The Merry Widow Ch. 01A

I pushed him away enough to meet his eyes.

"Say you love me," I said, unashamed of the tears or my runny nose, "you don't have to mean it, just say it."

He smiled and slowly moved close, his tongue tracing the shell of my ear, and whispered, "I love you."

The sudden increase in the pressure deep in my belly was almost unbearable but it was the next words in my ear that finished me.

"I mean it," he said, and I exploded. The release was perfect, my entire body clenched, every muscle involved, and the total relaxation that followed was like I had fainted.

He held still, deep inside of me, and I wrapped my legs around him, a move that was so natural I was sure it was instinctive.

When I could restore some tension to my muscles he started his slow, easy rhythm again and when I felt the sudden hardness of his body as he finished I was crying again, not bawling or sobbing, just crying gentle tears of ecstasy.

That was the start of my new life.

Over the next six months, my life was a series of firsts. It was as if my David was taking me to a finishing school of sexual perfection.

The first time he used his mouth to bring me to climax I told him he didn't have to do that and was oddly well, flattered, when he said he knew he didn't have to but that he wanted to. But when he did it was like nothing I had ever imagined. His tongue was warm and wet and probed, finding my clitoris until I almost couldn't breathe and then using his fingers to open me wider so he could suck my delicate inner lips, a body part I didn't even know I had until that instant.

I tried to hold back. God, his face was RIGHT there. But I couldn't and when I came he buried his face deeper, seeming to want more.

When I was finished, exhausted, spent, and he crawled up to kiss me his face was shiny with my pure pleasure. His hair was matted with it. God, he looked like he had just stepped out of a shower.

When he kissed me my scent was thick in my nose and my taste was on his lips.

That was the first time he said something to me he would say many times during our over three years together.

"Good sex," he said, smiling, "is often messy but never dirty."

So I dug my fingers into his hair, wet and slick, and pulled him down for a kiss. A good kiss I thought. He was a good teacher.

The first time he said he wanted my mouth I was reluctant. In my generation, "cocksucker" was about the worst thing you could call a girl.

But, well, by then I was already addicted to him. We were standing, we had just finished a dance, something we did a lot in those days, and I figured, as my mother used to say, "In for a penny in for a pound." So I eased to my knees, still in the dress I had on, and started working on the button and zipper of the jeans he always wore.

I felt delightfully naughty, a feeling I had come to enjoy, almost like a cheap whore, as I got his erection free and took it into my mouth.

As blowjobs go, I'm afraid my first wasn't very good. I had no technique, something else he would teach me later, and just wrapped my lips around him and started bobbing my head. Basically, I masturbated him with my lips.

When he came I was surprised, jerked free, and the second jet of his semen wound up in a thick line down the shoulder of the dress I had on. The rest ran down my chin, I wasn't yet prepared to swallow, and onto the modest buttons of my dress. Years later I surprised myself by bursting into gales of laughter when Monica Lewinsky started talking about the stains on her famous blue dress. I had similar stains on MY blue dress.

Over time he taught me, though, using my finger and his mouth as the example.

The first Friday of my new life he got home from school early and said, "Come on, Marie, we're going shopping. Bring your credit card."

"What?" I asked but, again, he was that force of nature, holding my hand and pulling me along in his wake.

"This is date night," he said, "and I really don't want to be seen with you in anything I've found in your closet."

He drove my car and we wound up in a section of town with which I was unfamiliar. He pulled into one of those little strip shopping centers that still dotted the American landscape then, before big malls and big box stores and, of course, Amazon and its competitors, pretty much killed those little stores.

The sign on the door of the store he led me to read "Mature, Not Dead."

Inside, we were greeted by a woman I guessed at 60 plus or minus five years. She had that steel grey hair we all hope to have someday but few achieve, an over-padded figure, and about eight inches of blue-veined cleavage on display. Her makeup was overdone and her jewelry was jangly. She looked, to be honest, like an over-the-hill gypsy whore.

I kind of liked the look.

"How may I help you?" she asked, her eyes moving between us, not sure, I guess, who was in charge.

"My best girl," he said and I giggled at that phrase from my childhood, "needs a wardrobe makeover. Can you help her?"

The woman, it turned out her name was Nadine or anyway that's what she said when David asked, said, "And what is the budget?"

I handed her my MasterCard and said, "My 817 credit score should cover anything."

Nadine smiled broadly and said, "Well then, come with me. You wait here," and she pointed to David and a few chairs in front of a pair of doors that I assumed were a changing room, "and have a cup of coffee or a Coke."

We left the store with a dozen boxes and for our date nights I was always, well, as he put it, "on display."

I liked it.

He was the first to cum between my titties.

He was the first to cum in my hand.

He was the first to cum in my ass, something that took both alcohol, we did tequila shots that night, and pot to persuade me to try. When I finally said yes, though, and he took me that way, I discovered that wonderful full feeling that a woman can have in no other way.

He threw away my razor and seemed to enjoy playing with the hair that my post-menopausal body seemed to sprout in the damnedest places.

One Saturday he spent all morning on my feet. I had always considered my feet as the ugliest part of my body. But when he was done, an hour soaking in a hot Epsom Salt foot bath, another hour spent with a file smoothing and shaping my horny nails, and then time with my callus remover, that little tool that looks for all the world like a tiny cheese grater taking care of bunions, corns, and that thick callus on my heel, and the brightest red nail polish in my meager collection of nail polishes, complete with the cotton balls between each toe, I thought they looked pretty darn good. I guess he did too because then he made love to them. He held my ankles together, laid his erection in the little slot between my arches, and had sex with my feet, his erection peeking out around my ankles. After he came on my shins he finished me with his mouth, not that there was much finishing needed as aroused as I was by then.

So you see how it was.

I was learning new things. Hell, I was living in a wholly new world. So when he told me about the Vet Corps and his offer of me to them, well, I resisted as long as I could.

But if I'm being honest, and why wouldn't I be, I knew from the start that eventually I'd say yes. By then I was as addicted to him and what he did to me as any heroin addict shooting up on a San Francisco street.