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From: Jenny Wanshel <chilly2@biosys.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} NEW: Jenny Wanshel "The College Widow" (landlady/student 1893)
Date: Mon, 25 Jun 2001 20:10:02 -0400
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THE COLLEGE WIDOW
by Jenny Wanshel

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 seducation, 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 waoun'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 goosedown 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 aboil 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 up like a tentpole 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 undergarments,
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

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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