A Friend of the Family

[Dear Reader, I know it has been a long time since I promised this story, but at long last here it is. This story is as true as it can be given that I wrote it many years after the actual events. They say stories get better with the telling and this one has been told through many drafts. I wrote it in the third person because it just didn't read well without a glimpse into the thoughts of the other characters. Obviously, whatever I wrote about the thoughts of the other characters is from my imagination, but I know most of them well enough to believe I got much of it pretty close. I previously wrote a fictional story which a few readers thought had too much story and not enough sex. If you are looking for descriptions of hot sex and little else, then this story may not be for you. If you would prefer a story about a widow's adventures into unconventional sex with multiple partners of various ages and genders and what she may have been thinking and feeling at the time AND includes hot sex, then this story may just be for you. It's long, very long (30 pages in Word) and will be followed by other similarly long chapters. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. And stay tuned for my continuing sexploits. Oh, one more thing, I'm Canadian and that's where I live. American readers will think my spelling is poor, Canadians and those from the UK will know better. Thank you. Hugs. Anne.]

Anne Sexsmith sat at the end of the loveseat in her living room with her right leg tucked under her and the left hanging over the edge; the painted nails of the outstretched toes of her small foot barely reached the floor. She was gazing out the nearly floor to ceiling picture window at the street and farm field on the other side. It was a sunny spring afternoon and the corn, planted only a few weeks before, was beginning to push through the soil making thin green lines visible in the dry brown soil. According to the weather forecast, in the part of southern Canada where Anne lived, it would be another dry and unseasonably warm early May day.

She held an oversized half full long stemmed red wine glass in her right hand and on the table to her left were her ever-present tube of lipstick, cigarettes, gold lighter and a large ashtray. All of the ashtrays in Anne's home were large so as to accommodate the extra-long, slender brown cigarettes called Mores that she enjoyed so much, the menthol ones in the soft green package.

Although she didn't know it yet, this was the day she would begin to emerge from the self-imposed loneliness and seclusion of mourning the loss of her husband. Although she had no idea at the moment, on this day and over the coming weeks and months her life would change completely. She was reminiscing about the good times she and Dave, her husband, had shared and believing she would never feel that way again. She and Dave had both been 46 when he had a heart attack at work. By the time someone found him in his office and called an ambulance he was cold and revival was not possible.

Dave's death eight months before had turned Anne's life upside down. With both her son and daughter out of town at colleges, she was suddenly alone just as she and her husband had begun to enjoy the freedom of an empty nest. Their busy social life had become a whirlwind of dinners out, with each other and often with friends, parties and movies — at the theatre, no longer just on TV. Their sex life, which had always been good, became incredible with the passion and the frequency rivalling their time as newlyweds.

Once a respectable mourning period had passed, her friends began to invite her out again, but they were all married couples and she declined the invitations not wanting to be a third, fifth or seventh wheel and to be reminded of her status as the only widow in the group.

There was one friend though, Beth, who had refused to let her be alone. Anne and Beth had been best friends since grade school, had attended college together and as each woman married and had families their friendship never waned. Their families became closer than many people were to their blood relatives. Anne was indeed a very close friend of Anne's family and the opposite was true as well. When their children were young, they referred to their mothers' friend as aunt and the husbands as uncle. Anne, Beth and their husbands had all been part of a group of friends in college. In fact, both women had previously dated the man the other would marry. While most people would find it awkward to continue to be friends with people they had once slept with, not to mention people their spouses had previously slept with, the two couples maintained a close, friendly and hands-off relationship.

Since they had gone to college in the days of protests, free love and 'make love not war' t-shirts it wasn't awkward at all. With few exceptions, of the dozen or so members of that group of friends they had all enjoyed at least one sexual encounter with each of the others, it was a time of sharing. All of the many encounters they shared were heterosexual and one-on-one, kinky, but not too much so. The two couples were now respectable, middle class pillars of the community. Beth's husband Jim owned a new car dealership and Dave had owned, with two partners, a small manufacturing plant. After children arrived, each of the wives had given up their careers to become stay-at-home moms, living comfortably on the returns of their husbands' successful businesses. After the children were in school all day, they had become active volunteers in the community and regularly worked out and visited the beauty parlour together.

It was Sunday, although with the kids and now Dave gone there were few differences between most weekdays and weekends. Anne had not become a total recluse in her mourning, continuing some of her daily and weekly habits, habits that had become more like rituals. Anne had always been an early riser, relishing her "alone time" before everyone else awoke and the hustle of breakfast, bag lunches and goodbyes began. The timer on the coffeemaker continued to dutifully brew a pot minutes before she awoke without the aid of an alarm clock at 4:00 a.m. She would wake up and walk to the kitchen naked – she had always slept naked. Over the years she had only been 'caught' a handful of times by her son or daughter as they made their way to or from the bathroom. She wished them a 'good morning' as though there was nothing wrong with them seeing her this way and continued either to the kitchen or back to her bedroom. She did not consider herself an exhibitionist; she just enjoyed the freedom of being naked. Once in the kitchen she would pour herself a cup of coffee, black, observe the outside temperature on the thermometer on the other side of the window and return to the bathroom in her room where she would sit peeing, drinking her coffee and smoking her first two cigarettes of the day before her shower then brisk walk in nice weather.

From the very beginning of her marriage she had always showered, did her hair and make-up and dressed before anyone else awoke. When they had the addition built it featured extensions to the dining room and kitchen, a new master bedroom and that bathroom, 'her bathroom,' which she reluctantly shared with her husband. All the walls were sheathed in dark smoked mirrors from floor to ceiling. The fourth wall was one massive shower that could easily accommodate four adults, though they had only tried two. It too was mirrored with a clear plate glass wall and door enclosing it. Large mirrors were a feature of many rooms in Anne's home. Although she wasn't conscious of it, Anne could not walk past a mirror without looking at herself. From puberty men had stared at her and often commented on her attractiveness. By the time she went off to college she had come to believe them. She worked hard at maintaining her looks so why wouldn't she take every opportunity to admire her work?

Dave had willingly spared no expense remodelling her bathroom. There was an oversized vanity made of rich looking dark coloured wood and polished brass hardware on the doors and drawers. The top had two sinks. Next to the toilet was a bidet that had quickly fallen into disuse although it served well as an end table and ashtray during her morning coffee and cigarettes.

The men, who throughout her life had told her she was beautiful, were accurate and even women admired and were envious of her appearance. Anne was an uncommon looking woman. Not odd or even unique, there are other women who would bring her to mind, just not many. She was petite, standing just five feet four inches tall she could easily be mistaken — from behind — for a teenager. Her buttocks were hard and shapely from her daily walks and three gym visits every week; and they were very round providing a wonderful beginning for her well-formed, slightly muscular legs. Her waist was small and the girth of her hips was only barely more than her tiny waist. The complete package drew stares wherever she went.

But it was from the front that this tiny woman became spectacularly alluring to men. Perfectly shaped breasts that were many sizes too large for her elfin frame adorned her torso. They were truly magnificent and of a tear drop shape that implant engineers have still yet to duplicate. The upper curve, from her neck to their apexes was like a gentle ski jump, curving down and then up slightly. Again from their apexes they curved back down then up until they met her rib cage seeming to defy the law of gravity. Even now, with two grown children in college, they retained the shape and tone they had when she was in her twenties. Their size made wearing a bra virtually compulsory, though on warm days, like this day, with no plans to leave the house, she would go without, relishing the freedom of not being bound up.

Throughout her voyage through puberty she had learned to be very proud of her breasts as they grew with her, referring to them as 'her girls.' She had always pretended not to notice the boys in school and even older men as they ogled and admired the bulbous ornaments, though she smiled within at the interest they drew. At 47 years old, younger men, and even boys, could not hide their interest in them in addition to the men her age and older. Even though their mere existence drew stares; she always wore something to accentuate them — whether her top was low cut, skin tight, sheer, all three or emblazoned with a slogan or design - it screamed "look at these!"

On this particular day she wore an outfit typical of the time. It was 1989 when workout wear had become street wear. She wore spandex stirrup pants of a shiny deep purple that hugged her shapely legs like panty hose. It was warm so she had foregone the leg warmers. On top she wore a matching - always matching - lighter purple oversized t-shit that hung off of one shoulder emblazoned in large dark purple letters with the title of the George Thorogood song, "Bad to the Bone," it didn't match her mood, but Dave had bought it for her. The t-shirt was cut very short exposing her navel and generous swaths of the silky white skin above and below that covered her firm abs. She had no plans for the day so hadn't bothered with underwear. Most 47 year old women at the time would have considered the outfit sexy, risqué, even slutty, but for Anne it was just normal, except of course for the lack of bra and panties which she would have worn had she planned to go out.

Anne's face was no less enchanting than her body. Her early morning rituals, even on weekends, ensured that no one but her husband and children – and even them very seldom – had seen her without make-up. Her silky complexion, which only seemed to end at the edges of her clothes, was flawless. Her eyes were large, round and the colour of emeralds; expertly applied mascara made her lashes seem almost false and she always wore a sparkle laden light green eye shadow and pinkish rouge to highlight her high cheek bones. Her nose was small and dainty with the slightest of upturns at its tip.

Anne's lips were not wide, only just reaching past her nose on both sides; however they were deliciously full and fleshy, almost free of creases, with two distinct peaks on either side of the centre of the upper one. They were always, always highlighted with blood red lipstick without a shine or shimmer. Owing to its matte finish it was not long lasting and she left lip prints on everything they touched, from coffee cups to the wine glass in her hand and the spent cigarettes in the ashtray. It was her habit to kiss people she knew hello on the cheek and she always left 'her mark.' She had worn the same colour since college and along with her cigarettes and lighter, a tube was at all times within arm's reach for regular reapplication.

Anne was a natural redhead but for years had died her hair. She had never understood the term redhead since her natural hair colour was orange. So to set things right she died her hair red, almost burgundy. She got away with it since despite her natural hair colour there was not a single freckle on the smooth white flesh of her body. Years earlier having rejected perms, she parted her thick, heavy and ever so glistening hair in the centre. Wisps of bangs dangled randomly across her forehead on either side of the centered part, just long enough to sometimes get caught up in her brows that curved down in both directions from petite arcs.

From a point even with her eyebrows, the ends of her hair sloped downward toward the back until the length at the back allowed it to dance on her shoulders as she walked. The style was tapered inward so that the shape of her hair roughly followed the shape of her head. Except for shampoo and conditioner she used no other hair care products. Her husband had loved being able to run his fingers through her mane and watch every hair obediently fall back to its original place.

Another ritual she had maintained throughout her mourning was her visits to the spa every other week with Beth. They both continued to call it the beauty parlour even after that term had fallen from use by everyone else. And each visit was the same as the last – hair trim, facial, reapplication of make-up, manicure, pedicure, and sugaring. The spa had discarded waxing of body hair for the more refined and trendy sugaring. The process and pain were the same, but the results better. The only hair that remained on her tiny body were her eye lashes, eye brows and the hair on her head which would occasionally be touched up to conceal the orange roots. Her favourite part of the visit was the pedicure, especially the foot massage. She would put her head back, close her eyes and moan softly as Lance, the only man who worked at the spa would work the muscles of her feet. Lance was outwardly gay, a real flamer, but she found the sensation of his strong hands ministering to her sensitive feet erotic nonetheless.

She and Beth also visited the gym on Mondays, Wednesdays and most Fridays. Their workouts were by no means intense, never breaking a sweat; it was more a social outing than exercise but had the desired effect nonetheless. They would jog leisurely on adjacent treadmills then lift small weights in a regimen they had read would keep their breasts firm and perky. Following their workout they would sit in the small café overlooking the exercise and free weights areas sipping protein shakes from straws and checking out the exercising men. Although they had been very active sexually in college, once married they never strayed but had fun anyway wondering aloud to each other how these young body builders might be 'in the sack.' For them, this was the highlight of the outing, it was fun and arousing, their language becoming more and more bawdy as they wondered aloud about the 'the size of the men's cocks' and how much of it might fit in their mouths, or for how long a particular man might last as he 'fucked them from behind.' Both friends were very flirtatious leaving hordes of frustrated men of all ages in their wake.

From her perch on the loveseat, Anne noticed Beth's car pull up in front of her house. She wasn't the least bit surprised. Beth had been regularly dropping by unannounced since Dave's death, in addition to their gym and spa visits. Beth had learned that if she called first Anne would have some excuse to be left alone and she wasn't about to let that happen. This time, instead of pulling in to the driveway the big black car with dark windows parked on the street. It just sat there without Beth getting out.

What Anne didn't know was that Beth wasn't inside the car; rather it was Beth's 21 year old son Jimmy. He had just arrived home from college for the summer and when his Mom told him that Anne wasn't doing very well he told his Mom he'd drop by and try to cheer her up. Jimmy's Mom had told him that Anne's children, Jack and Jessica both had summer jobs out of town and that she might appreciate a visit. Anne had been like a second Mom to Jimmy for as long as he could remember. Even as a small child he had enjoyed spending time with her when she would visit his Mom or when he and his younger sister would go to Anne's to be babysat. She was a nice lady who always had more cookies in her house than his Mom would ever allow. For her part, Beth thought a visit from Jimmy might cheer Anne up.

Beth was completely unaware that even before Jimmy had reached puberty his feelings toward Anne had begun to take on a different character. He saw her as incredibly sexy and whenever he was around her he would become physically aroused. At that point in history, cigarette manufacturers were trying to increase the number of women smokers and many young men, like Jimmy, also succumbed to their advertising message that a woman smoking was glamorous and sexy. Anne's incredible body, manner of dress and the way she smoked came to define sexy in Jimmy's young, hormone soaked brain.

At first he didn't really think consciously about it, content to simply enjoy being around her and enjoy the warmth and swelling he felt between his legs whenever she was near. When he learned what sexual intercourse was one day in the schoolyard he immediately knew it was something he wanted to do with his Mom's best friend Anne.

The two families often rented a cottage at the beach together. Those two weeks in the summer Jimmy would spend as much time as he could studying Anne sunbathing in one of her many skimpy bikinis while she smoked those sexy long brown cigarettes and sipped exotic drinks. On weekdays when the beach was largely deserted, the husbands were off fishing and they believed the children were in town amusing themselves, Anne and his mother would remove the tops of their flimsy bikinis and let the sun colour their breasts. One of those afternoons during the summer Jimmy was fourteen he had stayed behind and wasn't in town with the others. Through a window of the cottage, he watched Anne's large and beautifully naked breasts heave with each inhale. With his topless mother in a lounge chair right beside Anne's, he ejaculated without even touching himself. After that experience he began stealing Anne's cigarettes and layer buying his own, smoking them while masturbating, fantasizing about her.

Now 21 and never having done or said anything to indicate to Anne how he felt, he sat in his Mom's car hoping, as he always had, that this would be the day when Anne would take him in her arms and finally leave lipstick on his lips, not just his cheek. This would be the day she would at long last make love to him. For years he had thought the same thing about his next encounter with her, and nothing of the sort ever happened. Nonetheless, his hopes would always triumph over his experiences. Finally he opened the car door and made his way toward her front door.