A Widow's Journey

The street light lit them as they kissed at her front door. They had been on a few dates, enough that their hands were comfortable wandering. His hands had maybe even slid up and felt under her shirt on previous dates. The bra was played with and teased and nipples titillated, no pun intended. Her hands had slid down and touched his ass a time or two.

It was time. She was ready. "Would you like to come in?"

"The question is, are you?" he checked, with seriousness and gravity.

With a deep sigh, she said yes. She wasn't sure how she had made this happen. Two years ago it was, that she had lost her husband. He was a good man, and no one would ever replace her. Still, this guy was different. This guy had spent the time listening to her and making space, never questioning, never pushing beyond the pace she set for them.

With his sly smile, razor wit, and undefeated banter, he had warmed his way into her heart. He had thriving red hair in his mid 40s. He had these really sweet blue eyes, and she loved to be mesmerized in them. He was working on growing his beard long. That hair was still fiery red, but with the exception of a few splotches, the gray and white was slowly taking over the red of the beard. This somehow made him even more irresistible.

On the other side, he was very happy with the woman he had found. All he did was message her on an app after a lot of comments and likes. Consistency, effort, presence, it all cultivated a deep relationship between the two of them. She had a healthy body for her mid 50s. It was expected, and he was very happy with her and it. He loved her curly red hair, even though it had begun to give away to a grayer hue. He was in love with her and he had no way to tell her. His words seemed so inadequate for what she deserved.

He followed her lead. A good hostess would give a brief tour of the place any given day. She had a deeper, pressing need in this moment. She lef him by the hand to her bedroom outside. He pulled her to face him and asked, "Are you sure?" After a weak nod, he had to get a deeper clarity. "Love, are you really sure?" This was a more confident, secure nod, followed by a resounding, enthusiastic, unequivocal yes.

He began with the kiss. As she kissed back he began to recognize. This was a different kiss. This was not his sweet, innocent love he was beginning to know. Her intentions were different with this kiss. As she began lifting his shirt from his torso, the faded redhead marveled at how many boxes he fit of hers. She loved his mostly red chest hair with a few gray hairs, sneaking in; though he was incredibly self-conscious of his dadbod, she loved it. It was honest and humble; she ran her hands through his chest hair, enjoying the sensation she had not felt in a while.

"May I?" he asked her as he lifted her sweater off her head. Perhaps it's wrong of me to say this about a widow but damn I have been wanting these breasts so bad, he thought. He paused and reminded himself that tonight she was not a widow but his plaything, as she had coached him. He turned her around and followed up on his bragging for being able to find "that spot" for her neck. He found it. And boy did he. Her knees immediately buckled. She had not felt it in so long.

Not wanting to wait anymore, she reached back to unhook her clasp. He whispered, "Allow me." With a tenderness, he released her from the societal bondage. He rubbed his hands up and down her back. She had not felt this touch in a long time. Delicately, she slid the straps down her shoulders, and the bra fell down, so eloquently for lack of a better word. He reached up to begin feeling the breast; his favorite part was the skin, so smooth and different than everywhere else on her body. Nothing felt quite like the touch of a woman's breast. Slowly he inched, enjoying the fact that she wanted him to touch her breasts and the gentle teasing. She surrendered, for the first time in a long time, not in control, reveling in that feeling of release.

He turned her around and stared into just her eyes, cognizant of the delay. He wanted to just lock eyes with her. He had not seen her breasts yet in person; he wanted to hold them in his hands. He wanted eye contact. He wanted to promote the anticipation of that first moment. You only get one moment to look at her breasts in person. This is a huge milestone. You will never have this moment again. He did not want to squander this opportunity.

With an almost sadistic, gleeful smile he slid his eyes down to take a look for the first time; she definitely did not disappoint. He began to compare the pairs of breasts that he had been with. Don't get me wrong. He'll cherish every single one he had been with, and there was not a bad pair he had ever seen. However these... my goodness... these. They were their own category. To compare these to others was a disservice. These had no equal. They were lovely, magnificent. Would it have been appropriate, he would enshrine her in a museum because that is where these breasts belonged.

Words barely emanated from his vocal cords. He could only be heard to say "thank you." He gazed at them without words; snapping to, he paused for a moment to apologize for objectifying her as he always did, and she reached up to cover his open mouth with a finger, stopping him. "Please don't stop," she reassured. "I want to hear every beautiful thing you can say about my breasts."

He had seen pictures a million times but never in person. It reminded him of a few years ago when he had been to see the art museum in Chicago, he hadn't done any pre-work or studied anything to know what was there. As he was perusing, all of a sudden, before his eyes, he spied one of his favorite paintings, "Nighthawks" by Edward Hopper. He sat on the bench and just wept. He wasn't sure what Stendal syndrome was, that it could even be achieved; however, after seeing that live, he understood how somebody could be wrapped up like that. The way he felt seeing this painting is how he felt seeing these breasts how he felt for the first time.

While he stared with silent, reverent worship, she unlatched his belt and reached in to stroke his cock, unable to wait any longer. She dropped his pants and fell to her knees. Just as he felt seeing her breasts for the first time, so she relished in that first taste; his knees were now the first to buckle at the surprise with which she took him into her mouth. So effortlessly, with expertise, she played him like a fiddle-or I guess a clarinet would have been more appropriate. He did so much for others. He asked for so little; now it was her time to thank him. She gave him the chance to be the one cared-for.

Sufficiently hard, she slid off her panties and laid down on the bed. "I'm ready." Receiving consent, he took his position, finding it with his cock, smiled at the drenched environment and slid in. Immediately she moaned and his eyes rolled back, simply because of the ecstasy. Her face was titled to the left so he gently placed his hand over her throat causing an immediate climax. He positioned his head over hers in missionary, maneuvering her face to face his. Forced to make eye contact, the experience intensified. Faster he thrusted, with primal grunts and screams. He had untapped her animalistic instinct. This was savage, unforgiving and overpowering and yet somehow there was no other place in the multiverse she would rather be. He pulled her hair back to look into his eyes and with a savage growl, he demanded, "Cum for me now," somehow oozing compassion and rage simultaneously. With the ripples felt around his cock, he uttered an unearthly sound and erupted into her the warm feeling of satisfaction.

A million feelings flowed through her, you know, other than his life juice. He collapsed beside her, beckoning her to his shoulder. He knew it was going to be good. He just didn't know it was going to be THIS good. Wiping away good tears, she held him tight. It had been a long road to get here. Now the next chapter began.