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This is the fifth in a series of stories about a schoolteacher, Alice, who sinks into depression after her husband’s death and then discovers sex at a level she never knew with her late husband. Her depression cured, she moves from an affair with her best friend to include her friend’s husband in a night of debauchery.

*****

As Joan drove away I turned and walked back into the house. I flopped down on the couch and drew a deep breath. I was exhausted. The last four days had been more sex, sex with a real person, than I could ever remember having had in a similar period. Hell, it was more sex than I had in a year with my late husband, Larry.

“Am I in love?” I asked myself, reverting to my habit of speaking my thoughts aloud in my empty house. There was a long silence while I thought.

“No, not in love,” I eventually responded to myself. Joan was my good friend and had been so for years, and after the last four days I could think of her as my lover, but it wasn’t that gooey, can’t live without her, when can I see her again kind of love. Did I want to jump into bed with her again? “Sure, but not tomorrow,” I said. “It needs to rest. . . . whatever it is,” I laughed aloud at my ambiguity.

“Do I love her?”

“No.”

“Is she my friend?”

“Yes.”

“Do I lust after her?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, maybe not right now,” I told myself. After the last four days, I wasn’t lusting after anyone or anything.

“I’m satiated,” I said aloud. “I don’t want sex now. Not with Joan, not with Larry’s porn collection, not at all.”

So what did I do? I cleaned house. Frankly the place was a mess after four days of more our less non-stop sex all over the house. I worked at it until midnight and then, when I had finished putting on my freshly washed sheets, I fell into bed and slept until seven. That was hours earlier than Joan and I had been climbing out of bed, but it was a full seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. The sleep with Joan was far from uninterrupted. It was more like a series of longish naps punctuated with more sex.

The next day was more of the same. The house was clean, so I tackled my yard: trimmed and mowed the lawn; dead-headed rose bushes; and pulled weeds in a bed or two I had missed earlier in the summer or where the nasty little buggers were making a comeback. I even got out an edging tool and cut back the grass that had been encroaching slowly onto the front walk for years now. The amazing part was that I didn’t think about sex the entire time.

I wore a baggy old pair of jeans and a T-shirt (with appropriate undergarments) so I wasn’t showing anything off to the neighbors. When I finished the yard work and cleaned up everything I had pulled or cut, I had a sandwich and a glass of milk for lunch (no wine). I took a nap (just sleep, no masturbating) and then went for a long run.

During the run my mind stayed on my running, focused on the sensations of my body arising from the exercise and the heat. Walnut Creek really can be hot this time of year. I was working totally different muscles than I had been using during the last four days. Unlike my more customary running, my mind didn’t drift off to sex and there certainly wasn’t any masturbating in my favorite secluded copse in the park.

After the run, I showered (just a shower, nothing else). Then I dressed conservatively (i.e., with undergarments) and went to the market. There was a lot to buy. Joan and I had eaten everything in the house. I put away the groceries, fixed a healthful dinner (Joan and I had been living on microwave oven food and ice cream the last few days) and then I turned on the TV and watched a baseball game. I hadn’t seen one since Larry died. It was almost interesting. The Giants won 5 to 3 with a two run homer in the ninth.

Sunday was more of the same, and on Monday I was actually looking forward to teaching my midday remedial English class. I was so enthused about Hamlet that I’m sure the kids thought I had lost my mind, not that they cared.

Then on Tuesday afternoon Joan called me and things changed again.

“Joan?” I answered seeing her identity on my cell phone screen.

“Hi lover.” Her voice was low, seductive. Apparently she wasn’t satiated.

Suddenly neither was I. Just those two words spoken in her low husky voice sent a charge of lust through me. After four days of not even thinking about sex, I wanted it again. I wanted it badly.

“Hi,” I responded trying to match her tone. “Did you miss me?”

“Yes.” Her tone was breathy now. I was being seduced over the phone. But who was going to ask first? Did I come out and say what I was thinking—I want to fuck you? Or did I wait for her.

“Are you at home?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll be right over.”

Yes, I thought. Yes, yes, yes! She’s coming over and she asked first. I didn’t have to beg for it. I could feel my pussy starting to dampen. I wanted to do a little dance like a football player in the end sınırsız escort zone after scoring a touchdown.

“We have to talk.”

Oh, oh! My lust evaporated, and now there was a knot in the pit of my stomach. It’s never good when a lover says, “We have to talk.” Never.

“About Hervé.”

“Hervé? Did you tell him? About us?”

“Yes.”

I was silent, fearing the worst.

“He’s not mad.”

“Okay . . . what does he want,” I asked. “It’s about us, isn’t it?”

“He wants to fuck you.”

I laughed. After a years’ long drought in my sex life I suddenly had a surplus of suitors.

“Do I get a say in this?” I was feeling a little taken for granted. Had she just volunteered my services to placate an irate husband?

“Of course. It’s complicated, but it’s going to be fine. I’ll explain when I get there. Right now I want to eat your pussy more than anything in the world. See you in fifteen and you better be naked when I get there.” The phone went click without a response from me.

I didn’t know whether to be excited or pissed. I paced back and forth waiting for Joan to arrive. Without even giving it any real thought, I stripped my clothes off, leaving them scattered about as I walked. Every minute or two I peeked through my curtains looking for her car.

When she arrived I stood nervously by the door. I didn’t even let her knock. I just opened it, pulled her in, slammed her against the wall, and began to rape her mouth with my tongue. Fuck Hervé, I thought. We could talk about him later.

Joan must have been of the same mind, because it was only moments before we lay naked in bed in a long kiss, our bodies entwined so that each was massaging the other’s pussy with a thigh. God, she was wetter than I was. She must have been planning this all morning. We thrashed about, soon finding ourselves in a 69, each lapping at the others sex, panting and groaning with passion. Within what seemed like forever, and still like just minutes, we had both climaxed and were lying gasping next to each other.

I sat up and crossed my legs, facing the still prostrate Joan. “Now,” I said, “there was something you wanted to talk about?”

Her look was blank.

“Hervé? I prompted”

“Hervé?” she responded, her brain still fogged with lust.

“Yes, Hervé,” I said. “Your husband. Your husband who apparently wants to fuck me.” My tone was perhaps a bit harsher than I intended, but it did bring Joan out of her post-coital fog. She sat up and leaned back against the headboard, pushing her long dark hair out of her face.

“No, no. It’s not like that. Hervé doesn’t want to fuck you.” She paused for a moment. “Well he does want to fuck you. He has for years, but I have been telling him to stay away from my friends.”

“I’m not sure I see a difference.” I wasn’t really opposed to fucking Hervé, but I was still feeling taken for granted.

“Actually, what he wants to do is to seduce you.”

“Seduce me?” Well this sounded a little better. Someone was at least acknowledging that my input mattered.

“So how is this seduction going to occur?” I asked.

“Oh, he’ll do it the way he always does—with food.”

“Food?”

“He will cook for you. For both of us actually. By the time dinner is over we will both be climbing his frame. It always works.”

“So there have been other women you two have shared? I thought it was only Gina?”

Joan grinned a caught-in-a-fib grin. “Well, there might have been a couple of others.”

“Now?”

“No there hasn’t been anyone else for months. Just you. I swear.”

I wasn’t sure I believed her, but then again, I wasn’t sure I cared as long as I wasn’t currently sharing her with anyone. Anyone but Hervé that is.

While she was talking she had moved her leg around until she had her foot almost into my lap. Actually it was between my legs, and she was massaging my pussy with her big toe. I suddenly didn’t care about Hervé and his dinner of seduction or Joan’s other girls. I just wanted more sex with her.

And that’s what we did. We spent the next hour in bed kissing and molesting each others sex until we each brought the other to another long, slow, delicious orgasm. It wasn’t one of those sudden blow-you-away violent orgasms. It was softer and slower. It just went on and on for what seemed like forever. Maybe it was a series of orgasms. I don’t know. But it was nice. Then Joan had to leave to take Hervé off to the airport for another business trip.

Hervé was in and out of town (but more out than in) for the rest of the summer, which delayed his promised dinner of seduction, but that didn’t matter to Joan and me. We continued our affair throughout the summer—not every day, but two or three times a week. It was the best summer I could remember.

Dinner with Hervé

It was early September. School had started again, and I was back to teaching seventh graders. They seemed taksim escort brilliant compared to the 18-year-olds I had spent the summer trying to flog with remedial English. I was working full time now, and Hervé was spending more time in town, so I hadn’t seen Joan for almost two weeks, and I missed her. . . and I missed the sex. This time I called her.

“Alice?” she answered.

“Hi Joan . . . It’s been awhile.”

“It has,” she said. “I’m glad you called. Hervé wants to have dinner.”

“You mean?”

“Yes, all he can talk about in bed is how he is going to seduce you.”

“What have you told him . . . I mean about me?”

“I told him you were willing to let him try.” That was fair I thought. Actually as hard up as I was after two weeks with no sex, I would probably rip his clothes off if he walked in my front door right now.

“When?” I asked.

“Tomorrow night. Okay?”

“That soon?” I was suddenly feeling nervous about this idea.

“Yes. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind.”

“No, no. I’m still okay.”

“Good. Then we will see you here about seven. I can’t tell you how excited he is about this. He’s out buying food right now. Even if he doesn’t seduce you, we are all going to have a fabulous meal. Hervé’s a great cook.”

“Does he have any other skills I should know about?”

Joan laughed. If a laugh could sound lascivious that laugh did. “Oh yeah,” she said, dragging out the last word. “He has a lot of skills, but you will have to say yes to find out about them.”

“Like what?”

“You’ll see.”

“Come on Joan. Give me a hint.”

“Okay, just one. He can talk dirty better than any man I’ve ever had sex with. It’s sort of a mélange of English, French, and Basque, with a little Spanish on the side. Even if you don’t know what the word means, it always sounds just filthy the way he says it.” She made a noise like a shudder. “My panties are getting wet just thinking about it. Gotta go,” she said. “Wear something sexy. Bye.”

I stood in my living room holding my now silent phone. What had I just agreed to? There was no question about it. Hervé was handsome. Fuck he was “hot” to use the language of the horny teenagers I had been teaching all summer. He was moderately tall, about six feet, with dark curly hair, an olive complexion, and dark brown eyes, the kind of eyes you can just lose yourself in if you aren’t careful. I had seen him out by their pool in a bathing suit once. He was broad-shouldered, lean, and well muscled. Not like a Muscle Beach body builder mind you, but still he looked strong, with well-defined muscle groups in all the places I like to see them on a man. He was wearing baggy swim trunks, so I didn’t have a good look at his “package” as the kids say. But according to Joan he was not deficient in that regard. And Joan had never complained about him being abusive or violent. So what did I have to lose from saying yes? Not much as far as I could see. And it had been way, way too long since I had had sex with a man.

I agonized a little about Joan’s instruction to dress sexy, but ultimately I had settled on a short dark blue skirt that fit tightly around my ass and showed off my legs. Beneath it I wore a black thong. I had to go out and buy a sexy pair of black heels and then spend several hours practicing walking in them. I had on a matching blue jacket that buttoned very low so it didn’t cover much of my chest—just the essential part, but only if I kept it buttoned. Beneath that I wore a sheer white blouse and a white bra that really did little other than hold my tits up and push them out for everyone to see if I took the jacket off. As long as I kept the jacket buttoned and stood or sat upright my breasts were covered, but if I released the single low button on the jacket, or leaned forward, much of my poorly covered breasts became obvious to anyone around me. I also went a bit heavier on my makeup than I usually did. Not slutty like the high school kids, but enough to highlight the best features of my face. Finally just a touch of perfume, at my neckline, between my breasts, and inside my thighs. I was careful not to overdo it. When I checked out the overall effect in a floor to ceiling mirror, I decided I had achieved just the “slut-lite” look I had sought.

I arrived at Joan’s house just a bit after seven. My mother had always told me it was good to be fashionably late, although she never told me whether that applied to an assignation with your lover and her husband.

Joan answered the door. She was wearing an ankle length cream-colored knit dress that looked like it was molded to her body. The most striking aspect of her outfit was that she clearly wasn’t wearing anything beneath the dress. It molded perfectly around her big tits, the knit fabric thin enough so that her dark areolas were obvious as were her nipples. When it was backlit you could see the contours of her body. The dress closed with buttons that ran tesettürlü escort the full length of the front of the dress. Joan had chosen to leave several open at the top of the dress, exposing a good deal of cleavage, and all below mid-thigh to expose her legs. It was a dress suitable for a seduction, but not many other occasions. I wanted to attack her right then and there, but I had other plans for the evening. Hervé was going to be my focus, no matter how seductive Joan looked.

She stepped back and looked me up and down slowly saying nothing.

“Turn around,” she said.

I turned for her feeling a little like an animal being evaluated for Best of Show.

When I turned to face her, she smiled and said, “Oh yes. Yes. Very nice. Very nice indeed. To hell with Hervé. I want you for myself.”

“Not tonight girl,” I said. I had made some decisions about how I wanted the evening to go as I drove over to Joan’s. I wanted to decide who was going to be screwing whom. “Tonight is for Hervé. I want to see if he is all just talk or if his cock and tongue can live up to his promises. And yours.”

Joan stepped back and looked at me for a long moment. Then she broke out laughing. “Oh this is going to be great. You go girl.” Then she stepped quickly forward and swallowed me in a tight hug, smashing her big boobs against my lower rib cage. She stood on her toes and whispered in my ear. “Fuck him until he begs for mercy tonight.”

I was following Joan up a couple of steps into the living room just as Hervé came out of the kitchen. He was dressed casually, a tight pair of jeans and a silk Hawaiian shirt that seemed to be missing a button or two at the top. He was devastatingly handsome. In one hand he had a white apron, the strings nearly dragging on the ground, and in the other a gleaming chef’s knife that he waved in the air as he spoke in his heavy French accent.

“Joan, Joan, where is the Herbes de Provence bottle? I can’t make this dish without . . . ” then he paused, as I stepped out from behind Joan.

“Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu! She’s here. Joan you did not tell me. Mon Dieu! Alice, you’re here.

He stepped forward, intending to give me one of his usual boob crushing hugs, but as he got to me he realized he had a sharp knife in one hand and a soiled apron in the other. I moved quicker than him and gave him a peck on each cheek before he could figure out what to do with his hands. Not quite an air kiss, but nothing like I’m sure Hervé had in mind. I stepped to one side and did a quick pirouette making sure my jacket opened just enough to give him a brief peak at my breasts showing through my lacy bra and sheer blouse.

Then I stepped in close to him again and said, “So Hervé, what’s for dinner tonight?” As I spoke I lightly touched the inside of his right thigh, dragging a finger tip up just an inch or two, not to his crouch, but moving in the right direction in a promise of more as the evening progressed.

Hervé was undone. He was planning a seduction, and here he was with his hands encumbered with the tools of his kitchen and his target for the evening flirting outrageously with him.

He stepped away from me, his face blushing and responded in a blizzard of French, at least I think it was French, but it may have been the French-Basque patois he reverted to when stressed. Then he fled the room, retreating to his kitchen.

As the door to the kitchen swung closed Joan burst out laughing and I joined her.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect,” she said. “I’ve never seen him unstrung like that.”

I took a small bow in response, letting Joan have a peak at my tits in the process.

She turned and led me to a wet bar at one end of the living room where she quickly fixed us each a gin and tonic, mostly gin.

We were sitting working on our second drink before Hervé worked up the courage to return with a round of hors d’oeuvres. This time he had left the knife and apron behind.

He set the platter on a low table before us. I had deliberately released the button holding my jacket closed as he came in. Now I made sure he got a good look at my breasts as I leaned forward to pick up an hors d’oeuvre. “Oh Hervé, these are so good.” I leaned forward to get another, again giving him another good look at my thinly-clad breasts.

“Hervé, get yourself a drink and join us,” Joan said.

He jumped at the sound of her voice, a man suddenly torn from leching over a woman casually displaying herself to him by the interruption of his wife’s voice.

“Oh oui. Oui. A drink. That sounds good. I have a little time, and then I have to get back to the kitchen.” He walked to the bar, poured himself a double shot or so of whiskey, and returned, sitting next to Joan and opposite me. Joan leaned against him and put a hand on his knee. I wouldn’t say he ignored her, but his eyes remained focused on me and my now almost fully-exposed breasts. I was lying back against the couch and had let my jacket fall open to my sides. I crossed my legs slowly and carefully, letting him see a lot of thigh, but no more. He gulped his whiskey as he stared at me.

“Doesn’t she look nice, Hervé?” Joan said. Her hand had slid a few inches up the inside of his leg, dragging her long fingernails as she rose up his thigh.

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