A Younger Man's Gaze

She wakes up and checks the clock on her phone to see that it is still only 9.30am... far too early, given that it was after 4am when they finally called it a night. Lying in bed, thinking about the night before, her mind turns back to the bar and she finds herself replaying time and again the sections where the male gaze was unmistakably on her. Those guys were so brazen, just straightforwardly trying their luck. In part, she thought that she just happened to be the one they turned their attention on that night, hoping for an easy lay from an older woman. But, another part of her thought, actually no, I keep myself in good shape - it was specifically me they were interested in. After nearly 20 years of marriage, it felt good to be looked at just as a sexual being. No baggage, not mum or wife or dutiful daughter.

There is always something about being hungover - maybe that you are not quite yourself - that makes her feel horny and, as she replays the flirtations, she slips her hand down into her underwear and feels, to her surprise, that she is really wet. Like, as in those moments before you are just about to fuck someone you really fancy for the first time wet. She thinks about him in particular - he can't have been more than 30 and he was in such good shape. She thinks about what might have happened if she had gone back to his, as he had asked. The feeling of his hands on her. To have him in her. As she slides 2 fingers easily inside herself, she feels like she might cum straight away.

But then an uninvited and sudden jolt of guilt ruins everything. Of course she has fantasised about having sex with friends and colleagues before, sometimes when having sex with her husband. But that somehow always felt more abstract - based on nothing more than her imagination. This felt different, more concrete. A fantasy based on something like a reality. Frustratingly, the moment was lost. She grabbed her phone and messaged her husband: "miss you. can't wait to see you later. x". Nothing had actually happened, save in her head. She had nothing to feel guilty about, she told herself.

It was a long hour on the train home. She found her mind flip-flopping between daydreams of him and what he might have done to her and feelings of guilt. By the time she got off the train, she could feel her underwear was wet through.

As she opened the front door, her heart beat faster in her chest. Her husband met her in the kitchen and hugged her. As he did so, she noticed, for the first time in ages, the size difference between them... his broad shoulders and toned arms engulfing her slight frame. She wanted him to fuck her then and there. Not the usual slow and careful sex, with years of familiarity leading to a swift but ultimately hollow orgasm. She wanted some urgency. Something more animalistic. Not quite having the words or the confidence to ask for this, she opted for "Why don't you come upstairs while I unpack and I can tell you about last night?"

Dutifully, he followed her and laid on the bed whilst she recounted an edited version of the night... her old friend's troubles with her own marriage, how she needed cheering up, so that they went dancing in Soho. This was the bit which was more delicate. Does she mention the attention from younger men? Their directness about what they were looking for, even when she had told the first few she was married? She would definitely not mention him - not mention that he had asked her back to his, not mention that she had thought briefly of going, and definitely not mention that she had given him her number. Equally, she did not want to be outright dishonest, so she settled on "I even got chatted up by some younger men".

Surprisingly, her husband didn't seem to be upset or surprised. He said "well, you are fucking fit". And, as he said it, he beckoned her to him on the bed. As she climbed astride him she could feel that he was already hard and was slightly shocked as he grabbed her bum and pulled her tight against him. She had always told him that she preferred sex to be slow and gentle. That was not always true, but it felt like the demure thing to say. She wasn't going to mess around today, quickly taking her own tracksuit bottoms and underwear off. She noticed the wetness of her underwear and felt a slight pang of nervousness as a glistening strand of her juice attached itself first to the underwear and then to her leg. Would he notice how wet she was already? Would he wonder why? It is certainly not how things usually played out. She ground herself up against his jeans and, for the second time that day thought she might cum straight away.

But, this time, she decided, she needed to cum with a cock inside her. She undid his jeans and, as ever, clumsily took them off along with his boxers (why was that bit never as slick as it seems on screen?)

She rolled over onto her back and pulled him on top of her. Again, she wondered if he might notice quite how easily he slipped in? As his cock penetrated her fully, she closed her eyes and thought also of him. How would he fuck her? Harder, she expected. Her husband seemed to intuit this. He pushed her knees up towards her chest and laid his chest on her shins and started to thrust hard. Where normally she might push her knees down again, maybe kiss him to slow things down, this time she kept her eyes closed and reached around with her hands to grab his bum. She squeezed and, with her arms pulled back and forth hard, ensuring he got the message that this was how she wanted it. "Use me", is what she wanted to say but didn't. As she thought about him and his muscular body slamming hard into hers, her orgasm came quick and hard and satisfying. The bed was now banging audibly against the wall as her husband came deep inside her.

As they lay quietly, side by side, utterly spent, she quickly looked down and saw, with some degree of pride, a proper wet patch on the bed.