The stories are true, I’ve only changed names to keep from causing trouble for anyone.I’m not sure where to start, so I’ll begin out of order, j...st writing about what comes into my memory.She was from Ahmedabad and her name was Sweta. She was a mature woman in her mid 40’s and it was obvious she had been very attractive in the past. She still was, and her only tribute to the aging process was long blonde hair that was interlaced with some gray. I never saw her with make-up, only in spa. I was very nervous. In all the years I’d been coming to the club I’d never been near the changing rooms. But I took a deep breath, grabbed the bottles and headed over. The changing room door was shut. I knocked and heard a shout, “Come in.” I swung the door open - and I had fallen for it, the oldest trick in the book for rugby guys. I was surrounded by cock, more cock, and bulging muscles everywhere. I was in shock and, blushing, I looked around the room of hot guys and big dicks looking for. Until you tell me you do, we can't go past where we are now."In a funny way, I found myself knowing what she meant by that. It was like something finally clicked on inside my brain. Telling her I loved her wasn't the final step that I'd been treating it as being. It was just another milestone along the pathway of our future together. An important milestone, to be sure, but not the end all and be all that I'd been making it out to be. For the first time in awhile, I felt myself relaxing around. After another few minutes of talking, she seemed to come to a decision, and she stood up, stepped closer to me, and slipped off her sandals. “Wayne,” she said, in a tone she always used when she was going to ask me for a favour. “Yes, Louise,” I answered. “There’s something…,” she paused, “…something I’d like you to do.” “What’s that?”, I asked, smiling back up at her. “Me,” she answered, simply, and then she turned and climbed onto the couch, straddling me, but facing.