Chapter 1

Agatha Wilcox wife of Reverend Phillip Wilcox, having recently celebrated her fifty-first birthday is spending a week at the shore by herself while her husband is attending his annual conference. Still a vibrant, attractive woman Agatha is going through a late mid-life crisis. Sex with her husband is unsatisfying in most cases. She has grown tired of the fishbowl she is forced to live in as a pastor’s wife and is desperately seeking a change in her life. She hopes this week at the beach will give her some clarity as to how she will cope with her demanding role.

Lying on the orange and blue striped beach towel her butt, shoulders back, and legs had molded their impression into the warm sand. Undoing the string of her bra she held her loosened top to her chest and turned to let the sun do some work on her back. The attractive, middle-aged woman wiggled her body, pressing her breasts and pubis while imagining a bas-relief of her frontal features being etched in the sand beneath her towel. Who would consider a pastor’s wife to do this kind of thing?

As the wife of a prominent cleric, Agatha Wilcox lived in a fishbowl where people judged her every move. This week alone for a whole week away from people who expected her actions to be saint-like, would be therapy she desperately needed. Having only been on the beach for an hour lying in the hot sun with the sound of breaking waves was already having the kind of restorative effect that she had craved. Soaking in the sun she listened to the joyful sounds of vacationers and their children being muted by the crashing surf. She was beginning to feel like she was part of something magical. It was a warm detachment from the intensity of her stodgy world.

Though her figure had once been a perfect hourglass two children and the onslaught of middle age thickened it more than she would have preferred. Yet her curves were still flowingly attractive. When she walked on the beach, she was pleased to sense the eyes of leering men gawking at her shapely legs which disappeared beneath the electric blue fabric of her bathing suit, ending in the hidden cleft of her mature bottom that she let sway a bit more than the Mrs. Reverend Phillip Wilcox should have. Though she knew vanity was a sin she had spent enough time through the years modeling in her mirror to know the value her assets garnered in a healthy male’s eyes which at this time felt so much naughtier.

Her opinion of herself was confirmed when, as she walked past the lifeguard tower, one of the guards, a blond, blue-eyed, buff young man smiled and said “Hello.” She laughed out loud when he grinned and held his finger to his ear and his thumb to his mouth in the traditional sign that said, “Call me.” I only wish I could she thought as she walked beyond the tower. There was no doubt in her mind that the young man was ogling her behind which gave her a wicked kind of pleasure. She giggled at the thought of the vibrant young man mentally undressing her, a fifty-year-old woman. From afar everything about her suggested a vibrant, perky young woman, a coed she thought. Laughing at her foolishness she was enjoying her fanciful thoughts.

A closer view of her face of course revealed classic lines with few wrinkles except for the fine crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. Her c-cup breasts were not perky like a coed’s, but they still held themselves at an alluringly acceptable level. Her tummy, although slightly pooched, was toned and firm. A scar on her cheekbone was invisible but when she smiled it formed a dimple. She’d been told by more than one of her husband’s parishioners that the dimple made her appear girlish, Elliot Grinnell for example. He was the man who made the cottage available free of charge. At Fifty-one Agatha was pleased that men still turned their heads to look at her with a certain lust in their eyes when she walked past.

Though she maintained the austere standards of a preacher’s wife Agatha Wilcox was becoming concerned about her increasingly rebellious thoughts. I wonder, she mused, what these people would think if I simply sat up, let my top drop, and bare my breasts. She chuckled at the image of a pastor’s wife waggling her boobs for all to see. Through the years she had fantasized about illicit pleasures with other men, thoughts that had been laced with guilt. Masturbation provided shallow release, but it was never accomplished with peace of mind. “I’m stuck,” she said to herself as she thought unless Phillip undergoes a sexual epiphany what I’ve got is all I can ever expect.

The afternoon sun baked her back and legs, soaking through the thin fabric of her blue bathing suit and toasting her bottom. She wondered if Phillip when he would see her naked at the end of the week would even notice that she had no tan lines on her back. He never notices anything I do to make myself more attractive to him she thought. But I have such a nice body, lamenting the fact that no one else would ever see it.

Resting her chin on the backs of her hands she watched children splashing in the surf, screaming, throwing sand, digging, and making sandcastles. Couples walked on the beach, many together. Her peripheral vision caught a young couple strolling toward her. Shifting her eyes, she noticed the cute brunette woman’s lithe figure and alluring breasts. The man, about six inches taller wearing tight, electric blue Speedo trunks, was bronzed and muscular with six-pack stomach muscles. His hairy, athletic legs flowed to his bulge the sight of which made Agatha tingle between her legs. I should be ashamed of myself.

The couple passed by just above Agatha’s head. His arm was draped over the girl’s shoulder. Unable to stop dwelling on the image of the bulge that was still etching itself on her brain Agatha thought, Lucky girl. She imagined how the package beneath the Speedo would become elongated and rigid as he became sexually excited. Her eyes followed the movement of his tight buns and captured the girl’s bottom, watching as the two swayed side by side. Visualizing their coupling, moving, and wiggling their tight asses to the thrusting of his glistening, rigid shaft plunging and withdrawing in between the girl’s tight young legs.

She thought of her wedding night, her honeymoon. She had been a virgin nervously anticipating what Phillip would do to her. When he finally pushed that formidable giant of a “thing” inside her vagina her fear was confirmed by a sharp pain. But it was quickly replaced with an ecstasy that was certainly more sexual joy than what she had pondered as a high school girl, at the time going steady with the sexually challenged Garven Milroy. Having once handled young Garven’s erect phallus she had been pleased that she had waited until marriage to consummate sex. That was the gift she had given Phillip, the gift of herself in such a joyful and accepting way that made her feel special. When after six strokes, he exploded inside her on their honeymoon night: she was pleased that he cried out so excitedly. But when he rolled off and turned over on his side, going to sleep without so much as a “goodnight,” she felt hurt. For the next ten days, they made love three and four times a day. Each time the newness of having him inside her was thrilling. Each time though he came so quickly that she began feeling a growing lack of fulfillment.

Alone on the crowded beach with her sexual thoughts, Agatha realized a cooling sensation between her legs. Fearing that the wet spot had become so pronounced that someone might be able to notice it shadowing her swimsuit she was troubled though this “condition” should have been blissful. Phillip had always complained about her copious wetness, calling it “off-putting.” But like a rebellious, naughty girl who liked to pee her pants, she enjoyed the feeling.

After leaving the beach she went back to the cottage, showered, and read a few chapters in her book. At 7:10 she was seated at the railing of an outdoor restaurant by the boardwalk. The sun was on its downward arc. Since her skin was tingling from overexposure to the afternoon sun she was pleased to be in the coolness of the shadows. Dressed in white Capri’s, a low-cut white and blue, striped T-top that showed a demure offering of her sun-coppered cleavage, she was relaxed. Her auburn ponytail hung through the hole of her dark blue baseball cap. Blue canvas wedges on her bare feet completed her outfit, its hue drawing out the indigo color of her eyes. Her full lips were elegantly colored by lightly applied coral lipstick.

As she took another sip from the sweat-beaded glass of chardonnay she heard, “Excuse me.” It was a young male voice. Certain it wasn’t for her ears she didn’t look in the direction from where the voice came. “Excuse me, ma’am,” the voice came through more loudly.

Looking across the railing she saw a gorgeous young man. No more than a few feet away his fit and muscular body of about six feet appeared darkly bronzed. He wore blue boxer swim trunks and a blue tank top, both with red trim, both with lifeguard insignias. His clear, cerulean eyes gleamed below a mop of curly blonde hair. His white teeth seemed to sparkle in the waning sun. She realized that it was the same young man from the lifeguard tower who had signaled with his thumb and pinkie finger, “Call me.”

“I hope you don’t mind Ma’am,” he said, “but I’ve been watching you all day. If you, do I apologize.” Without smiling, Agatha raised her eyebrows. “You look just like my aunt,” he went on, “my mom’s younger sister. I ... I couldn’t keep from looking at you ... to make sure you weren’t my Aunt Carol.”

What a line she thought, trying not to be obvious that she was scanning his body. “And just how old IS your mother’s sister?”

“38,” the young man replied. “It’s wild how much you look like her.”

Wanting to look like she was only 38 she blushed. She knew he was just being kind. She smiled, causing the fine lines of her crow’s feet to crinkle the corners of her eyes. “Well young man,” Agatha said, “that’s quite a compliment.” Holding him in her gaze she smiled almost laughing at the impossibility of such a fantasy. “Ahem,” she emphasized, “I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“Wow,” he replied, “you’d never know it. You look much younger ... like my aunt Carol.” Seeing that she was blushing he said, “I-I’m sorry ma’am, I guess I’m kind of a dweeb when I talk to girls. I’m sorry.” He backed up as if to leave.

He was so young and so incredibly sweet; his words made her tingle even though she considered them naively insincere. It had been so long since Agatha had flirted that she felt unsure of herself. “Don’t be sorry for the compliment,” she said. “You’re sweet.” Cocking her head, she grinned and asked, “And um may I ask just how OLD you are?”

Shuffling his feet the young man said, “I, I’ll be nineteen in October ma’am.”

Nineteen, she thought, just a year older than Malcolm (her son). “May I know your name?”

“ ... name’s Bart ma’am.” Chucking she extended her hand, feeling more at ease. “I’m pleased to meet you, Bart. I’m Agatha Wilcox.” The young man took her hand and shook it. Smiling, he looked around as if he were trying to find somebody. “Am I holding you up, Bart?”

“Nah, it’s nothing like that Mrs. Wilcox.” She corrected him to call her Agatha. “It’s just that I was looking to see if my buddies were around. I guess I ... I must have acted kind of rude.”

“Oh, if they’re expecting you, go on. I understand.”

“I, I’m sorry Mrs. I mean Agatha. I pointed you out on the beach to them ... told them how much you looked like my aunt ... thought, if they were around, I wanted them to let them get a closer look.” With a foolish smile, he blushed and said, “Is that dumb, or what?”

Feeling a small thrill in the pit of her stomach Agatha’s cheeks tinged a deeper pink. The young man wants to prove to his friends what an attractive woman I am. What an incredible breath of fresh air THAT is. She giggled and said, “So Bart, where ARE your friends?”

“Dunno Mrs. um ... Agatha, they could be along anytime soon; or they stopped somewhere or met some girls. Ya know how it is with guys in college.” His smile was disarming.

Yes, she thought, Malcolm’s just starting his freshman year. Charmed with Bart’s youthful enthusiasm, his lack of sophistication, and his proximity to the age of her son she coughed, trying the ruse of covering her mouth to hide her flushed face. Feeling like a young girl she giggled but felt the need to dismiss him. “Go on Bart, go on and find your friends. You have better things to do.”

“N ... No. What I’m trying to say Mrs ... Agatha is It’s good for a change to be away from them. I’m kind of a loner. I just thought they would get a kick out of seeing what a knockout my aunt is, is all.” His face reddened again. “I mean...”

She was thrilled with his compliments but felt guilty that she was flirting with such a youngster. My, my, my, she thought, if I were only 30 years younger. At the same time, she didn’t want him to leave. “You seem quite taken with your aunt Bart. How much older is she than you?” He had already told her that she was thirty-eight, twelve years younger than Agatha. But just for fun, she wanted to extend the conversation.

“Nineteen years,” he volunteered, a wave of prideful pleasure rippling over his face. “She’s an airline flight attendant, still not married. She’s hot. I mean...”

This is just too silly for me to carry on. “So, Bart, you should probably be looking for greener pastures. You’re young and should be with girls your age.” Chuckling she said, “They’re probably at the same place as your friends.”

Bart smiled and shook his head. “If you wouldn’t mind Mrs ... Agatha I would prefer to stay with you.”

Feeling that she was about to make a complete ass of herself, something he would yuk up with his buddies, she figured what the heck and offered, “If you have nothing else to do, maybe you’d like to keep this old lady company ... for dinner I mean.” She blushed at her faux pas.

His eager response caused her heart to quicken, you silly old fool. “You’re a poor college student Bart so I’m buying.” Shuffling his feet and rocking back and forth the young man’s eyes penetrated hers as if to say, ‘I don’t want you to do that,’ she thought that’s a nice trait—just the way I would like Malcolm to act.

“Are you sure Agatha?” he asked. “Are you sure that you would want to spend time with a kid like me?”

Not giving a verbal reply she looked at him with a compelling gaze. The dimple in her cheek deepened when she heard him say, “Sure Agatha, I’d love to.” Like the brash young man, he was he didn’t bother with the door, merely vaulting the railing and sitting down.

Embarrassed by his impulsive act Agatha looked around. Seeing the stares from a group of single older women she shrugged her shoulders at them saying loudly enough for them to hear, “I should teach my son better manners than that.”

They talked about Bart’s family, his studies in college, a girlfriend.

“I date. Agatha but haven’t hooked up seriously.”

When he asked about her family, he was shocked when she said her husband was the pastor of a church. “Ya mean you’re religious, like one of those holy rollers.

“My goodness no Bart,” she laughed, “We’re not Holy Rollers. Those folks are extremely conservative. We’re Methodists who are moderate. I can’t help but live a spiritual life.” She caught Bart’s look of avoidance. “As the wife of a Pastor, I certainly support my husband. Besides Bart, I’m a woman of faith as well and would be regardless of whatever my husband’s profession would be.” She looked resolutely at Bart for emphasis. “But I’m a human being as well Bart; make no mistake about that ... probably just as much a human being as your aunt.” As she tried to imagine what a thirty-eight-year-old flight attendant might be doing she blushed. Catching herself she said, “Oh Bart I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned your aunt.”

Chapter 2 »