One of the saddest realizations a couple can experience isn’t the loss of love, but looking at one’s beloved and realizing we can never recover the blinding, implacable lust we once felt for the other. You know the feeling, that unquenchable thirst for the other’s body, the willingness to suspend daily life at any moment to be in the other’s arms fucking. Love deepens over time and is often replaced with bonds and intuitive connections greater than the merely sexual. Yet we hunger for those times when all reason was lost in our desire to couple with the object of our passion. Whether it’s having sex while her parents are watching TV in the next room, or rushing home from work for a “quickie,” we’ll run almost any risk for a chance to get naked.
Because of this awareness, I find it absolutely natural to wish for C. to fall into a hopeless, irresistible lust for another. Not because I’m a fool who wants to be replaced by another man, either. No, I wish for her to feel that rush of reckless desire again, and to warm myself beside the flames of that passion.
It should be a lust so great she could think of nothing else than him, wondering what his cock looks like—cut or natural? What it would taste like erect and dripping pre-cum as she slowly, deliberately ran her lips down its entire, veiny, throbbing length. Yes, C. can deep throat. Wishing more than anything in the universe to feel that cock inside her pussy.
A passion so overwhelming her heart would pound in his presence, her face flush thinking of him, a passion so irresistible that she’d eagerly suck his cock, swallow his cum, and kiss him passionately with grateful desire until he was hard enough to fuck her senseless. And only senseless will do, when her legs quiver standing up afterwards, when her pussy is no longer swollen and fat, pushing out from her carefully-trimmed bush, insensible to the touch of my fingers inside its wetness. Senseless is when she would kneel gladly and suck his cock anyplace, anytime, grateful for the chance to pleasure him and make him eager to fuck her depraved, wanton shamelessness.
What is senseless? It’s exactly what the word says: insensate to the world, uncaring what others think or say about an older woman with a handsome young lover. It’s surrender to that moment after climax when we care nothing about the outside world, as if we really had died the “small death” the French call orgasm. It’s the stilling of that unspeakable urge to do, say, suffer gladly anything that will allow us one more swim in the pool of our erotic ecstasy.
What sensible man would wish his woman’s head so turned she’d risk sneaking off to meet her lover if he asked? A sensible, compassionate, erotic man is who. I can give her love and adoration like no one else in the world. I knew her when she was nineteen, innocent and succulent. I have photographed her naked when she was twenty-five, promiscuous and pliant. I see how much more alive and exciting she is now, her laugh lines purchased with innumerable common triumphs and setback. No other man can give her love that can touch mine.
I’m not conceited or foolish enough to think I can inspire the reckless, almost self-destructive passion of our 20s again, so why not encourage it with another? Passion makes C. passionate; if she “buzzes” with her vibrator before we make love, she’s more receptive and orgasmic. Her cunt cannot be entirely sated with the prick of another, she can climb towards senselessness, but will always be able to come with me.
And seeing her crazed with lust can only make her more beautiful. A woman in the throes of passion has cloudy eyes, the lids flushed a darker color, her nostrils flared magnificently, her body erect with excitement. The sadness of pornography is its inability to portray passion, with the majority of its actresses faking their orgasms. If you doubt me, look at their flaccid bodies—a woman’s nipples turn hard and fully-erect during orgasm. Even keeping the temperature of the set chilly can’t fake the passion that’s not there.
The other day, C. strained her back working in the garden, so I purchased an hour-long full-body massage for her. I deliberately chose a masseur, not a masseuse, partly in the hope of accustoming C. to the feel of another’s man’s hand on her body. I didn’t realize how intimate a full-body massage is until she recounted all the work done on every part of her except her breasts. When I asked how she liked it, she smiled:
“I liked it. A LOT.”
So may you bathe in rivers of his cum and drink it until you’re stated with that salty-sweet nectar you tell me you love. When you’re exhausted with him and feel your hunger sated, return to my bed and let me have a chance inside your well-used cunt to bring you one more climax. Then as you slip into drowsy, secure contentment lying on my chest, your adulterous infatuation at bay until desire and lust build up inside you like a river damned downstream, I pray you’ll whisper in my ear—
“May you feel the same irresistible lust yourself,” as we fall asleep, deep in love, deep in desire, grateful for the passion we share for one another.
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