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Monique was a faded beauty. Her long, rather straggly black hair betrayed her age with its grey roots and her skin was dry and pale but her eyes were those of the 20-year-old she had once been, cheeky and vivacious, cool and seductive.She had been married to the same man for 40 years and had seemingly led a nice life. He was a sculptor of international repute and they had traveled the world, he working and speaking and lecturing, she taking care of the administration. She could probably have had a career of her own as an actress, but had decided early on that Jean-Luc was better in his field than she was in hers, so she had followed him around, dedicated to making his life easier so he could concentrate on his work.Now they were in their 60s and had the dilapidated look of aging bohemians. They spent most of their time in their small apartment in Pointe-a-Pitre, Guadeloupe, rarely going out and only dining in restaurants when clients and admirers invited them. Monique gave the impression of feeling she had once been a woman but wasn’t sure anymore.When I approached them by email – I’m a freelance writer – it was Monique who replied from the address bearing his name. She invited me to their apartment one afternoon and it was just another assignment for me. Their second-floor apartment was behind a locked door at street level and I was told to phone when I got there.In fact I found Monique sitting on a step, waiting for me. She was medium height, neither thin nor fat but with a bit of a belly and not much chest left. I had noticed before how breasts seemed to deflate in older women, sleeping in their brassiere, their day long gone.Her hair was coiled in a bun at the back and she had an oriental beylikdüzü escort look about her, like a Vietnamese peasant whose wonderfulness had been hidden from the world as she toiled her life away out in the fields. She was wearing black trousers and a loose t-shirt with a wide neck. It was a stuffy summer day in this noisy, unattractive part of the city and I was sweating as I crossed the road. She seemed to know it was me.“Veec?” she said. I’m Vic.“Monique,” I replied.“I wait for you,” she said.I’m English and although there is this belief that the French insist you speak their language, I found that as soon as they heard my attempts (I thought I had quite a passable accent, actually), people would switch to English to save themselves the pain of hearing my incompetence. Or maybe they were just being kind. Monique certainly radiated kindness.Up in the apartment she fetched me a glass of water and Jean-Luc shuffled in with a crinkly-eyed smile as I turned on the recorder on my phone.While he talked and I prompted, Monique flitted around the place, bending low over the table to top up my water and displaying her small, braless breasts and then sitting opposite me with her legs wide apart. I tried not to look at her crotch except when Jean-Luc was looking away, into space, as he often did. When his gaze was averted I was drawn irresistibly to this display. The breast show was unmistakable: you only ever see a woman’s breasts if she wants you to. As for the splayed legs, maybe in her mind the trousers provided cover and she wasn’t doing anything provocative. Maybe it was the French way, or the Guadeloupe way, a mix of French sophistication and Caribbean bahcesehir escort bayan brazenness.Whatever it was, by the time the half-hour interview was over I knew the tip of my half-erect cock was covered in precum. The fact that Jean-Luc had done and said nothing about his wife’s quiet performance made me wonder if they had some sort of alternative lifestyle. Maybe they were swingers. Maybe he allowed her to have sex with other men. Maybe he liked to watch.As I got up to leave I was prepared to respond to any invitation, but I detected none, so I headed back to my house in a small town by the sea and immediately had a wank while Monique’s energy was still in my loins.The interview was for a monthly local touristy magazine, so I wrote the piece up – it flowed pretty well – I sent it in and got on with my life.Then came the day when it was published and I immediately got an email from Monique. They were very pleased with it and wanted to thank me. Would I like to go round for a drink? I accepted eagerly and we agreed on that Saturday afternoon.Jean-Luc worked all day every day and produced an astonishing amount of work, for which he had collectors waiting. I had been doing a series on artists and I’d never met one with the work ethic and almost production line speed.He had agreed to take a break from two till three to have a drink with me. All I could think of in the intervening days was Monique’s desire to show me her body and my equally strong desire to look at it, touch it, feel it, eat it, penetrate it.She met me downstairs again and phoned Lean-Luc to tell him we were on our way up.“So ‘e can put on ‘is trousers,” she confided in a way that suggested escort bayan beylikdüzü she thought I would not be surprised. She was wearing an old, very thin pale green dress that the wind in the corridor blew into her crack, showing me the outline of her buttocks.I had a reckless feeling about her, as if I could grab her arse and she wouldn’t mind at all. But I decided to play it careful and see if she was in the same mood this time.Up in the ramshackle little apartment with its rustic/artistic carved woods and a parrot whistling in a spare room, I sat in the same chair and Jean-Luc occupied the same one he had the last time.Monique appeared with a bottle of Muscadet and three small, water-stained glasses. I waited breathlessly for her to lean forward and pour the wine, and she did, the dress’s neckline falling obligingly to display her little milky white tits.She wants me to suck them, I thought to myself. Maybe she will engineer a little situation so I can do that.We talked about films and music, because this time I wasn’t there on business and we had to talk about something. Monique sat opposite me and this time she had something to play with: the hem of her dress, which she swept from side to side, pulled up a little, let fall. It was like the dance of the seven veils and the performance was so quick and minimalist that I thought I saw a flash of beige undies but I couldn’t be sure.Again, Jean-Luc appeared not to notice, as I struggled to look at him rather than his fluttering wife.We got onto the subject of streaming movies as an alternative to Netflix and Monique decided to show me a list of links on her laptop. She sat at the desk and Jean-Luc leaned on it from the other side. I stood next to her with my left hand on the desk and my right on the cushion just behind her. My naughty, lustful right hand a mere inch or two from her bottom, I leaned casually and adjusted my position to see something on the screen and my wrist touched her lower back/upper buttocks. She didn’t flinch.

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