As a happily married guy, with a wife who is amazing in every respect, I find it sad looking around at the number of women who once they hit their forties, just let themselves go. Of course, retaining your looks is part genetics, but it is also what you eat, and how you exercise. Stick with pizza, do your workouts on the sofa, bicep curling non-diet sodas to your mouth, and, male or female, you will soon cease to be an object of desire.
My wife and I both work out, running and at the gym, and while we can enjoy the odd blow out when we will eat more than is good for anyone, most of the time we stay with a sensible, balanced food intake. At a little over fifty, which I am, and just below, which she is, we still pass for a couple not yet forty.
The proof, as they say, is in the pudding. My wife gets hit on at the supermarket by guys no more than thirty. But then, she would. She has a great figure, slender, with wonderful breasts, long, curling black hair, and a face that would certainly sink a few hundred ships, if not the full thousand. But this is not about my wife. It is about another wife, also around fifty, who I got to enjoy when I was in my early twenties.
I was working as a pool guard in the south of France. It was a Hilton, and the pool was open air, and open all day long and into the warm, balmy night. Guests paid for the right to soak up the sun's rays and cool off in the water, or enjoy an evening swim, whenever the mood took them. The pool closed at eleven, and opened again at six each morning. When it was open, it was attended by a pool guard without fail, just in case of accidents.
There were three of us, and we worked shifts. The other two were Tino, an Italian, and Marisse, a French girl, all of us in our early twenties. The shifts moved around, but a basic principle was that if you worked the first shift, you were done by two, evening you would not start til four, and the mid-afternoon shift, because it was so short, meant you also took over when the other guys needed to take a break.
Being pool guard meant you got to sit and watch from a ten foot high guard seat, or to walk around and check out anyone and everyone one you wanted to. You also got to get a pretty amazing tan, and since we were all pretty fit, all three of us found ourselves being checked out by the guests. Obviously the male guests checked out Marisse, with a few who were that way inclined checking out Tino and myself. But it is not just guys who like to look at a well toned body, or who wonder what it would be like to get to know that body intimately. Tino and I found ourselves checked out by female guests, as, in fairness, so did Marisse.
We checked out each other too. At that age, hormones control your head and cock. We did more than check each other out. Both Tino and I got to fuck Marisse, who was slim, nice breasts, olive complexion that turned nut brown over the summer months while we were there, jet black hair, except on her mons which she kept smooth and free, even of stubble, and which she liked to share, not just with the two of us, but with other staff as well.
Fraternising with the guests, of course, was strictly against hotel rules, but that is not to say it did not happen. It was while working at the Hilton that I learned that women of a certain age can be more enjoyable to fuck than girls in their twenties, who are still practicing their technique.
Mrs Shrewsbury was a prime example of this principle. She was English, holidaying with her husband. He was in his sixties. She was fifty something. They both enjoyed the sun, and they both clearly took pretty good care of their bodies. He mostly wore standard issue black or dark blue swimming shorts, and still had reasonably muscular chest and arms, even if his chest was covered with silver hair, and his head had none at all.
Mrs Shrewsbury wore bikinis, the kind few women of her age can get away with, that had nothing more than triangles of fabric where they were needed, and string ties to hold the fabric right where it should stay. She had a white bikini, one in black, and one in red, all cut identically as if they had been bought together, same make, style and size, but just in different colours. It meant, as I was soon to learn, that her tan lines were consistent. Her breasts, mons and butt stayed white, while the rest of her turned golden brown.
While she was in great shape, Mrs Shrewsbury did not deny her age. Her hair was turning silver, mixed in with black, cut in a bob that framed a strong face, her nose aquiline, her cheek bones high, and her lips full. Her eyebrows were already pure silver, and her eyes were as blue as the water in the pool. She wore spectacles to read on her lounger at the pool, the kind that darken in the sun, with steel frames that matched the colour of her hair, and that gave her the demeanour of a teacher, which it turned out was pretty close to what she actually was.
There was a pattern to the Shrewsburys' appearances at the pool. They would both lie out for two hours before lunch. She would reappear at two, alone. It seemed her husband had hired a bike and liked to explore the countryside each afternoon.
Tino got there first. Tino, being Italian, had jet black hair, dark tan, multicoloured speedos, waxed chest and stomach, and he loved to fuck.
I saw him talking with Mrs Shrewsbury after lunch one day, helping her move her lounger to angle it directly towards the sun, just before he left his shift. Half an hour later Mrs Shrewbury was nowhere to be seen. Her towel was still there, as were her books, lotion, and glasses, but she had gone. An hour or so later, and she reappeared.
"Fica bellissima!" he grinned when he next saw me.
I understood 'bellissima' but had to ask him what was meant by 'fica'.
"Chatte," he said in French. "Such a wonderful cunt! She fucks like a tiger!"
"Okay," I said. "Who?"
"Your Mrs Shrewsbury," he said. "Elizabeta. She is one hot momma. Dio! This woman likes to fuck!"
"What do you mean, my Mrs Shrewsbury?" I asked him.
"Haha," he said, wagging his finger. "I have seen you looking. I think you would like to fuck her too!"
He was right of course. He might well have seen me looking. I had noticed her, and I had wondered what it would be like to fuck a woman of her age, maybe thirty years or so older than I was then.
I got my turn. Mrs Shrewsbury liked to fuck while her husband was out cycling. Two days later I was on morning shift, finishing at two. She and her husband were there from ten thirty to half past mid-day, and she appeared again just before I finished for the day, asking for my help to adjust her lounger.
Her bikini was unsettling. This was the white one. The fabric holding her breasts allowed the two inch wide, dark circles of her areoles to show their dark shade beneath the white, while her nipples moulded the fabric around their thick stubs. The tie sides of her bikini bottom were several inches of nothingness, the front covering her mons, but not much more, the back cupping her buttocks, but leaving the sides of her hips bare.
"Are you finishing now?" she asked.
I guess she had got to know the rota system. Maybe Tino had explained it to her.
"Yes," I said. "Today I will."
"Would you like to join me in my room in half an hour?" she asked.
She was mature enough to know exactly what she wanted, and to ask without embarrassment. I was not the speedo wearing kind of guy, but she still looked me right in the crotch of my swimming shorts. I felt the blood flowing to my cock.
"Sure," I said. "I'd be happy to."
"I'll be expecting you," she said.
True to her word, Mrs Shrewsbury opened her bedroom door in a silver, buttock skimming, silk, kimono-style gown that matched the strands of silver in her hair. She let me in, then led the way to the bed, letting the kimono fall to the floor as she walked. Her back and legs were golden. Her butt was pure white, the tan lines of her bikinis as sharp as if they had been stencilled onto her.
