Life is just beginning at 60

I never thought that at 60 years old, my life would only truly begin. My husband Colby, and I were together for forty years. He has always been my support. But he had a severe stroke three years ago, followed by heart and prostate problems. The doctors said physical intimacy was now impossible for him. Pills and injections weren’t helping. Colby lay in our bedroom looking at me with guilty eyes.

I cried for a very long time at first. And then I realized I was still alive. My body, which I’d hidden for forty years under robes and old dresses, suddenly began to demand its own. I’m sixty, but I don’t want to lie in the same bed with a man in silence. And then we talked. It was a very honest conversation.

I felt so sorry for my husband that I cried. Colby took my hands in his trembling ones and told me he loved me and didn’t want me to suffer. He himself said that if I needed men for sex, he would agree to it. I know he’s always loved me, and even now, in this situation, he thinks about what’s best for me. That’s what we decided. No affairs, no feelings. Just the body. Just pleasure.

First, I took care of myself. I signed up for a gym, although at first I was a little embarrassed. My trainer was a young woman who worked out diligently with me, and we even became friends. I began to feel much better and more confident.

Then I bought new black lace lingerie, which I had previously considered vulgar. I also bought several dresses with low necklines or short ones. My legs looked beautiful. I put on low-heeled shoes again. I regretted I`m not wearing clothes like that before, even when I was 40 years old. And when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself. And I really liked it.

The first time was at a bar not far from our house. I sat at the counter and ordered wine. Then a man of about 55 years old came up to me, fit and gray at the temples. We talked about little things, and then I said straight out: « I want to fuck with you tonight.» His eyes lit up. In the hotel room, he tore my dress off. His hands trembled with desire. When he entered me, I screamed with unexpected pleasure. He fucked me greedily, hard, almost roughly. I came twice, my nails digging into his back. Then I lay there and smiled at the ceiling. I felt desired again. And free.

After that, there were many different men. Young and not so young, tall and stocky. I tried everything I’d missed. One in a car in a parking lot, another in his apartment. I liked the variety. I liked the feeling of different cocks filling me in different ways: one thick and short, another long and curved.

And I learned to ask for what I wanted and how. And they did it. I returned home with wet panties, the scent of another man on my skin. And my husband was waiting for me. He sat in a chair, looked into my eyes, and quietly asked: «Well, how was it?» I sat on his lap, hugged him, and told him. In detail. How I was fucked, how I screamed, how I came.

He couldn’t get up, but his breathing quickened, his cheeks flushed. «I’m happy that you’re happy!» he whispered.

Everything changed about six months ago. I met him in a cafe. His name was James. A tall, black man of about 45 years old. Broad shoulders, a deep voice, a charming smile. We started talking. He turned out to be an engineer from Ghana, and he lived in our city for work. When we were in our hotel room, James took his time. He undressed me slowly kissing every inch. His lips were hot. And then I saw his black cock. Big. Thick. Black. It was erect like a trunk. I took him in my mouth and could barely wrap my lips around him. James groaned lowly as I worked his gigantic cock.

When he entered me, I felt my walls stretch. He moved slowly, deeply filling me gradually. It seemed like I came after just a minute, my whole body shaking. He didn’t stop. Then he flipped me over, positioned me doggy style, and entered again. I felt him even deeper. And I screamed. And then I cried with pleasure. He fucked me for almost an hour. And then he came inside me, so hard. I lay in a pool of our juices and realized I had never experienced anything like this before.

Since then, I’ve only fucked him. It happens every week, sometimes twice. He knows my body better than I do. He knows how to pin me against the wall and take me standing up, how to stick two fingers into my ass while his BBC pounds me from the front. How to make me cum just by pressing his tongue to my clit. I scream his name. I beg him not to stop. After him, I walk around like I’m drunk, my legs are shaking, my pussy is aching sweetly, and there’s only one thing in my head: «More!»

My husband knows. I tell him everything. How James stretches me, how I flow onto his black cock, how I cum so hard I almost pass out. Colby listens, strokes my hair, and smiles. «I see you glow.»

I don’t feel guilty, I feel free. At sixty, I’m finally living. My body is enjoying itself. And my loving, understanding, happy husband is by my side. And James gives me what Colby can no longer. So I`m grateful to both of them.