tilted back. Her mouth opened.

They started undressing her right there in front of me.

First, her dress slipped down. Then her bra. Her panties followed.

She stood there, gloriously nude, flushed and aroused. Ivan's hands were on her hips. Philippe's mouth kissed down her neck. She looked back at me.

"Do you want me like this?" she whispered.

I grinned. "I want to watch you like this."

Philippe dropped to his knees first, spreading her thighs. Ivan held her steady, whispering to her as Philippe devoured her. She cried out, hand gripping Ivan's shoulder as her first orgasm rolled through her.

Then Ivan took his turn, slower, more deliberate. I watched Hilda melt, watched her body tremble. My cock throbbed at the sight. My beautiful wife--being taken, being adored.

We moved to the playroom--a dark, moody space with soft lights and a wide bed.

Ivan climbed onto the bed, pulled her beneath him, and pushed inside. She gasped loud. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper.

Philippe kissed her mouth, then her breasts. I stroked her hair as she took Ivan's cock with greedy moans.

They switched. Philippe now inside her, faster, rougher. She cried out again--this time looking right at me.

"God, Kobus..."

"You're doing beautifully, love. Let them take you."

She was on her knees now. Ivan behind her. Philippe in her mouth. Her ass bouncing, mouth full, moaning around a cock while her pussy was pounded from behind.

She came again. Then again.

By the time I joined them, she was slick and wild. I slid inside her with one long thrust and felt everything. Wet, hot, stretched and desperate. I took her slow, savoring every moan.

Then the three of us surrounded her. Hands everywhere. Kisses. Tongues. Cocks.

When we finally came--one by one--it was primal. Guttural. I spilled across her stomach. Ivan across her chest. Philippe on her thigh. We all collapsed, sticky, grinning, high from it all.

Later, we drank wine. Naked. Satisfied.

As I helped her down the stairs, she wobbled, shoes in hand.

"I can't feel my legs," she laughed.

"I warned you," I said, kissing her shoulder. "Three men. One goddess. Paris may never recover."

We never saw Philippe or Ivan again.

But I'll never forget the way she looked--naked, flushed, dripping, begging for more.

Watching her surrender to pleasure was the most erotic thing I've ever seen.

And I'd watch it all again in a heartbeat.