This story is a result of feedback from a reader of an earlier story of mine about seniors. He suggested this one about an elderly white lady having sex with her even older long-time black employee. As most stories on Literotica it's completely fiction, this time told from the male's viewpoint.
I'm black. Negro. Nigger. African American. Whatever some one wants to call it. That's a defining part of my life. I mean, all things supposedly being equal, if you're black you aren't equal. Fact. Don't bother arguing because I've lived through it. It was even worse for my parents. My father spent most of his life in jail. He wasn't evil or particularly mean, he just did what he had to, to make a living. Which means much of it was illegal. I left school after eighth grade because I had to earn a living. So I've always worked. Not behind a desk or in an air conditioned office, I mean worked. At the end of a shovel or hammer or whatever. Yet, when all is said and done, I've had a pretty nice life. I've no serious complaints. And I'm now eighty one.
In my forties, almost forty years ago, I started working for a family. At first it was just maintenance around the property. Part time. But it evolved into a full time job. Taxes, Social Security and everything. Now, I don't kid myself that I'm part of the family because I'm not. I had my own family. But I almost am. I might have had almost as much to do with raising their kids as they did. And my work made sure that they could live comfortably and not worry about the house or yard or cars or appliances. I kept everything working. And have for years.
Of course, their kids are grown and gone. With families of their own. So are mine. Then three years ago, the mister died. Four years earlier my wife, Martha, died. So there's just me and the mistress now. Miss Ally. She's seventy now, at least. Maybe seventy one or two. On the one hand, she doesn't need me much anymore. On the other, she needs me more than ever. I mean, there's just her so there's not as much work for me. But she's depended on me for so long, that alone, she's more dependent than ever.
We've always got along. She's Miss Ally. I'm Harry. She's usually indirect. Doesn't issue orders. "What about the pear tree Harry, it looks sort of shaggy, doesn't it?" Or, "Last time we went into town it sounded as if the car needed something, didn't it, Harry?"
I had a good life with Martha. Our children turned out well. I'm actually a great grandfather now. People seem to think that black people are some sort of sex machines. We are, I guess. In that every one is basically a sex machine. Propagation of the species and all that. So, yes, Martha and I had our moments, lots of them. But the Mister and Miss did, too. I've seen a lot more over the years than I was supposed to. I think white people sometimes don't even remember that servants are there. Whatever, the Mister and Miss got along together fine, too. I've seen her getting after him more than him getting after her. That's fine with me, I think women should be just as interested in sex as men and she sure was. It's obvious that she misses him. A lot.
Well, I've talked with her a little about it. It took me quite a while to get over Martha's passing. Never have really. But after a while, life goes on. That's sort of what I tell her. That over time, while she'll never forget him or totally get over it, she'll still have to live her life. Look after her children and grandchildren, her clubs, her church, her friends. I think she's just about moved on by now from what she says and does. But lately, it's been a little odd. She's always been indirect so it's hard to tell exactly what she means at times.
She said, "I certainly miss Will (that was her husband)." I understand that. "It's difficult sleeping alone. All I get to do is sleep." Well, that's all I do now, too, is sleep. Does she mean she misses the sex with him like I miss the sex with Martha? Or does it mean something else? Maybe I'm thinking about sex too much. I actually have found one lady that lets me alleviate some pressure occasionally. People think that if you're old you're done with sex. I'll be done with sex only when I die. Then, I'm driving Miss Ally into town (She never learned to drive. Never had to.) and she says, "Harry, is it true that black men have larger penises than white men?" I stare at her in the rear view mirror a moment. This is something new. "I don't think so, Miss Ally. I think people are pretty much the same that way regardless of their color." Her only reply was a sort of unhappy "Oh." I wonder what brought that on?
Let me say here, that Miss Ally has always been handsome. Nice build. Sort of tall and slim. Although not really tall, just looks like she is. Both Martha and I are, or were, more solid. We were workers, not lookers. Miss Ally is and was a looker. That is, she always looked great. Still looks great. Definitely older, so looks great for her age. My boys were linemen on the school football team, Miss Ally's only son was a quarterback. Her daughters were Prom Queens. Mine were on the softball team. Great athletes. All good in there own ways but definitely different.
One day, I'm cutting the grass. Use an old fashioned push mower. It's not that big a lawn anyway. But it's fairly warm so I have my shirt off. Usually do when working outside on sweaty jobs. I realize that Miss Ally is watching me from a window. She's often done that. When I finish and am pushing the mower back to the garage, she comes out with two glasses in her hand. "Harry, how about a lemonade?" She sits on the porch step and sips hers and watches me as I stand there and drink it. "Refreshing on a hot day, isn't it?" she asks.
"Sure is," I say.
She looks at me. It was years ago when I remember girls looking at me like that and I might be misinterpreting her but I think she was checking me out, looking at my body. I won't win any prizes but I'm still in good shape for an old man. Not fat at all, never have been. Solid, thicker than some, but not fat. I've always watched what I eat and I've never used hard liquor. "You look healthy, Harry," she says. "Always have. Will used to say 'That Harry probably keeps his wife contented.' Did you?"
"Did I keep my wife contented?"
"Yes," she answers and grins a little like she's teasing me.
"I think so. She sure kept me contented."
"Yes," she says and just sits there as if she's thinking. "So did Will." Then she looks up at me, "I mean kept me contented." She looked like she was going to say something more. I could see her mouth start to form a word but then she didn't. She stands up quickly and reaches toward me, "Well, the lemonade was refreshing," she says and takes my glass and hers, smiles and goes back inside. It all makes me think a little but I just push the mower back into the garage.
It was almost a week later when I'm pruning a tree, as usual with my shirt off, when I hear a call, "Harry!" from inside the house. I hurry to the back door, just the screen door closed, the inside door open. "Miss Ally?" I call out.
"Come in Harry," I hear her, "I'm sitting on the stairs." I go in. I've been in the house a lot. Worked on just about every part of it over the years. She's sitting on the stairs, just up about three steps.
