Sweat drips down my back as I pound the boardwalk in Gisborne, New Zealand. Two months here with grandkids sounds idyllic, but sharing a bed with my ex-wife Marie-Agnès turns it into hell. Her nightly strip-teases—firm tits, sheer panties hiding a dyed-heart bush—leave my cock throbbing, untouched. Mornings, I escape for a 10k hike along this beachfront path, dodging joggers and dog walkers.
She stands out first as a dude from afar—tall, over 180cm, Adidas leggings hugging curves, black tank over pink sports bra. No baggy mum gear; sleek, expensive. We pass, eyes lock. No sunglasses, rare here. Next day, her face hits: Bowie-white hair, hollow cheeks, metallic black eyes, late 50s maybe. Small upturned nose softens stern vibe. Nods turn to smiles over days. I’m hooked on her lithe frame, marked tits, subtle hips. But she’s leagues above—a rich Aussie widow with a ranch down under.
The Stopover
Then she stumbles, face ashen, collapses. Alone on the path, I call 111. ‘No!’ she commands in French-accented English. Hypoglycemia or some orphan disease; forgot her bracelet med. I haul her up, arm over neck, palm her firm tit—silicone? Drags like dead weight to her house. High brick wall, thumb-scan gate slides open. Palm-print door. Inside: minimalist lounge, orchids, dim light. She points to bracelet on table—needle-feed for blood. Slumps; I snap it on. Boom, color returns, breathing steadies. ‘Leave now,’ she says, door shuts behind me.
Next morning, I ignore her on the boardwalk. She blocks me, eyes pleading. Apology: needs solitude post-malaise. Invites French breakfast. Charlotte Steiner. Arm hooks mine, tit presses firm. Short walk, scans unlock. Coffee steams, real baguette crunches. She showers quick, emerges in silky-leather robe, lights dancing on curves. Chats veuve life, disease tears. My cock tents bermuda staring at tit curves, mound outline.
‘Anatomy interests you more,’ she says coolly. ‘Your virility swells.’ Shock—then, ‘I desire you too.’ Kiss awkward, tender. ‘Shower first, clean cock and mouth. Can’t infect me.’ Her disease. In sterile bathroom, strips me, cock salutes. Hers: pear tits, arrogant nipples, flat belly, bald ripe apricot pussy, all-over tan. Perfect, save wrinkled hands. Kneels in tub, icy jets, then soapy hands caress feet up—slow, teasing balls, peels foreskin, scrubs glans. Lips suck tip. Hot air dries us.
The Transit
Bedroom door slides. King mattress, drapes drop, soft glow. She worships cock, hands expert. I dive pussy—sweet nectar, firm ass cheeks knead. No anal twitch. 69: she deepthroats, tongue swirls; I tongue-fuck. Missionary: slick cunt grips perfect, we cum synced.
Drink amber nectar—hallucinogenic rocket ride, Jane Fonda vulva devours sperm army. Wake spent; she’s groomed, radiant. ‘Lion lover.’ Collation, I leave glowing, in love.
Wife rages jealous. Next dawn, her house dead. Climb wall—zap! Blackout on bench, pondering love?