College Widow

The college widow was born in 1850. During the war she
lost her heart to an older boy who went off to the Union
Army. He was killed in the fighting.

After the war, she was educated at one of the first new
colleges for young women. A visiting male professor
courted and married her. They were wed the day after her
graduation and went off to honeymoon in Europe.

He was 48, she was 22. He was virile and experienced and
on their honeymoon he taught her the art of love. She
had her first orgasm on ship in the middle of the
Atlantic, one night late after midnight, and a purser
passing by on the deck heard her little cry.

That was exactly 10 days after she had sex for the first
time.

“It’s not going to hurt too much?” she had asked.

“You’ll see! It’s not so bad.”

“Well, what do you think?” he asked, after it was over.

“It did hurt, you know.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“I hope so.”
She got up her nerve to ask. “I don’t suppose you’ve
done this sort of thing before?”

He laughed. “I’ve never been married before. I’m 48
years old and I lived on the Continent for two years.
What do you think, hmm?”

“I think you seemed quite sure of what you were doing.”

“Never ask a man my age about his past,” he laughed. “I
can assure you of one thing — I never married anyone
before. You’re my first and only wife.”

“You knew when it was going to hurt.”

“Oh that! Well, I never did that to a girl before. I
just knew from talking to the doctor, and books. I never
“deflowered” a virgin before.”

“Deflowered! So that’s what they call it?”

“Um-hmm.”

“But whatever for?”

“It’s like a flower, is it not? So — the tight bud of
the flower has been forcibly opened and the petals
plucked.”

She blushed down to the roots. “Well, I suppose that’s a
metaphor.

I won’t say I feel plucked.”

“Something that rhymes with plucked,” he smiled.

“What rhymes with plucked?”

She honestly didn’t know.

“I’ll have to give you a language lesson,” he said. She
learned eleven new words.

“But why is it called a “prick”?, she asked.

“Because it “pricks” you in the cunny.”

“More than a prick — it felt like being shot with a
cannon.”

“Hmmm, that’s a good one. Say, do you feel like being
shot again?”

“No!”

“Well, maybe we’ll wait ’til tomorrow then. It won’t
hurt so much the next time.”

“You don’t know,” she said.

“Husbands and wives do it every night.”

“They do?” she asked, wide eyed. She had no idea.

“You’ll see!” He laughed.

It did not go in easily at first. His hard prick hurt
her tender young cunt. She had never even put her
fingertip in there before. Her snug little hole was so
tight you could have sharpened a pencil in it, at first.
Gradually she relaxed and expanded to take his penis
inside her. It felt like she was giving birth. Hot tears
ran down her cheeks, but she was brave and told him
“don’t stop”.

The second night it went easier and by the fifth night
he could slide it right in without hurting her although
she felt it. Lord how she felt it!

It was several nights later in the voyage out that it
finally went right. The purser had noticed the pretty
young bride, and as he passed by their cabin he glanced
at the open porthole, wondering if the newlyweds were
“at it” again.

Through the curtain covering the open porthole wafted a
startled little cry. The purser raised his eyebrows, and
moved on.

“Oh goodness,” she said, when she had caught her breath.
“Goodness gracious me!”

“There — did that feel like being shot with a cannon?”
her husband asked.

“Oh yes — but in a nice way.”

“Want me to shoot you again?”

“Oh, I think so. Yes.”

He smiled. “Well, you’ll have to wait — until it gets
hard again.”

“Will I have to wait long?”

“You’ll see.” He looked down at himself. His thick
cannon was curled up in repose in its little nest of
curly hair.

“Why does it have to wait?”

“No one knows.”

“This is the most wonderful feeling in the world. Do
other women feel what I just felt?”

“Would you have the nerve to ask your women friends?”

“No!”

“Well, I wouldn’t dare ask them either.”

After a pause, he added: “From what I’ve read I don’t
think you’re the only one, though.”

“It would be nice if I was,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because then I would be the happiest woman in the
world.”

“I thought you were the happiest woman in the world.”

“I am now,” she smiled.

She put her hand on his thick manly cock and stroked it
gently.

“Hurry up and get it hard again!” she said, with a
twinkle in her eye.

“You’re pretty forward for a 22 year old girl.” He felt
her breasts and tweaked her stiff little nipples.

“Wouldn’t you like to nuzzle them some more?” she asked.

“Your wish is my command, princess.”

He brought his head down and began to suck gently on her
firm young breast. Her stiff nipple rose into his mouth
and she sighed.

She cuddled his penis gently with her fingertips. “So
this is the cross I have to bear.”

“Hmm?” he mumbled with a mouthful of tit.

“Mrs. McGillicuddy told me that marital relations are
the cross a young bride has to bear.”

“Well, not every man does it as well as I do, I
suppose.”

“Perhaps some men have bigger “pricks” than yours?
Because I think yours is about as big as a woman could
stand, without it killing her.”

“Hmm, that’s a backhanded compliment if I ever heard
one. I’m sure mine is as big as a woman could stand, and
you may tell your woman friends so if they ask-”

“Never!” she cried.

“–but on the other hand, I think it doubtful that many
men have bigger ones. Of course I have no way of
knowing, for sure, but I would prefer to doubt it.”

“Then what’s the explanation?”

“Two factors: one, the woman is adequately prepared by
the tender, loving action of the man’s mouth and
fingertips on the sensitive parts of her body –”

“Yes, you do that very well,” she said.

“–and, two, the man rests his weight on his elbows
while doing it,
so as not to crush his bride; and three –”

“You said two reasons.”

“– three, the man has enough stamina to continue with
deep vaginal thrusting for ten minutes or more, to give
his wife’s excitement enough time to build to a
crescendo.”

“Yes, that was it. You think other men don’t do those
things?”

“Man comes home tired after a long day at work, has a
few shots of whisky –”

“Disgusting!” she cried.

“Well, not me — some other fellow. I took the pledge
years ago. So he has a few shots of whisky and then goes
to bed. He’s tired and drunk and he climbs heavily on
his wife, fumbles around and puts his engorged organ in
her before she is ready, lies heavily on her, rams her a
dozen times until he spurts and then rolls off and falls
heavily asleep, keeping her awake with his loud
snoring.”

“A dozen times? How many times did you ram me?” she
asked.

“Oh, let’s see. Once a second for ten minutes…that
would be 600 times.”

“I would say once every two seconds. It’s thrust,
withdraw, pause, thrust, withdraw, pause…” she said
thoughtfully.

“Three hundred times, then.”

“Three hundred! My goodness. And you think poor Mrs.
McGillicuddy…”

“Well, I have never met the woman, nor her husband. But
I would imagine, yes.”

“And if I ever told her about you and me–?”

“To what avail? Her husband is not going to change his
habits, at his age. She’s already resigned to “bearing
the cross”, and perhaps she feels a certain secret
satisfaction at playing the martyr. And you never know,
she might have been lying.”

“Why?”

“To prepare you for the worst — if it wasn’t any good.”

“I don’t think I could ever tell her,” she said. “And if
I did — suppose she was tempted to steal you from me!”

He laughed. “A girl of 22 worrying about such things! I
suppose they let you read French novels at college.”

“I think a woman in love knows instinctively to fear
another woman, even if she’s never read a French novel
in her life.”

“Well, I doubt old Mrs. McGillicuddy is much of a threat
to you.

I picture a stout old Irish washerwoman.”

“She’s not that at all. Her husband is a stockbroker,
and she’s no older than you.”

“Still in the first blush of her youth, eh? At 48? I
don’t think she’s much of a threat to you, love.”

“Do men prefer younger women, then?”

“Not at all! But I made an exception for you.”

“Oh, you liar. You could have had your pick of any of
the girls at my school — and you knew it. I saw the way
you looked at Miranda Holcomb.”

“Who?” he pretended.

“Would you have asked her to marry you, if I had turned
you down?

Or did you ask her first– and I was your second
choice?”

“I never. You are the only girl I made up to at your
school, I swear.”

She squeezed his penis with her hand. “Your thing got
bigger when I mentioned her,” she accused.

It was swelling bigger.

“You’ve been touching it. That makes it get bigger.”

“Is there any particular way I should touch it to make
it get big faster?” she asked.

“Hmm, yes. Let me show you.” He gave her a lesson in
penis handling for virgin brides.

It got stiff.

“I’m going to time you, and see how many thrusts it
takes to make me climax,” she said brightly. She got out
the bedside windup ship’s clock.

She lost count several times, but she checked the clock
afterward and did the arithmetic — it took 402 thrusts
to her climax.

“I can’t imagine a bride doing bedroom arithmetic in my
father’s day,” he said.

“Well, perhaps that is the result of a young lady
getting a college education, and being trained to think
scientifically.”

“I think you got a seduction, instead.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Was it good?”

“It was heaven,” she said. “Do you think that means I’ll
have a baby?”

“There’s no connection, I think. However, it has been
suggested in the literature that perhaps when the
woman’s cunny is spasming like that, the contraction
sucks the man’s sperm into the womb, assisting
impregnation.”

“But…I had my climax before you spurted into me, not
after. So it didn’t help.”

“If I had spurted first, my prick would have gotten soft
and you would not have had your climax at all. So I
doubt that theory is correct.”

Looking back on it, years later, she wistfully recalled
that it had been a wonderful honeymoon. She remembered
the first cascade of ecstasy mounting and overwhelming
her body, that first time, as clearly as if it had been
yesterday. Nothing would ever be as unexpectedly
wonderful as that.

After their honeymoon they returned to the pretty New
England college town where he held a chair at a small
but distinguished college for men.

He owned a small house that he shared with another
bachelor professor.

He sold it and bought a bigger house for her,
anticipating children. She had a miscarriage, and later
gave birth to a child that died in infancy. There were
no more pregnancies after that.

He died of a stroke, one afternoon at the age of 64, in
his study.

She was 38.

She came into full possession of the large house and a
modest amount of money. To make ends meet she decided to
keep the house and take in boarders from the college.
There was room to take in four boys.

She kept a cook who prepared three meals a day which she
served at the large table in the dining room, and a maid
that did her best to keep the place clean, to the extent
that was possible with four college boys in the house.
The boys wouldn’t leave the maid, a pretty Irish girl,
alone, and finally the widow sent her off and replaced
her with a stout, older woman with a face like a
fireplug. The boys left the new maid alone after that.

It was the last straw when she walked into the kitchen
and found one of the boys with his hand on the backside
of the young maid’s skirt, catching a feel of her
bottom. The maid squealed and giggled, and went pale
when she turned around and saw the widow standing in the
doorway.

“That will be enough of that,” the widow said coolly.

“They won’t leave me alone, mum.”

“I know.” She gave the Irish girl a month’s wages and
sent her off.

She couldn’t help feeling a twinge of envy at the sight
of the two youngsters flirting, though.

Sadly, in the last years of their marriage her husband’s
powers of virility in the marital bed had diminished;
even as her own sexual powers and yearnings steadily
increased.

Secretly, to her shame and chagrin, she learned how to
relieve herself by masturbating. She discovered the
pleasant feeling by accident, and didn’t dare ask the
doctor if it was as unhealthy for women as it was for
men.

Under the counterpane her delicate fingers stole down
and lifted her nightshirt. With the lights out, the
grandfather clock ticking softly in the hall, her head
resting on the soft goose down pillow with her eyes shut
tight, she let her hand lie between her thighs.

She felt the pleasant warmth steal up her loins, and
then her fingertips brushed ever so gently at the
entrance to her mound. She felt the soft downy curls and
pressed at the warm folds of flesh under them.

Softly, her fingertips traced a line along the edges of
her labia, feeling them gently, until they puffed out
slightly, and then her exploring fingertips felt a
slight moistness lubricating them, as they slid in a
long elliptical path around the sides of her labia,
circling around the outer rim of her vulva like an ice
skater.

Her fingertips grew moist and she carefully touched the
very tip of her forefinger against the side of the hard
nubbin. The tight ring of vaginal muscle clamped hard
when she did this. She traced the patterns her husband
had taught her with his tongue, stroking her puffy
labial lips, teasing her taut little clitoris, finally
trilling it gently as she brought herself nearer and
nearer to the big exciting climax that finally burst
over her like a summer shower.
Her husband’s death came suddenly, but it was not a
total shock. His health had been declining for years.

She wore black for a year. All of the men she knew were
the friends of her husband, or the husbands of her
friends, and all of them were married, except for a
couple of confirmed bachelors with no interest in the
fairer sex. It seldom happened that a man pressed her
hand in a meaningful way.

There were four lively young men boarding in the house
now, whom she thought of as the sons she never had.
Sometimes they reminded her of the boy who had been lost
in the war, and when one of them wanted to enlist in the
cavalry she begged him, with tears in her eyes, not to
go. He had never had a woman look at him that way and he
did not go.

Once a week on bath night the maid boiled gallons and
gallons of hot water. The boys took turns in the
washtub. What with four boys going in and out of the
wash room, in various states of undress, the widow
sometimes caught a glimpse of strong legs and muscular
naked chests.

Sometimes the boys would be whooping and snapping towels
at each other and the widow would see them passing by,
oblivious to her presence, clad in nothing more than a
towel wrapped around each boy’s waist like a loincloth.

Once when the big washtub was set up in the kitchen she
couldn’t resist peeking in to catch a glimpse of the
dripping bodies of the virile young studs cavorting and
splashing in their towels and linen. Well, they weren’t
entirely naked, and it was only a peek!

Her eyes grew bright at the brief glimpse she caught.
When the last boy was done and on his way back to his
room she intercepted him — he was not even dressed,
with a thick flannel towel wrapped around him, carrying
his pants and shirt — and asked him to empty out the
tub for her and bring it to her room so she could bathe
too.

“May I put my trousers on first?” he asked.

“No need. It will only take a second.”

He had great difficulty emptying the washtub out without
losing the towel, which made her laugh. They carried it
to her room together. There were kettles still boil on
the stove and a bucket for the well pump, and she
brought in the hot kettles while he brought buckets of
cold well water and together they half-filled the tub.

She was tempted to flirt.

“The maid’s gone to bed,” she said softly. “Would you
mind?”

“Mind what?” he asked with a sophomore’s obtuseness.

“I’ve got no one to unfasten my buttons. It’s very hard
without the maid to help. Would you do it for me?”

She smiled at him with demurely downcast eyes.

Well, he had four sisters and he had been expected to
help a girl with her fastenings before. He didn’t mind
in the least.

She closed the door, flushing slightly. She really
shouldn’t be behind a closed door with a young man she
was not married to, undressing. Of course the boys were
like sons to her.

She turned her back and said, “Well, all right then.
Start with the top buttons.”

He brought his hands up and fumbled with the first tight
little button, working it out of the little loop of
thread.

She could feel his hands trembling slightly. It was hard
to tell because she was trembling slightly herself.

“These buttons are deuced tight,” he complained.

He took his time and carefully unbuttoned a dozen small
buttons from their loops. The back of her dress started
to gape open and he caught a glimpse of the white woolen
corset cover she wore over her corset.

“So, what do you think of the foot-ball squad’s chances
against Amherst?” she asked.

“Well, the boys say they are ready to paste Amherst
good,” he said. “I reckon they have not got anyone on
their squad that can run like Bill.”

Bill was in his sixth year of undergraduate study. The
professor who coached the foot-ball squad would not let
him graduate. Several professors had even conspired to
give him undeserved flunking grades in order to keep him
on the team.

“Oh yes, Bill can run like a steam engine, can he not? I
saw him play against Princeton last year — they could
not stop him. They had to halt the game because the
score was so lopsided, do you remember?”

Several more buttons came unbuttoned. He was down to the
skirt now.

“Well, that’s all of them,” he said. He started to go,
heading toward the door.

“Wait, you’re not done yet. I’ll need some more
assistance once I get this off.”

She pulled the dress down off her shoulders, struggled
to wiggle the skirt down and then stepped out of the big
crinoline and cotton mass.

He watched her dumbfounded. She was standing in front of
him in her frilly white corset cover.

It covered her from her neck to her knees. She had white
stockings on her legs and boots laced tightly over them.
She sat on her bed and took her boots off as he watched.

Then she stood up, turned her back to him, and
unbuttoned her corset cover.

As it came open, he saw her corset, and above it, her
bare shoulders.

He was dazed. He stood behind her. Her auburn hair was
piled up tight on her head, but a stray wisp had worked
its way free and lay upon her soft white neck.

“My husband used to do this for me,” she said softly.
“At night, when the maid was gone to bed. We used to
stay up so late — he would be studying or writing and I
would stay up with him. Now, I have to get up early in
the morning to help cook get the breakfast ready and get
you boys off to school. So I don’t stay up as late.”

He felt awkward. “Am I done?” he said. He didn’t want to
be done. She was old enough to be his mother, true, but
she smelled nice and she had those full red lips and
those deep soft eyes, and there she was with her neck
and shoulders bare and her soft hair piled up, and he
felt his heart hammering hard inside his chest.

“Oh no, you have to stay and unlace my corset,” she said
brightly.

“You have sisters, so I suppose you have seen them in
their corsets before? I wouldn’t have asked you
otherwise, but I knew you would take it in stride. I
don’t have any children of my own here to help me — you
know you boys are like sons to me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Well, a son should not be having thoughts
like that about his mother, so he tried to suppress
them. Part of him badly wanted to see what “mother”
would look like when she took a few more undergarments
off.

“Here now, help me get this off,” she asked, struggling
with it.

He helped her pull her arms out of the short sleeves of
her corset cover, but when he went to help her pull the
bottom half down she stopped him.

“I can do that part, thank you,” she said. The legs of
her corset cover still covered her lower limbs, but the
top was now hanging around her waist, and she had
nothing on under it but her corset and short drawers.

Her arms and shoulders were bare and her corset was the
only thing covering her bare body, above the waist.

He saw a glorious vision of wonderful full pink curves,
sweet and fleshy, hidden under the corset and bulging
out slightly around the edges.

She stripped off the corset cover, down to her drawers.
They were fine white linen, molded to the soft curves of
her ass and thighs.

“Do you think you could unfasten my corset strings now?”
she asked.

“Y-y-yes,” he stammered. A hundred boys would have
fought him for the privilege.

He knew how to untie corset strings — he had four
sisters, and their family could only afford one maid, so
he had often had to help with mysteries of feminine
apparel in a pinch.

“Ah,” she sighed, as the strings started to come loose.
“It feels so nice to get out of this tight thing at the
end of the day.”

Standing bare inches from her he could smell the odor of
her warm body under the corset as it started to come
off. It was musky and sensual. Something about her
fragrance aroused him to a fever pitch.

His heart beat quickly and his breathing was fast and
shallow.

There were an awful lot of strings, bows, whalebone
stays and lace in the way, but as the strings loosened
in his hands and the corset gaped open in the back he
saw the taut, thin little woolen undervest that was
pasted to her skin. He could see the upper part of her
naked back. Her smooth flesh was the color of a peach.

“I heard a rather funny joke,” he said. “A old Frenchman
comes home at night, after a long day at his office, and
unties his pretty young wife’s corset strings. The
strings are all tied behind her in neat bows (like
yours). “Mon Dieu!” he says, slapping his forehead,
puzzled. “Ze knots are bows. Yet I could swear zat when
I left you zis morning, I tied zem in square knots!”

She giggled. Her late husband used to bring home naughty
jokes like that from the faculty club. How she missed
his funny stories!

“Have you got it now?” she said, as the last strings
came untied.

Her corset dropped to the floor. She wiggled out of her
snug little undervest. She turned her back as it came
off.

All she had left were her flimsy little short drawers.
They covered her bottom, that was all. And they clung to
her curving ass like sheer silk.

Her back was turned to him and he saw the smooth curve
of her naked back. If she turned around he would see her
breasts. His heart was in his throat.

“There,” she said. Then she turned around, smiling. But
she was clutching the flimsy undervest to her chest
modestly to cover her breasts.

He could dimly make out the two big round masses of her
lovely breasts heaving under the vest where she clutched
it to herself, under the soft white wool. She just
barely covered most of her chest.

She was flushed from her face down to her cleavage.
There was a fragrant, musky odor rising from her pink
skin.

“I can finish from here,” she said brightly, smiling
into his eyes. “Thank you very much — you’ve been a big
help.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” he said awkwardly. His long
cock was sticking up like a tent pole under his bath
towel and he wondered if she could see the bulge. He
blushed.

She could see from the protrusion under his towel that
he was excited, and her eyes widened. She bit her lower
lip.

“No need to blush, now. You’ve seen your sisters in
their under garments, I know. You won’t tell anyone,
will you?”

“No ma’am.”

“Good boy. Now go to your room — it’s past your
bedtime.”

Unwillingly, he opened the door and backed out. And he
thought he actually saw the undervest slip and expose
the top of her breasts, right along the upper half of
her big soft creamy mounds, slipping down to where her
brown areolae began — or was it just a shadow? Then the
heavy door shut in his face. He felt like Adam and Eve
being driven out of paradise by the angelic guard with
the flaming sword.

He stood there with the door in his face for two
minutes, in an utter daze, before he could even move.
Inside the room he heard the soft splash as she stepped
naked into her bath. Then he ran to his room and
masturbated, beating his hard, dripping phallus
furiously until he had spent three times.

He was her favorite, that term. She never asked him to
help her undress again. She continued to enjoy sometimes
seeing him (and the other boys) stripped down half-naked
on bath night, though.

Some boys were athletic, some sunken chested. Some had
healthy tans and some were a pale, bloodless white. One
was tall with a lantern jaw, one small and thin with a
receding chin. One youth was fat, another lean, but she
and cook did their level best to fatten the skinny ones
up.

Sometimes the boys looked at her, in a manner that no
boy would look at his mother. Sometimes they pressed her
hand softly, the way they might have pressed the hand of
her daughter, had she a pretty daughter their age.

“Please! I’m old enough to be your mother!” she laughed,
gaily.

After she caught one of the boys looking at her like
that, she would sometimes go to her room and look at
herself in the mirror. She saw an ample, womanly bosom
filling her corset and straining at her shirtfront, a
waist that had lost only a few inches in the battle with
the years, a pair of pink, rosy cheeks that had regained
their luster after the pallor of the first year of her
widowhood, and a pair of soft, warm brown eyes. Nature
had given her a second breath of youth.

She wondered if another man would ever hold her in his
arms the way her late husband had. She thought of the
warmth of his body, his hot breath on her neck, his
naked loins pressed against hers, her nipples pressing
hot and stiff against his strong chest, her legs rising
up in the air and clamping around the small of his back,
and him plunging his hard dick into her trembling pussy,
as her hips rose eagerly to meet his thrusts.

After the first few months of her widowhood she began to
have a recurring strong desire to feel a strong cock
inside her. About once every four weeks or so the urge
came on so strong she would bite her lips and clench her
small fists in frustration.

She lay awake at night sometimes, dreaming that a young
stud male was mounting her.

“My pussy needs a cock,” she whispered to herself as she
sat alone by the fire, and then she was amazed at the
naughty thought she had uttered. A nice woman did not
“need a cock”, surely! What was the matter with her?

Once a week she would take a hot, perfumed bath, and
then, clad in a warm flannel nightgown, she would retire
to bed. And then her fingers would seek out her soft,
hungering womanhood beneath her nightgown.
She remembered that first night, when he had hurt her
and the blood had run and spoiled the sheets and how she
had shamefully wrapped them around a weight and thrown
them overboard into the sea, rather than let the ship’s
housekeeping clean them. Well, she had given the trophy
of her lost girlhood to the sea — that was not so bad.

She remembered the night later on in the voyage out,
when he made her utter that ecstatic little cry the
purser heard. That was a night to remember and relive.
No matter how many more times she felt that sensation
down there she could never forget how it felt that first
time. Unforgettable!

She thought of that night in Paris when he had whispered
to her in the darkness, huskily, that there was a
delicious, naughty, secret way of doing it that the
French women liked, if she would like to learn it. And
she did. Afterward she thought that American women might
like it too, if it ever became known in the States.

“It feels better than your fingers,” she said primly.
Later she discovered it felt better than her fingers,
too.

She remembered that weekend, after they had been married
about a year, when something had gotten into him and
they had not gotten out of bed until Monday morning.
After the first four times she had kept score on a
string of beads on the nightstand by the bed, and when
the weekend was over, 22 beads had been moved. She was
sore down there for days, but it was a proud soreness
that made her blood race.

“What’s the most any man and woman ever did it, do you
suppose?” she asked.

“I have no idea. Now pass me the liniment.”

She remembered the kiss she had given her soldier boy,
the night before he had gone off to the war and never
returned.

“I won’t kiss anyone ever again until you come back,”
she had said.

She remembered the woodcutters who had surprised her
once while she was bathing naked in a mountain stream in
the Schwarzwald, and how she seized her clothes and
fled, red-faced and breathless, secretly thrilled.

“Bitte, fraulein, bitte!” they hooted after her,
admiring her bare bottom as she ran.

And sometimes…sometimes. Sometimes she let herself
think about the handsome young boys who boarded in her
house, and how their respectful gaze would sometimes
turn bold, and how their eyes would sometimes settle on
her ample bosom, or a glimpse of her ankle. And she
thought of the times she had seen their naked arms and
legs, their young boyish chests. Once she had even
glimpsed a boy’s buttocks by accident, and later she
replayed that accident in her mind.

Inadvertently she had walked into a boy’s room one
morning while he lay asleep on his bed, stark naked.
Between his thighs hung a long, thick, erect penis. She
gasped at the sight of his naked member and quickly
turned and left. Later, she wondered what it would have
felt like, if she had dared to touch it. And that
reminded her of that time she had dared herself to touch
the horse’s penis in the stable. So big! She was
startled breathless when it suddenly grew longer,
pouring out of its sheath like a thick rope of molasses,
inch after inch after inch until she fled, frightened
out of her wits. She never went into that stable again
until that horse was gone.

Sometimes she imagined allowing a muscular youth into
her bedroom, undressing him, and discovering him to be a
confident master of the arts of love, virile and
powerful beyond even her late husband’s ability. She
imagined the long, steady, patient stroke she missed,
like a coxswain on a rowing scull (cock-swain indeed!,
she thought), lifting her slowly but surely to a great
height. A few times she even awoke from a dream, in
which she dreamed she had been getting that same very
steady stroke, over and over, until it was so intense
she awoke startled and looked around to see who was in
bed with her. But it was always a dream.

Sometimes she awoke with her hot little pussy so damp
and swollen that she had to relieve herself with her
hand, stroking her mound hard and fast until she came
with a stifled gasp.

Boys came and boys left. There was often one who was her
favorite, and sometimes there was one who very clearly
favored her.

A boy ripped a seam in the crotch of his trousers once,
bending over to put a log on the fire. She offered to
sew it up for him. They were alone in the parlor on a
chill autumn night. She knelt in the firelight at his
feet, took the needle and thread from her sewing basket,
and began to stitch up the seam with his trousers still
on him.

“I can take care of it myself,” he offered.

“Oh nonsense. I’ll do it. Here, stand still.”

The trousers were made of a heavy woolen cloth like you
would wear on a shooting party. The boy was 19, fair
skinned and well-built. She placed a hand on his thigh
to steady her aim and she threaded the needle around the
edges of the seam.

As she sewed she felt her hand brush against something,
soft flesh under his trousers, and she knew that she had
felt his limp member under the cloth.

That’s his dick hanging there! she thought to herself in
wonderment.

She let her hand brush there again, by accident, as she
sewed.

She felt guilty and shameless. That was his bell-clapper
hanging down his trouser leg, alright. Oh, her pussy
needed a dick so! She could smell his sweaty, manly
smell. Her face was inches from his crotch. She bit her
upper lip, frustrated. So close!

She looked him in the eye, just to prove that she could.

“I’m not hurting you, am I? I haven’t pricked you with
the needle?”

“No ma’am.” He was scarlet faced. He would not meet his
gaze.

“That’s good — I thought I felt a prick there.” She
giggled to herself. She hadn’t said it out loud,
although she was tempted.

The edges of the cloth came together and the crotch of
his trousers fit snugly against his body. The soft bulge
of his manhood was quite clearly hanging there between
his legs, and as she finished sewing the seam she
couldn’t help brushing it a third time and letting her
hand press against it. It was right under the last inch
of the seam and she could have impaled it with a
careless stitch.

His dick stirred in his pants, growing larger.

She jabbed his swollen member, deliberately, with the
point of the needle.

“Owww!” he howled.

“Oh, dear goodness, I’ve stabbed you with the needle.
Are you hurt?

Let me look at the damage.”

She pulled his trousers down around his knees, with a
quick hard tug.

She saw his linen drawers distended by his half-erection
as he tried to cover himself.

“Nooo!” he yelped. He grabbed at his trousers and
hobbled out of the parlor and lurched up the stairs to
his room, impeded by the difficulty of fleeing with his
trousers bunched around his knees. He couldn’t pull his
buttoned trousers back up around his waist because they
snagged on his protruding, downward slanting hard-on, so
he fled up the stairs in a ridiculous hopping, wobbling
manner.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. She could barely
contain her amusement, and part of her wanted to laugh
out loud at the sight of the timid boy running away,
running from the very thing he most wanted in the world
(if he only knew it — she certainly had no doubt). Part
of her was frightened at her own boldness and the
possible consequences of her rash act.

She reviewed what had just occurred. She had refrained
from making the ribald joke about “feeling a little
prick” when she thought of it, and that was to the good.
And he had run off before anything more could occur. She
had not seen his member. Just as well. When she tugged
his trousers down it had been covered by a thin pair of
linen drawers and a long shirtfront, so that she had
briefly glimpsed a mass of soft tumescent flesh wobbling
under the linen as he turned to flee. That was all.

She didn’t think it would make much of a story to tell
against her. She thought she had jabbed him in the
thigh. She looked to see if there was blood. She didn’t
want the blood to stain the trousers, blood is hard to
get out, so she had pulled them away from the skin
first. He was fully covered by his drawers and his
shirtfront, she had seen nothing. And that was true.
That was all.

A timid boy who ran away would not be the sort of
boastful boy who would brag about it later.

She let him calm down for an hour, and then she went
upstairs and knocked on his room to make amends. She
carried it off easily and with a smile. He passed the
trousers out to her and she finished off the mending —
a few more stitches and a knot to be made and tied off.
She apologized for injuring him and inquired coolly as
to the extent of his injuries. He was fine.

“You’re sure you aren’t hurt?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Well, goodness. I am so sorry. It’s a good thing you
didn’t bleed on your trousers.”

If he had only played along, he would have been in her
bed at that very moment. Or at least — she wondered if
he would have been.

That night she replayed the whole episode in her mind
and imagined what would have occurred next…if he
hadn’t run. She would have pulled down his linen drawers
— would she have asked permission or would she have
just tugged at them? She would have seen his penis…
and she would have picked it up in her soft hands to
inspect it and find the red pinprick where she had stuck
him.

“It looks fine,” she would have said. One hand cupping
his testicles, another holding his shaft. “I don’t see
anything wrong. Just a little red mark.”

She would have looked him in the eyes to see if he met
her gaze, or averted it.

“You remind me of my late husband,” she imagined herself
saying, while looking pointedly at his manhood. Then, in
her fantasy, his penis began to grow stiff.

“Yes, you remind me a great deal of my late husband,”
she imagined saying, stroking his extension as it grew.

It grew to full firmness. “Would you like to come sit on
the sofa with me?” she imagined saying. “I have
something I want to tell you.”

The door. The door wasn’t locked. Should she do
something about it?

In her fantasy she decided to just ignore it.

They sat on the couch. Her hands were on his erection,
tugging gently at the foreskin, back and forth. She
leaned in close to him. She put her lips up against his
ear. She took one hand off his member and reached for
his hand, placing it against her soft breast and holding
it there.

“Kiss me,” she whispered in his ear. His warm mouth
pressed on hers and his hand felt her breast through her
rigid corset stays and she pulled at his prick.

She hiked her skirt up and her underskirt came off and
her drawers came down and then he was pressing his naked
loins against hers. And then she felt his hard pipe
pushing into her, inside her, her wetness flowing to
meet it, and then they did it. They did it again and
again for hours and hours, until she was panting and
gasping with relief and he was wrung out like a sponge,
pints of his hot seed boiling inside her and spilling
out of her and running down her utterly fucked thighs.

He fucked her to exhaustion. Satisfied, satiated,
orgasmic exhaustion. She sighed in relief.

Imagining him filling her with his young cock, she
stroked her wet and needing pussy as she fantasized
about the boy screwing her.

He couldn’t really have fucked me like that, she told
herself. He’s only 19. He’s probably a virgin. It’s just
as well it didn’t go any further.

Locked in his room, under the blankets of his own bed,
the gaslights turned out, the boy she had just failed to
seduce was enjoying a very similar fantasy about what
might have happened.

While he dreamed this little fantasy his hand worked
vigorously on his thickened, stiff member, under the
blankets, until he spurted all over his nightshirt.
Ahhhh…he slept peacefully after that.

In her own room the widow brought herself to orgasm with
her own fingertips and let a little satisfied sigh drop
from her lips. She slept peacefully, after that.

No further flirtation passed between them, after that.

That spring a new boy arrived.

“Rooms to let?” he asked laconically.

He was a damn handsome boy.

“I think I can rent you a room,” she said.

“Capital. Can I have a look?”

“Right this way.” She showed him the room, and he moved
in the same day.

The shy boy she had failed to seduce lost his cherry
that winter, on Christmas Day in Boston, in a house of
prostitution, to a girl who hadn’t been in the life long
and who liked polite young gents. Later at school he
took a local shopgirl who was reputed to be a bit of a
whore on a buggy ride. They stopped at a reputable inn
and had a sumptuous meal, and when he pointed out that
it was too late to drive back she didn’t object to
spending the night. He gained some useful experience
that night, and somehow avoided obtaining a case of the
clap, although there were other fellows who got a dose
from her later.

On the ride home he bought her a nice little silver
brooch and when she pointed out that he had made a rip
in her dress (a very, very small rip to be sure, and he
was not sure he had made it) he offered her enough cash
to buy a new one. She didn’t turn it down.

He faced the new semester a more confident fellow. He
began looking at the college widow more boldly. But she
was completely flustered by the new student and he
couldn’t get anything more confidential than a
landlady’s brusque, cheerful efficiency out of her.

The new student made a big impression on her. He was a
Greek god, in her eyes. Tall, muscular, athletic,
intelligent, with piercing steel grey eyes. He was
cheerful and popular with the other students, the sort
of boy who would make class president or captain of the
football team, or both.

She swooned for him like a freshman girl. Something
about the way he smelled when he came close to help her
move a bed or carry a heaping basket of laundry. Of
course those were the servant girl’s jobs, but she liked
having excuses to ask him to help her with something.
When she learned he was studying Latin she decided she
had always wanted to learn Latin, herself, and asked him
to tutor her.

“Didn’t they teach you Latin at your college?”

“It wasn’t required. I took four years of French.
Voulez-vous?”

“S’il vous plait.”

Well, he had boundless energy and was happy to oblige.
He could easily find the time to tutor her. At night, in
the parlor, just the two of them, in the dim gaslight,
or maybe even just the firelight, huddling their heads
together over the book.

They sat very, very close together. He was a big strong
fellow, and he wasn’t afraid of girls. Or anything else.
He had a deep sense of personal honor and discretion and
she knew he would never say anything about her to the
other boys.

One night it happened. “Amo, amas, amat,” she read.
“What does that mean?”

“Why, you know what it means,” he said, surprised. “It
means love.

That was the first conjugation we learned.”

“No,” she said in a soft husky voice, “what does it mean
— to you.”

She looked up him with her soft brown eyes, and what he
saw in her eyes made his head swim, and then he knew he
was supposed to do what a man is supposed to do and his
face came closer to hers, and her face turned up towards
his and she closed her eyes and their lips met and it
was like thunder crashing through the room and a flash
of lightning and waves booming on a distant shore. They
read no further, that night.

It was never clear to her what the extent of the Greek
god’s sexual experience was. He wouldn’t talk about it.
He touched her with knowing hands. She knew she was a
goner when he slipped his hand into the slit in her
drawers and touched her gently on her fat little vulva.
Oh, she needed that. She needed to be touched there,
just like that. He touched her softly and her thighs
grew damp with her need.

Her clothes came off — they were just in the way. His
clothes came off, and under them he was muscular like a
marble statue, with a thick proud penis standing up for
her.

His perfectly shaped cock reared up like a stallion as
she worshiped his body.

She stripped off her remaining clothes and lay before
him naked in the firelight. She parted her thighs
invitingly.

A red flush of excitement suffused her chest down to the
her nipples.

He was tall, and he had to kneel before her to kiss her
breasts.

“They’re beautiful,” he whispered. They were. Heavy,
round and full. He held the soft flesh of her warm
breasts in his hands, and they filled his hands and
spilled over. His mouth fastened on one hard eager
nipple like a strawberry and his firm lips teased and
sucked at it. His mustache tickled her breast, as it
glided over her silky skin.

He reached down to feel her. Her pussy was engorged with
blood.

He kneaded her tight small hole with his fingers. His
tongue flicked over the hard little buds of her nipples.

Electric waves of pleasure streamed through her body.
Nipples stiff, panting, short of breath, she was on fire
with arousal.

His fingers plunged into her wet and quivering pussy.

He kissed her navel. Then he kissed her thighs. Then he
placed her back on the sofa and reared over her. She
trembled like a nun and he entered her.

The college widow, 43 years old, parted her legs and
received the Greek god between them.

The thick head of his manhood found her and the tip of
it touched her wet crease. Her trembling little hole
fluttered and opened for him.

He thrust in, between her swollen lips, and her tight
little pussy surrounded him like a tight silk glove as
he buried his erection to the hilt.

Inside she was all yielding softness, like a tissue. She
was tight and she thrilled to the sense of him forcing
her open and coming in deeper inside. Oh, deeper, she
thought. Deeper!

His thick cock spread the lips of her snug little pussy
as he took her.

The muscles across his shoulders strained to ram her wet
pussy deeper with each stroke.

“Fuck me! Harder!” she whispered in his ear. “Make me
climax!” she begged.

She felt her pussy tighten convulsively. “Oh!” she
gasped. “OH!”

Her nails raked his muscular ass.

Wild with passion, she almost fainted with pleasure. Her
body tensed and spasmed as blissful release flooded her.
It was her orgasm, drenching her with warm ecstasy,
shivering her from her toes to her crown, leaving her
limp.

With a series of final powerful thrusts he came inside
her, kissing her mouth as his penis pumped the thick
seed into her womb.

Entwined, they sprawled, hot and sticky and panting, on
the sofa cushions.

The river of semen running down her thighs ruined the
sofa upholstery, just as she always feared it would.

The college widow had three orgasms that night. The
first came after ten minutes of deep vaginal thrusting,
with the sure steady rhythm that her husband had once
employed. She came with a spasm and a feeling like a
bright light was shining in her eyes. Oh, I am yours
forever, she whispered to herself.

“I’ve never done this with any other man,” she said.
“Except my late husband.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Oh terribly. And I miss this most of all.”

“Is it good to be doing it again?”

“Oh, my goodness, how can you doubt it.”

He fucks like a stallion, she thought to herself.
Actually she had been on a horse farm once and from what
she had seen she thought the stallion’s powers of
fucking were rather overrated, compared to the human
male. Of course she had only sampled two human males to
go by.

“I’m glad I can make you happy.”

“Oh, you have. You have no idea. Hard again? Oh, good!”

He sucked her breasts and touched her with his hands,
while his cock was recovering its stiffness, and then he
demonstrated a knowledge of the thing the French did.
Oh, you’ve been to Paris too, I see, she giggled
delightedly to herself, but it was too sacred and
serious a night for much giggling, even quietly to
herself, and in a little while she threw her head back
and let slip a soft moan and she was there again, with
his handsome face buried between her quivering,
glistening thighs, tickling her clitoris with his soft
mustache.

His cock was hard and proud once more. He stood up in
the firelight, and she spread her legs wide open and let
him know by a sign where he was wanted, in the damp soft
brown-haired wet thatch glistening between her thighs.
He entered her again, and they fucked hard and long,
bouncing on the soft horsehair couch. Her arms and legs
were wrapped around him, her hungry lips pressed against
his. She came with a gasp and then he filled her womb
with his hot sperm and it boiled inside her and spilled
down the slick sides of his cock and ran out onto her
thighs.

They lay panting together, their bodies pressed hard
against each other, as she stroked his hair and his warm
semen stained the couch.

She could feel his taut, strong muscles against her
sweating, glowing body. She was happy. She did not care
a fig for anything, for what the world thought or would
think.

“Will you come to my bed — tomorrow night?” she
whispered.

“Yes,” he replied, in a low tone.

She kissed his shoulder, and stroked his manly chest,
and in a little while the fire started to die down and
she thought it might be dawn soon if they did not get
dressed and return to their rooms. She had a moment of
panic when she saw the big sticky damp stain on the
sofa.

The last act of their little comedy that night involved
taking the ruined sofa down the stairs and hiding it
under a horsehair blanket in the cellar.

She acted with a landlady’s efficiency, and they
smuggled the sofa down to the cellar, as quietly as they
could. He was quite strong and could lift the entire
sofa without her help, so it was not as difficult to
accomplish quickly and quietly without any help as she
would have feared.

Later, it had to be chopped up and burned. She couldn’t
ask anyone to reupholster that sofa for her. They would
know what that stain was.

Well, she had been wanting a new sofa, anyway. That one
dated back to the Civil War and was getting old.

They replaced the parlor sofa with two stuffed chairs
from another room, and the disappearance of the sofa
passed without much comment from the other boarders, who
had classes to attend and were rather oblivious to
household details.

He came to her bedroom every night, after that. She left
the door to her room unlocked and he slipped in as the
old grandfather clock in the downstairs hall chimed
twelve times at midnight.

She lay naked in bed waiting for him. Eager to start and
feel the deep throbbing pleasure inside her.

No one else lived on the back hall where her room was,
and he could easily slip down the back stairs to her
hall and open her door without being seen. It was dark
and all were long abed, except for those who were
studiously burning the midnight oil in their own rooms.

It was necessary for him to keep a sharp eye and ear for
his fellow boarders who might be returning from a visit
to the outhouse and coming up the back stairs, but if
another boarder crossed his path he was simply on the
way to the outhouse himself. He had a private room and
it was no one’s affair whether he slept there or at what
hour he returned. Often he came back to it as the cock
crowed dawn.

The rising of the barnyard cock meant the setting of his
own, of course, and sometimes dawn caught them still at
it, he still hard, she still damp and eager.

Every night was a honeymoon. At the end of the term, his
grades suffered for it — he whose grades had never been
in any other rank than the first. He went off for the
summer, back home to his parents in the city, and
promised not to write — writing would just arouse
suspicion, but just to come back in the fall.

Over the summer he met a girl his own age and, well, you
know. Getting married, having a family and children of
his own, and all that sort of thing, began to seem to be
in the cards. And she was a deuced nice girl, from a
nice family, a family of the first rank which would
settle a fair amount of property on her when she was
settled.

She was not the sort of girl who deserved a fiance who
had a mistress. He had enough energy for two women,
himself, but of course a girl wanted a man all to
herself and he was too honest to lie to her.

He came back to the college widow in the fall, but only
to get his things. They had a long talk in her bedroom
which ended with a torrent of tears. Both of them were
crying. She was in love with him, by then, although she
would never say it out loud.

He found another room, at a fraternity house with some
fellows he knew. Some days later she put a sign out:
ROOM TO LET.

That fall a new boy arrived. One goes, and a new one
arrives, she thought. She dried her tears and imagined
what the handsome new boy might look like in the nude.

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