was my way of flaunting it, and whenever my friends would tell me in hushed tones about lusting after their co-worker, lawn guy, painter or plumber, I’d wow them with stories of brazenly flirting right in front of my husband, and how hard it made him. The logical extension of these flirtations was something I’d been nervous about, always balking at actually taking things to the next level, but something about turning fifty had made me just a little bit bolder. I knew I looked good for my age, could pass for ten years younger if I wanted to, even though I’d let the grey overtake the brown.
Maybe it took that milestone to make me want to see what it was actually like to take another man to bed. The mere thought of it made me giddy with a kind of desire I hadn’t felt since my earliest dates with Brent. We decided that we’d try it out and, if I met a man who tickled my fancy, I could go as far as I desired, as long as Brent could watch. I donned a black silk dress that was in stark contrast to the jeans and T-shirts on the crowd in the casino at The Flamingo, where we were staying. We’d chosen the Mandarin Oriental, since it didn’t have a casino, as the debut of the new me, and booked a room there in hopes of using it as a home away from home, as it were. Taking another man back to the bed where I’d been intimate with Brent would be a bit much, even for me. I wanted a clean slate for what felt like losing a different kind of virginity. It took us a while to get out the door after our room-service meal, though, because Brent was so obviously, achingly hard, I had trouble keeping my hands, not to mention my mouth, off of him. By the time I’d given him an extremely agile blowjob, followed by him returning the favour as I sat on his face, my hair was mussed enough to require another brushing.
Finally, we were out the door. We held hands on our way down the strip, pausing to admire the Bellagio fountain, oohing and aahing as it erupted in front of a crowd of eager viewers, reminding me of Brent’s cock when I jerked him off with my hand and I got to watch it spurt. Now that was a sight to behold. Then I stayed behind for ten additional minutes while Brent made his way to the bar and set himself up in a seat where he could easily watch the band – and the bar, which I sidled up to, making sure the slit in my dress was draped dramatically. I could feel men – and women – watching me, but the eyes that burned the brightest, the ones that made me blush, were Brent’s. I just know when he’s looking at me, whether from near or far, and, while I couldn’t look back at him, I hoped he could feel me reacting to his gaze.
I smiled seductively at the bartender; there’s nothing like making a man young enough to be my child blush, and really all it takes is slightly raised eyebrows, my favourite deep-red lipstick and my lips turned upwards into a smile that hints at all the magical things I can do with my mouth. ‘What can I get you?’ the man asked, his voice a little hesitant. I hoped I looked like I could eat him for lunch – or dessert, as it were.
‘Veuve Clicquot,’ I murmured, and no sooner had I turned around than another equally charming young man was asking if the seat next to me was taken. It was the seat closest to Brent, though, and I didn’t want his view blocked.
‘Not yet,’ I said, giving him that same grin, one I’d had to practise when Brent and I first started flirting with others. I’d fallen into a married-lady smile, a benevolent ‘look but don’t touch’ curve of my lips with other men and a ‘you know I’m a sure thing’ smile with Brent, but not the smile that promised a frisson of back-and-forth flirtation, a smile that said we could end up in Paris or naked on a rooftop. That was the smile I gave the stranger as I shifted casually, claiming the seat as if it had already been mine, making sure Brent had a perfect view of my back – my dress had a plunge in front and behind – and the young yummy stranger had a view of my cleavage.
‘Are you even old enough to drink?’ I teased him, running a sharp red nail, one I’d perfected over the last few weeks in lieu of my usual understated short pale-pink ones, along his arm.
‘I’m twenty-three,’ he said, thankfully holding off on adding ‘ma’am’, which would’ve added a little too much verisimilitude, then waited patiently, as if to see if he passed muster. When the bartender smiled at me, I said, ‘And one for the gentleman,’ not letting him order lest his preferred drink be something vile that would prevent me from lusting after him. I was here on a mission to bring home a memory that Brent and I could feast on for years to come, and I wasn’t going to leave Vegas without completing it. But more than that, once I stopped playing the role of MILF ready to pounce on her prey and simply sat back and observed the young man, whose name was Andre, I felt confident, assured, grateful for every experience that had led me to this moment. When I was Andre’s age, I’d never had the guts or even the desire to bed a stranger. Now, with my beloved husband watching, I knew I could do anything.
Once I realised I was completely in control of what might happen, that Andre was taking his cues from me – and so, for that matter, was Brent – I let go of any ideas of who I was or who I should be. I was me, of course, but a heightened, special, vacation-vixen version of me, and I was also someone whom Andre didn’t know at all. He didn’t need to know all of me – I was saving that, had always saved that, for Brent – but Andre could know this brand of me very, very intimately.
We sat and sipped our champagne, chatting lightly, each of us clearly plotting how to get the other one alone. Every time his arm brushed against me, or his eyes met mine, I willed myself not to blush like a schoolgirl. It was instinctual, after so long finding myself under Brent’s steady, gorgeous gaze. I may be brazen in my fantasies, but in real life my pale skin reveals my giddiness, my nervousness, my excitement, and this moment had the added thrill of being watched twice, up close and from afar, by Andre and Brent. Every time I even thought about Brent seeing me with this young stud, I got wet and warm.
‘I’m glad you have the night off,’ I murmured, putting my empty glass down and leaning close enough so my breasts brushed against him. Not that it mattered since I’d already decided I wanted him, but Andre was a pianist, working parties and a few regular bar gigs. He’d dropped by to see a friend’s band and stuck around. He’d bought my story about being in town for a conference.
Just as he put his glass down and reached for my hip, Brent got up and angled his way towards the bar. ‘Excuse me,’ he said as he jostled us. I thought I might come right there on the spot, with my boy-toy on my left, my husband on my right. Brent managed to convey all that he needed to in one lightning-quick, red-hot glance. I wanted to kiss him, then turn and kiss Andre, and, if I’d thought Andre would’ve gone for a little triple-play action, at that moment I’d have gone for it. Our little naughty experiment had turned me into a wild woman!
Instead, I let Brent order his scotch while Andre’s hand roamed. When we took a break, I headed towards the bathroom, where I found a text from Brent. ‘Go for it, baby,’ it said. ‘Take him back to the room and let me know when you’re done. I wish I could be there to watch, but I’ll be more than happy to hear about it.’ Just reading the words made me wet, my mind racing with possibilities as the hairs on my arms stood on end.
Oh my God. I wanted to ask if he was sure, I wanted to pause and analyse whether this was a positive step in our relationship. OK, that’s not exactly true; the rational, logical, organised side of me wanted to do that; the rest of me shivered in excitement, knowing I was about to taste and feel and touch a new man. That Brent wasn’t just OK with what I was doing but seemed as eager as I was made me have even deeper respect for him.
I hurried back to Andre and settled myself flush against him. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said, smiling at me with those beautiful lips before using them to kiss the side of my neck, tenderly at first, then with a bit of tongue, followed by a light nipping of his teeth. I moaned softly, aware that we were probably the only people engaging in a public display of affection at the bar. ‘Nadine,’ he said, his voice husky and sweet. ‘You are so beautiful.’ I didn’t hear a hint of ‘so beautiful for your age’ or ‘so beautiful because I want to fuck you’ in his voice. All I heard were those four words, and they in turn were beautiful to me.
This
