When I phoned my parents and told them about the new man in my life, adding that I thought this was it, the real thing, they were overjoyed. Their twenty-nine-year-old daughter was not married to her career after all. They wanted all the details, of coursehow we met, how long we had known each other, what he did for a living, was he taller than me (from my mother) and did he seem the stable sort (from my father). I answered all their questions truthfully, enthusiastically — except for the one about Elliot’s age. “He’s a few years older than me, Mom,” I lied.

In retrospect, I probably should have told them right from the start that the man I wanted to marry was fifty-five-ironically enough, my father’s age. But I knew that to tell them this over the phone would ruin the moment for us all, leaving me sad and them adrift on a sea of worry and doubt. Better that they meet Elliot in person, for I was certain that his charm, sensitivity, warmth and sophistication would win them over and dispel any doubts about their daughter’s choice of a husband.

Well, it didn’t quite go as planned. During dinner and afterward, as we sat rigidly in the living room with our coffees, there were numerous awkward silences occasionally punctuated by nervous coughs, most of them mine. The tension was almost palpable.

When they saw us to the door, Dad gave me a hug and somewhat tentatively shook Elliot’s hand. Mom, who I knew would have given my intended a kiss on the cheek and maybe even a hug had he been nearer my own age, simply extended her hand, much as she might to one of Dad’s business associates. Once we were back in Elliot’s car, as we started away from the house, he took my hand in his and said, “It’ll be all right, sweetheart. We just have to give them time.” I didn’t know what to think.

Today, a year and a half later, Elliot is proving to be something of a prophet. Slowly but surely, my folks are making this difficult adjustment. They have come to accept my decision not to have children (hence, no grandchildren for them), and if Elliot is still not the one they would have chosen for their only daughter, they now respect and even admire him for the man he is. And knowing how happy I am with Elliot certainly has helped them to come to terms with our marriage.

I must confess that in the beginning, I had some nagging doubts about Elliot’s virility, all as a result of his preferring to wait until our wedding night to bed me. While I found this rather charming and romantic, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more to it. I had always enjoyed sex a lot, and the thought that my husband-to-be might want to wait until we were married to reveal a dwindling capacity for sexual relations was disquieting. I started thinking back to Mark, a young lawyer I had dated for almost a year, who often fucked me to a state of happy exhaustion. Would I have now to be content with sex maybe once a week, if that?

Of course, I should have known better than to worry. On our wedding night, Elliot proved a consummate lover whose extraordinary stamina, experience and wonderfully wicked imagination had me coming again and again. It was I who finally called a halt to the lusty proceedings, my voice hoarse and my body limp as spaghetti. I remember drifting off to a blissful sleep thinking that, compared to my husband, Mark, the young stud, was just an apprentice at making love.

Elliot continues to satisfy me sexually more than I ever dreamed possible, arriving home horny as hell almost every night, even after a grueling day at the office. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was taking something, some magic sex pill that no one but him has access to. We’ve done it in every position imaginable and in some I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest fantasies. Joyfully I gulp down his tasty semen, making a great show of licking him clean afterward. I thrill to the moment he comes inside me, his semen spilling into my pussy. And I relish the feel of his long, slender cock burrowing ever deeper in my upraised bottom.

Anal sex was something I had never permitted my dates, but Elliot, with great patience and skill, has shown me how exciting and satisfying it can be for both of us. Today I welcome him back there, his magical mouth and knowing fingers often making me so hot that before I know it, I’m on my stomach and lifting my ass up to him in lewd invitation, desperate for the feel of his cock thrusting in my bottom as I finger my clit to a dynamite orgasm.

When I tell Elliot how wonderful he is in bed, which I do quite often, he simply smiles and says that I deserve all the credit. I inspire him, he says. I make him feel young, “hornier than a twenty-two-year-old sailor on shore leave.”

Well, that’s nice to hear, of course, and I like to think that I’m at least somewhat responsible for my husband’s dynamic performances in bed, yet I can’t help but think that his past is peppered with marathon lovemaking sessions that left countless women sighing with contentment, savoring that well-fucked feeling and wondering if they would ever again meet such a marvelous lover who would take them to such soaring heights.

I want to tell you briefly what Elliot and I did last Saturday night. It was Fantasy Night, which we have once a month, and it was my turn to choose the fantasy. I decided that we would play the College Girl and the Professor, which we’ve done a number of times because it’s one of my favorites. The twenty-six-year difference in our ages makes it easy for us to slip into our respective roles, and we act them to the hilt.

Well, Elliot began by lecturing me on my study habits, bringing up the dismal effort I had made on my last paper. I was defiant, informing him that I had better things to do than study his stupid lessons. This, naturally, led to Elliot spanking me. It was an old-fashioned bare-bottom spanking that had me shrieking in horror, bawling like a baby and so aroused that when he finally put me on my feet, I could hardly stand. My bottom was blazing, as was my pussy, and the scene quickly shifted to the bed, with Elliot, no longer the professor, and me, no longer the coed, coupling in a frenzy of lust. I was babbling, totally incoherent, by the time he sent his hot, sticky semen flooding into my already-drenched pussy.

Now, ladies, I ask you, when was the last time your twenty- or thirty- or forty-year-old lover put you in seventh heaven with a fucking so beautiful, you were walking on clouds for days afterward? And no, you can’t borrow my husband for the night.