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I knew from the moment I saw her, Cherice Parker, that I'd wind up in bed with her. It wouldn't be easy and it would take a little time, but there was instant chemistry between us. I said a few funny things. She laughed heartily. Her eyes gave her away. Cherice was gorgeous. Chiffon blondish hair, a smallish body - beautiful body, in fact, hidden by her modestly-imposed ankle-length dresses which often had a slit. She moved effortlessly, poetically, rhythmically, so carefree and stylish. All I could imagine, at times while watching Cherice, was her lips wrapped around my erect Cock. I wanted more than just an hour with her. I wanted a night, a weekend, a few nights along the coast of California - Santa Barbara, Monterey, Pismo Beach, you name it. Cherice was a romantic. Biggest difference, of course, was the ages. I was 51. She was 30. More significantly, her husband was a dashing doctor currently doing a residency at the local university. Then, of course, there was the added difficulty of sifting through the religious foundation of our church. We were both religious, but I'd learned that meant little. All it simply meant was that if I fucked a woman from church, we'd have the same foundations in life. Sure, we believed in being true to our mates, but we could always repent. Funny, I had to repent often. There was Christine Churchill, an older woman of 53 (I was 46 at the time). Married to Max, a smallish and nice gentleman, Christine effectively put him in his place one night when he wanted to go home early during a group outing. "Max," she sighed, "you always do this to me." I could sense a weakness in their relationship, so I guided myself in very carefully. Christine often spent weekends near her family in Corona del ...

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