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My waiter, Rene poured me a glass of champagne. I didn’t order it, he knew. It was one of France’s finest champagnes, my favorite, and the restaurant always kept a few bottles in their cellar for me.

“Thank you, Rene.”

“Of course, monsieur.” He turned to the woman, “has madame decided on something to drink before dinner?”

“I’m thinking.”

I interrupted. “Rene, offer the lady a glass of my champagne.”

Don’t get the wrong idea. She might have been over seventy, and her attitude didn’t indicate she would lower herself for a boy like me. Although I was almost as elegantly dressed as she was: white dinner jacket, black bow tie, I was twenty-five and my baby face made me look even younger. It was just a friendly gesture. Besides, there was no way I could drink an entire bottle of champagne by myself.

“Thank you, monsieur. That’s very kind of you. This is my favorite champagne, too. Santé!" She took a small sip and looked at me. “Monsieur, would you care to join me?”

This happened numerous times before, sometimes with women as old as my mother. As you know, I wasn’t opposed to fucking, eating or getting blowjobs from women like Margeaux Babineau or Claudia St. Germain, but this woman seemed to be far out of my league.

And even though I was dressed appropriately and acted appropriately, I got the sense that she looked down on me for my youth and the fact that I seemed like an impostor in a place as elegant as the Classic.

Throughout dinner, Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte was curious about me. “Monsieur, what are you doing at the Classic?”

“I live just a few hundred meters up the beach and come here on occasional for dinner.”

“You are here on holiday?”

“No, I own a home here.”

“You own a home here? But you’re an American, and so young. Are you with your parents or married?”

“No, ma’am, I live alone and don’t cook much. And you madame?”

Her nose was still in the air, “I live in Paris, but keep a suite here, even though I’m only here for a few weeks a year.”

Later, I found that by “keep a suite,” she meant that she actually owned a suite on the top floor of the hotel. It was all hers, except when the hotel had important guests such as presidents, prime ministers, kings, queens, princes or princesses. Then they asked her if she would make it available.

Her home in Paris was a historic mansion in the 16th. She also had a chalet in one of the most expensive towns in the French Alps.

I was surprised when after dinner, Rene came by and asked if we’d like dessert. “Monsieur Marty, in my suite I have a bottle of the very same champagne that we’ve enjoyed with dinner. May I interest you in an after dinner drink?”

After all that had happened to me, I was still naïve. I couldn’t imagine, even after Mrs. Wilton, Madame Babineau and Madame St. Germain that a woman of her age and her status would have any interest in someone like me.

In her suite, “Marty, why don’t you open the champagne while I change? I have to get out of these heels and corset.” I didn’t think women wore corsets anymore. Mrs. Wilton didn’t wear one. I remember my grandmother wore one but only when she went out.

Women had said this to me before and usually came out of the bathroom or their bedroom with something that took my breath away. More than once a young woman had come out naked. “Marty, do you like what you see?” Of course I did.

That wasn’t Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte. When she reappeared, she was wearing an elegant gown that revealed nothing. Her lips were freshly painted that striking red.

I’d poured the champagne. “Thank you, Monsieur Marty, santé!" We took a sip. “Monsieur, do you know why I invited you here?”

I looked puzzled. I was certain it wasn’t for sex.

“Monsieur, I collect young men; usually men in their forties. Men who would allow me to enjoy what they have to offer, but I’ve rarely been with a boy.” She put her hand on my thigh. “Monsieur Marty, do you have something, a present, perhaps, that I might enjoy?”

“Ummm, I-I-I. . . “ I stuttered. Her mouth, then her tongue engaged mine. I was in shock. I was in even more shock when in moments her hand was rubbing my crotch.

“Monsieur, if you are interested in what I have to offer a young man, I will be waiting in my bedroom. If not, you can see your way out.” Yes, she was that blunt.

She turned and walked to her bedroom. There was no ass wiggling to entice me. No sly smile.

I sat there. Like I say stunned. I was certain that what she had to offer was fucking me, and maybe a blowjob.

I wasn’t all that excited for either with a woman her age.

On the other hand, it was getting late and I didn’t foresee a better offer. Besides, it was only one night; perhaps only one hour. What the hell.

Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte was waiting; still dressed. “Why don’t you get undressed, Monsieur Marty. Let me see what you have for me.”

Okay, I thought. Going back to Mrs. Wilton, women, especially mature women, seemed to be impressed by my cock. Maybe, this woman might be, too, but I was skeptical. Nothing seemed to impress her except herself. She was sitting on her bed, but her nose was still high in the air.

Don’t get the wrong idea. I doubt I’ve given you any indication that I’m an exhibitionist; in fact, you probably know I’m somewhat shy.

I undressed slowly; not really ready for this old lady to see me naked. When I was naked except for my boxers, she stood up and then got on her knees. “Let me open my present myself.”

And just like that, those boxers were around my ankles.

I may not have been an exhibitionist and she may have been an old lady, but I was still twenty-five. My cock got harder and harder the more clothes I took off. By the time Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte dropped my underwear, it was almost fully erect.

You know I’d seen that reaction before. She gasped aloud, “Marty, I’ve never . . .”

Then she was kissing my cock all over. To my joy, those striking red lips began making inch by inch disappear.

You know I’ve had good blowjobs before. Strike that, I’ve had great blowjobs before. Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte was in a class by herself. Actually, she was in the same class as Rania. Like I said, women just fell into my lap.

I was in awe looking down at her, bobbing up and down, taking more and more.

With a mouthful of cock, naturally, it was difficult to talk, but she mumbled, “gorgeous, magnificent, so big, so hard, so young.”

Mrs. Wilton taught me to wait as long as possible. Taught is probably the wrong word, trained is better.

Now, I waited and waited, enjoying those lips sliding up and down my long, fat shaft. “Hmmmmmm, hmmmmmmm, hmmmmmmm,” noisily Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte sucked.

Momentarily, she took it out, “please, monsieur, give it to me.” For a woman of her stature, it seemed strange, it sounded like she was begging. Her eyes said she was begging.

Then it was back in her mouth and in another few minutes, I exploded. “Hmmmmm, hmmmmmmmm, hmmmmmmmm.” She kept my cock deep in her mouth until she’d swallowed every drop.

“Thank you, Monsieur Marty. I know it will be a little while, but I’d like more. Come up on the bed and rest.”

My knees had been wobbling. I was thankful for the bed. Madame joined me with her hand on my now deflating cock. “Thank you, monsieur, it’s rare that I have a cock so young, and Marty, I’ve never had one as big and as delicious. Thank you.”

It was less than an hour later, that she was on her knees, and encouraging another erection. At my age, I was ready to accommodate her. While I was resting, she’d fixed her make-up and that lipstick.

Now those lips were sliding up and down my cock again. For a woman her age, there was no quit in those lips. Of course, the second time was going to take a lot longer; that did not deter Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte. She was just as enthusiastic and just as relentless as the first time.

As you might suspect, there wasn’t nearly as much that second time.

When she’d made sure she’d swallowed it all, she rolled on her back, still dressed, “thank you, Monsieur,” and went to sleep.

Half an hour later, I dressed and left. I wasn’t invited to stay. It seemed to me that the Madame saw me as just a young, hard cock for her pleasure.

It wasn’t a long walk to my home and I could use the fresh air. Besides, I needed time to think about what happened. In fact, I wondered if it really happened.

Yes, it had, and it was confirmed two mornings later.

I heard a noise outside my home: the road side, not the beach side. Looking out the window, there was a Rolls Royce stopping in front of my home.

This was unusual for many reasons. Although there were people far wealthier than me living in the area, the roads built centuries ago, were not wide enough to handle big cars. Most people rode Vespas, tiny Fiats or Mini Coopers.

Secondly, ostentatiousness seemed to be frowned upon here.

The driver opened the rear door and outstepped Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte, dressed as elegantly as that night in the dining room of the Classic.

I opened the front door for her. “Excuse me, Monsieur Marty, after the other night, I just had to see you again. The hotel is very protective of their clients’ privacy, but for me they were willing to make an exception. They gave me your address.”

She waved the driver away and waltzed in. “May I offer you a cup of coffee or tea?”

“Oh Marty, I did not come here for coffee. I hope you understand what a woman like me needs and wants.” I closed the front door. She got on her knees right in the foyer.

That morning there were two blowjobs just as fabulous as the first time, and as good as I’d ever had.”

In a bathroom, she fixed her make-up and lipstick. “Thank you, Monsieur.” The Rolls was waiting out front for her. She looked as chic and elegant as she had when she’d arrived.

Over the next week, Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte arrived unannounced on two more occasions, and the same happened the following week.

To be clear, there were always two blowjobs; two amazing blowjobs with those striking red lips wrapped around the shaft of my cock. There was always something like, “Thank you, Marty. It’s so big, so hard, so young, so delicious;” during and after.

It was on a visit about two weeks after that first dinner At the Classic, “Marty, I appreciate you’re allowing me to fulfill my most decadent fantasies. I have this thing about cock, and you certainly have that; big, hard, young, but is there anything else I can do for you or you want?”

Like I said, I was shy, but ever since Mrs. Wilton introduced me to eating pussy, her old pussy, I’ve always had a thing for cunnilingus, and there was something about older pussy.

I’d never hesitated with Margeaux Babineau or Claudia St. Germain. “Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte, this might be too much to ask . . .”

“Ask, monsieur. After all, I’ve been getting everything I could dream of.” At the moment, we were lying in my bed, and less than a half hour ago she’d finished. Her hand was on my cock, trying to revive it.

I told her.

She looked stunned but smiled. “What is it with young men and my old pussy?”

“Madame after what you’ve been doing to me, I’d do just about anything to please you and I’ve found that most women are pleased by having their pussy eaten? I was hoping you were one of those women.”

As it turned out Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte was seventy-three and was a little uncomfortable getting naked in front of anyone.

“Let’s do this. Come to the Classic, perhaps 9 PM. It’ll be dark. I’ll leave a key for you at the front desk and I’ll be in bed. I can’t imagine why you’d want to, but I suppose just as I have my fantasy; you have yours.”

That night, her suite was as dark as it could be; almost as if she had blackout curtains.

I was dressed casually, and before joining her in bed, I stripped down to my boxers. “Thank you for coming, Marty. I’m a little nervous about this.” She pulled back the blankets. It was a confession I didn’t expect from a woman who was so self-assured.

Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte wasn’t naked, but as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see she was wearing a short, white negligee. “Marty, I still don’t know why you want it, but it’s all yours.” She spread her legs apart.

There wasn’t much foreplay. In fact, I considered all those times she gave me blowjobs, foreplay.

In the darkness, I could see her dark bush. I maneuvered between her legs, and rubbed my face in. “Madame, your fragrance is intoxicating.”

She sighed and held my head in her hands.

I have no idea what you think of eating old pussy, but my experience with Mrs. Wilton, Margeaux Babineau, Frau Schmidt and Claudia St. Germain, among others, gave me, perhaps, a different perspective than yours.

My tongue started. My tongue started and didn’t stop. “Madame, not only is your fragrance intoxicating, but your taste is beyond compare,” I mumbled.

With my head in her hands, Madame slowly fucked my face and sighed, while my tongue fucked her pussy hole and licked her slit. As she’d bobbed up and down on my shaft, I licked her slit up and down.

Her sighs became moans. When my tongue found her clitoris those moans became louder and louder and she fucked my face more vigorously.

By moaning louder and louder, I mean the unperturbed Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte, “OOOOOOOOH, OOOOOOOOH MARTY, OOOOH, OOOOH MY PUSSY, MY PUSSY, MY PUSSY’S ON FIRE. KEEP EATING ME. YES OOOOOH YES. MY PUSSY LOVES YOUR TONGUE.”

To be honest, I stopped because I feared she’d have a heart attack. “Please Monsieur, keep going. I want to feel like that again.”

For the first time, we spent the night together.

“Marty, let me thank you for last night.” Madame said in the morning. She started to go down on me.

I’ve told you that Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte was an incredible cocksucker. Who would reject such an offer?

I did. “Madame, I would be honored if you allowed me to continue where I left off last night.”

“In the daylight?” She adjusted that thigh-length nightgown while laying on her back; covering as much as possible. “You don’t really?”

“I do.” Through that negligee, I kissed her breast, then lower, lifting the hem of the nightie as I went.

I never lie to women. The truth is I’ve never been near a pussy that smelled bad; I’ve never eaten a pussy that tasted bad. I’ve had good fucks and I’ve had great fucks. Good blowjobs and great blowjobs.

I may have exaggerated a little, but nothing interfered with my quest to eat pussy. I was the same with nineteen-year-old Suzette as I was with seventy-three-year-old Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte.

That’s another thing, I always called her Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte. Never Elvira, and later in our relationship, she’d call me on the phone, “Monsieur Marty it’s Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte.”

I thought that Madame’s orgasms were more intense this morning. She fucked my face more vigorously and moaned more loudly.

As Madame suggested first thing this morning, after my tongue brought her more than one orgasm, she insisted on blowing me. Hard to believe, she was even better than over the past few weeks.

Over the next week, I ate more pussy and Madame reciprocated with fabulous blowjobs. Then she went back to Paris.

We agreed to see each other. “Monsieur Marty, when I know I’m coming to Agde, you will make this available to me?” At the moment, she had my foreskin rolled back and those red lips were playing with my cockhead. Who says no to that?

Over the next five years, two or three times a year for no more than five days, Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte flew from Paris and spent most of those days with my cock in her mouth and I insisted on eating her pussy.

If you know me, you know that I made sure that even as she came close to eighty that I got some pussy. What may surprise you is that her almost eighty-year-old pussy tasted just as good as twenty-year-old pussy.

After she left, I wasn’t celibate, but to be honest I always compared blowjobs to Madame Beauregard-Wilmotte’s.

Except for Claudia St. Germain and Margeaux Babineau, most of the women I slept with were here on holiday. One night, one weekend. Nothing more and I was fine with that.

One late Fall Saturday morning, I woke up to my usual routine, put on a pot of coffee, opened the currents, letting the morning sun in.

I watched the girls and women on the beach. There weren’t as many as usual. It was unseasonably warm, but for most their holiday ended with the end of summer.

This morning was typical except right below my balcony, beyond my pool, on the beach, laying on a chaise with her legs slightly spread and her pussy facing me was the blackest woman I’d ever seen.

TO BE CONTINUED

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