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39 and Still Holding

By Robin Slick


Still 40, still sexy. This second volume of smart, seductive fiction proves that love has no maximum age limit. Features the works of Barbara Foster, N.L. Belardes, Greg Boose, Santana Smith, and more!

The First Time by Donna George Storey: His cheeks were flushed now as he crawled the three steps to her, his tie dragging on the carpet. If only the bank president could see him now.

A Rabbit Hole For Emily by Melinda Carroll: I no longer had to worry about how long it lasted as a prerequisite for sex. Or if it looked appropriate. Or age. I just needed to fall, let go and live. I was a forty-year-old woman! Fuck it! It was my time.

39-Lab by N.L. Belardes: There was money to be made and lives to be crushed in every view he took of this decadent view of L.A.

Two Letters to Francine by Greg Boose: And while I am licking and humming and nibbling, you will shoot your arms out wide and pull dozens of oranges back over your body and onto my head. The fruit will thud against the ground while your orgasm bounces off the ceiling. I'll point to the cucumbers and you will tell me yes or no.



From "The First Time" by Donna George Storey.

There's a first time for everything.

Isabel adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag. It was heavier than usual, which was not surprising given all the extra "supplies" inside. Squaring her shoulders, she turned to Christine who was on duty at the register.

"I have an appointment at the bank, then some errands. I should be back by three or so."

Christine's forehead creased into a frown.

"They're not planning foreclosure or anything," Isabel said lightly. It was such a shame to mar that perfect, twenty-four-year-old skin with unnecessary worry. "It's a routine matter. No big deal."

But of course it was a big deal. A fucking big deal.

Do one thing for yourself every day. Something selfish. Simply because you want it.

As Isabel pulled into the Hyatt's underground parking lot, she figured she wasn't the only woman on earth who heard her therapist's voice in her head at critical moments. It was a bit crazy, but wasn't that the point of therapy--to replace negative self-talk with a positive, life-enhancing monologue?

So far she'd carried out Tracy's assignment for the week perfectly. She'd asked her husband to make dinner and clean up when she hosted the last reading at the bookstore. She'd enlisted her daughter to pick up the organic veggie box from the farmer's market on her way home from play practice—a big time saver. She'd bought herself a new coffee mug, just because the color made her happy.

Today's indulgence was far more ambitious, however: rent a hotel room, seduce a stiff and proper banker, sweeten the deal with a very naughty ensemble of lingerie. She wasn't so sure her therapist would approve of that.

Isabel pulled up to the valet stand and shut off the engine. Her pulse was racing. And she hadn't even gotten to the hard part yet.

But there was a first time for everything. Even when you're forty-two.

Although at the moment, handing her keys to the chipper teenager in the valet's shirt--she felt more like eighteen. The age she was the first time she seduced a man, desperate to shed her virginity like a yoke before she went away to college. Dave was twenty-nine, separated from his wife, a friend of her older sister's husband. She could tell he was attracted to her so she invited herself to his place, teased him into kissing her after a drink or two and then laid her cards on the table. She actually dangled a maraschino by the stem in front of him and said she wanted to lose her cherry to him. A long, heart-stopping moment passed before he said, in his wise and weary older man way, "Sure, Isabel, I'd be honored to make love to you."

The memories of what happened then were hazy, like snippets of a movie all bathed in the golden light of a summer evening. Dave's eyes closing as his lips opened under hers. The lazy glide of his finger between her breasts. The way she trembled then, as if he'd touched her heart. But she knew better now. Though he'd kissed her breasts and sucked the nipples languidly, sending sweet twinges of pleasure to her pussy, though he'd parted her legs and eased himself into her oh-so-gently, he'd never really touched her. They'd both stayed locked in themselves, Isabel watching and thinking, is this fucking, is this all? Dave moved so slowly, as if enchanted by her, but she realized now it was probably because he was depressed, guilty, confused by his own demons and desires.

There was one moment she treasured, though: her first lover's face against the pillow as she straddled him, her cunt sliding so easily around him now, her erect, rose-colored nipple daggling before his lips. He looked so happy as he gazed up at her, profoundly content, and her heart soared with the power of it.

Was that what she wanted today? To recapture that power?

Isabel walked up to the reception desk and gave the fresh-faced clerk a smile. Everyone she met seemed so young today, although, at second glance this man was thirtyish, Dave's age. She felt a twinge of nostalgic lust.

"I have a reservation for Isabel O'Shea. I was told you could have a room ready for me before the official check-in time."

"Yes, ma'am, it looks like we can do that for you today."

Isabel glanced around the lobby, head held high. Surprisingly enough, at this moment, she felt confident, nothing like people in the movies who were renting their first hotel room for an afternoon's indiscretion.

"How many room keys will you be needing?"

"Two, of course," she replied, leveling her gaze at him.

His eyes flickered. "Certainly, ma'am."

Middle age had its benefits. She'd gotten much better at flirting, especially when it didn't matter, and toying with the clerk was definitely good practice for the real thing. The packet of card keys in hand, she turned and sauntered over to the waiting elevator. A group of businessmen slipped in beside her, three of them, enough to fill the small space with the faint smell of wool, aftershave, male sweat.

Isabel swallowed, her knees softening from the heady scent. Maybe she should skip the banker and invite this group back to her room? A gang-bang—on her terms, of course--was a long-time fantasy. She'd gather them all around her, order them to strip and feast upon their cocks with her eyes first, comparing the thickness, the curve, the color of the swollen, weeping one-eyed heads. Then she'd take them inside her, one in each hole, willing them to move at her pleasure so she was filled and satisfied, totally, completely and forever.

Do one thing for yourself every day. Simply because you want it.

The elevator stopped at the sixth floor and the men filed out, the last, a curly-headed charmer, turning to give her a nod and jaunty smile. As if he knew.

Yes, I am a horny trollop planning an afternoon of shameless carnal pleasure with a Suit just like you—jealous?

But she didn't say this out loud of course. She only nodded back with her bookstore owner's smile. It paid to be polite to strangers, who could be potential customers. Isabel had no doubt her business was doing well because of her "nice girl" courtesies, her careful selection of stock, her attention to detail like bringing in vegan cupcakes from a trendy bakery for the cappuccino bar. Most important of all was her willingness to take time to cater to her customers' dreams, for that's what a book was--a doorway to another land.

She paused outside the door of room 8215. She had a good guess as to what lay on the other side of that doorway. Hotel land. A king-sized bed, a black-and-white art photograph of a city canyon on the wall above it. It was empty now, silent. But later? Would a passing guest hear squeaking bedsprings, male and female grunts and moans as intermingled as their flesh, all the sounds of illicit coupling?

She could only hope.

The room was indeed tasteful, unremarkable, just as she'd imagined. Stripping off the bedspread—hotels laundered them just a few times a year, she'd read in a magazine—she tossed it in the corner and pulled down the sheets. A vision flashed before her eyes: a nude male body sprawled over the bed. The banker was a tall man, athletic. His hands were large and sturdy—they made signing a contract positively sexy. With any luck, today she'd enjoy the other things they could do.

Unzipping her shoulder bag, she pulled the corset out of her bag and laid it out on the bed. It was a whore's corset, red satin trimmed in black lace and scooped low to expose the breasts. Next came the garter belt and the unopened package of silk stockings. Last of all the condoms, ribbed, for her pleasure.

Which was the purpose of this whole thing anyway.