That spring I was 37, married, in a rut and feeling urges to do crazy stuff like when I’d been a young hellcat.

My husband, Harry, was a decent man, but our sex life was a pale imitation of what it once had been. I was halfway expecting him to start his own midlife crisis — maybe buy a flashy sports car or have an affair with a college girl. I don’t think I would have minded either of those things, not with how I was feeling.

Harry was away for a weekend seminar. We’d had a halfhearted fuck the night before he’d left. Then I was alone in our empty house, with Saturday night creeping in. Fifteen years ago that would have meant going out and having a wild time.

I stood in front of our bathroom’s full-length mirror and stripped. I gave my nearly middle-aged body a thorough once-over. Exercise had kept me in good shape. My belly was flat, my legs taut. I turned and decided my ass still had a nice ripeness.

I put my hands to my breasts. They were firm and full. I squeezed my tits, my nipples stiffened and excitement tingled through me. I smiled and tugged on my nipples. The buds sprang to full hardness, and a jolt of pleasure shot straight to my clit.

On impulse I grabbed my electric shaver and removed all traces of my pubic hair. My naked flesh prickled, and I grinned as I ran my fingertips over my smooth lips. I felt a growing wetness gathering in my pussy. A wonderful sense of naughtiness came over me. I couldn’t remember when I’d last played with myself in front of a mirror.

I slipped a finger inside my cunt, sending pleasure dancing up my backbone. With my other hand, I thoroughly groped my own tits. Remembering I had the house to myself, I began to moan and babble.

“You’re one hot bitch, Hope,” I whispered to my reflection.

I added a second finger and began to really work my slot. The slick heat inside me was exhilarating as I shouted obscenities at myself. My heart pounded, and my body shivered. I fingered my shaved pussy furiously.

My bliss climbed and climbed, and finally overwhelmed me. I came with a howl of sexual abandon. Afterward, I panted before the mirror, aware that my little self-administered pleasure session had been better than the sex I’d had the previous night with my husband.

Right then I made a decision. I would go out, hit one of my old hot spots. I would dance and feel alive again… and maybe do something wild.

I put on a tight black leather skirt and a sheer blouse and went downtown. But every one of my old haunts had changed hands, probably years ago. My onetime favorite club was now a paint-and-sip art studio — that was already closed. Another was an antique store that was locked up tight.

Refusing to give up, I picked a joint with a lot of neon out front. Inside, music pounded, and light whirled over the partiers on the packed dance floor. I threw myself in among the other bodies, more than a little self-conscious. I was aware that I was probably the oldest woman there. But no one else seemed to mind.

Soon enough, my worries were smashed by the pounding beat of the music. Everybody was gyrating wildly, dancing with no one and everyone. I found myself bouncing from partner to partner faster than my brain could keep score. Sweat slickened my skin, and the exertion felt great.

The whole experience was intoxicating and made my head whirl. Grinning, I stepped out of the heaving mass of bodies. I wasn’t my young self anymore, but I certainly felt more alive than I had in a while. It had been fun grinding with all those people on the dance floor.

Maybe that was all I’d needed to do. I could just go home and finger myself again. I didn’t necessarily have to do anything drastic, I assured myself.

As I edged toward the exit, a young guy in a leather jacket stepped in front of me. He smiled at me. He had a smoldering face and a tight body.

“Wanna dance?” he asked.

Why not? I thought. I returned to the floor with him. We moved to the hammering bass sounds. Unlike before, I didn’t switch partners. I danced only with him. He stayed in front of me, his body writhing like a snake. I moved in closer to him. He ground up against me. I felt his bulging crotch and pushed my tits up against his chest.

An alarm rang in my head: Should I really be doing this?

I’d never cheated on Harry. Then again, for all I knew he was boning some young thing at his seminar. And maybe that wouldn’t have been the worst thing for our marriage. My sexual spark had definitely reignited. When Harry got back, I was already planning to fuck his brains out.

But right now I was practically dry-humping this young guy in the leather jacket. I let my hands slip underneath it and over his sweat-damp T-shirt. He took hold of my waist, grinding his enticing package deliberately against my leather skirt. My pussy was streaming with need.

I was nose-to-nose with him. I felt his breath whisper on my hungry lips. Every reawakened sexual instinct in me told me to kiss him, to jam my tongue down his throat, to grope him and ravish him. The eager look on his face told me he wanted the same.

But there was something I had to do first.

“I’m married,” I said, showing him my wedding ring.

“That just makes you hotter,” he said.

Sweeter words were never spoken. I grabbed his hand and pulled him along with me. If I was going to go wild, I would do it in full-on classic slut mode, like when I was his age.

I dragged my stud into the women’s bathroom, found an empty stall and locked us inside together.

“His tongue licked my naked gash. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.”

I wound my fingers into the creaking leather collar of his jacket and pulled his face toward mine. Our mouths crashed together, and our tongues tangled. We kissed deeply, smothering one another’s moans of pleasure. I felt my pulse kicking up.

He seized my ass, and I clutched two handfuls of his, squeezing his muscular cheeks. He pulled up my skirt, his fingers sliding into the back of my lacy panties. His touch felt good as he kneaded my soft globes.

I started to reach for his fly, eager to get at his hard cock, but he was quicker. He sank to the floor and yanked my panties down my legs. I stepped out of them and leaned back against the stall door. He flipped up the front of my leather mini, his eyes dancing.

First, I felt his breath on my newly shaved mound, which sent tremors of joy down all my limbs. Then his tongue licked my naked gash. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, even though the music was still loud in there, and even though I suspected a few other stalls had multiple occupants, too.

He lapped earnestly at my damp groove. Then his tongue slithered up inside me, and I humped instinctively against his face. I rocked my hips, reaching down to clutch his hair. He ate me harder, stabbing at my throbbing clit with his tongue. The intensity built inside me, and then washed over me.

I came with a louder cry, unable to hold it in. When he rocked back on his heels, I saw my juices glistening all over his mouth and chin. It was a beautiful sight.

When he rose to his feet, I dropped to my knees. I opened his jeans and hauled out his cock. It was a gorgeously hard shaft, the tip gleaming with a dewdrop of milky pre-come. I licked the bead up and swallowed it.

Then for the first time in years I took a stranger’s dick into my mouth, hoping my cocksucking skills hadn’t atrophied with marriage. I shouldn’t have worried because all the muscle memories were there. I swirled my tongue around his fat cockhead, then closed my lips around that knob and started sucking my way down the shaft. My tongue swizzled against his rod, and I made sure my teeth didn’t scrape him as I took his head into my throat — with only a little gagging.

“I was like a hot, young tramp again, living life at a heart-racing speed.”

I had him sucked down to his nuts. His masculine flavor filled my senses, so that my whole being was aware of this delectable dick in my mouth.

I proceeded to blow him in earnest. I took every inch of him with each plunge, feeling a familiar delicious strain in my neck muscles. He started thrusting at my face. I liked that.

I liked everything about this — the setting, the grittiness, the anonymity. I didn’t even know this guy’s name! He was just some beautiful stranger who’d eaten my cunt in a toilet stall, and now I’m sucking on his cock. I was like a hot, young tramp again, living life at a heart-racing speed, without a single regret.

It would have been fine with me if he came in my mouth. I’d planned to swallow his spunk. But he pulled me to my feet, with a hungry look in his eyes. I knew what to do. I slid past him, put my hands flat on the wall above the toilet and thrust my ass at him.

He moved in behind me, folding my skirt up over my back. He ran his spit-slick cockhead through the valley of my ass, grazing my butt hole before settling against my waiting pussy.

When he stroked into me in one long thrust, pleasure burst through my body, through every cell of me. His hands clutched my body. He quickly fell into a hard, driving rhythm.

It was fantastic. I balled one hand into a fist and beat it against the tiled wall in tempo to the smack of his balls against me. He fucked me deep, reaming my pussy with his ample cock. I heard the jingle of the zippers on his leather jacket and felt sweat gathering on my brow.

Mostly, though, I was aware of my mounting bliss. He rocketed in and out of my hole, pounding me furiously. His fingers dug into my ass, and the tiny stall seemed to spin. Without warning, his hot spunk erupted, which sent me into a glorious climax.

Afterward, we parted with a kiss. And I went home — a Hope renewed.

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