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Archive name: college.txt (not rated)
Authors name: Jenny Wanshel (chilly2@biosys.net)
Story title : College Widow, The

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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2001.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
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The College Widow (landlady/student 1893)
by Jenny Wanshel (chilly2@biosys.net)
6/25/01 

***

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.

The End

Jenny Wanshel
chilly2@biosys.net

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 16