The Vet's Corps was sort of the equivalent of a fraternity, but only open to those with a DD-214. I suppose after you've been through basic training your interest in putting up with a bunch of high school bullshit hazing is pretty limited so none of us had tried to pledge one of the Greek fraternities.
I was a member in good standing and had made a silly promise over drinks and pot one Friday night.
"What if I told you," I had said, as we were passing around stories of women we had brought to the clubhouse, "that I have a 72-year-old landlady that would be up for one of those bukkake things."
The chorus of "ewwwww," "bullshit," "seriously," and "fuck yeah" had me laughing.
"Yeah," I said, "she's the classic merry widow. Says she's enjoying life A.C."
"A.C.?" Dan had asked.
And I had chuckled and said, "yes, After Chester. Her husband of 40 years, she tells me, was one of those Thursday nights for 5 minutes in the dark kind of guys."
We had all laughed at that, had some more beer, and passed around another joint.
"You're serious?" Fred has asked, "because," and he'd had to stop and laugh, "I've always had quite a granny thing."
I grinned and said, "yeah, I think she's ready for something a little more, you know, exotic."
"Well hell yeah," Jimmy, always Jimmy, never Jim or James, had said.
The conversation had drifted to other things then, as it does. Cars and what was on that History test. College student stuff.
But I hadn't forgotten and had been working on Marie since. She's the landlady that I pay in pleasure, and I had her pretty well addicted to what I could do for her.
"Davey," she said, as she sat at the little makeup table, finishing up, "please don't make me do this."
"I am not 'making' you do anything," I said, "I am many things but I am not a rapist."
"But if I don't you'll leave," she said.
I smiled and just rubbed her shoulders.
"Oh, God," she sort of moaned and her shoulders slumped.
"Oh, come on you little hot box," I said, nuzzling her ear, "you'll like it after the first minute or so."
Marie has one of those resting bitch faces. When she relaxes her face falls into a natural frown. But when she smiles, you just have to smile with her.
She smiled up at me in the mirror.
"Do you really think so?" she asked.
"Just think of all the things you were certain you wouldn't like," I said, "and now you ask for."
She giggled, an oddly high pitched and childish sound coming from her mature face.
"Welllllll," she said, giggling softly and giving me that smile again, "I DID fight when you wanted my mouth the first time."
"And your ass, and your tits, and your hands, and your feet," I said, "need I go on."
"How," she started but then stopped to get her thoughts in order.
"How many will there be?" she asked.
"Well," I said, "membership is 37 right now and," and I stopped to chuckle, "I expect most of them will be there."
She sort of moaned.
She stood suddenly and turned to face me.
She took a deep breath and smiled.
"Okay," she said, "what would you like your whore to wear tonight?"
I grinned and deliberately looked her up and down.
Yes, her 72 years showed, but she carried them amazingly well. Her face was remarkably smooth, her lips thin, her eyes, dark brown, were deep-set. A thin, hawklike nose was centered on her face, and her mouth was broad. There was a bit of a saggy pouch of skin under her chin, what she called her "wattle," that was sensitive when it was kissed or nipped.
Her arms were thin, all muscle and tendons, with interesting dark spots, what she called "liver spots" up and down them. A wispy patch of hair showed in her armpits, evidence of my throwing away her razor. Her hands were bony with obvious tendons and heavy veins were clearly an old woman's hands.
She had good shoulders, demonstrating her background as a high school and college swimmer.
She had amazing breasts. Her bras were 38DD and she filled them, leaving interesting cleavage. They sagged, of course. She was, after all, approaching three-quarters of a century, but not too badly. They were still full, not the pancake boobs of some old women. Her areolas were large, the size of a coffee cup, pale, barely a shade darker than the surrounding skin, and her nipples were oddly small on them. As I looked the areolas tightened, the wrinkled skin pushing up a half dozen very distinct love bumps, and her nipples turned red, hard little pencil erasers on the tip of the cone of her areolas.
She had an interesting scar on the bottom of the right breast where she had once had a lump removed. I had put a quarter into it one time, like the slot on a vending machine, and it had stayed.
She retained a hint of a waist and her hips flared into interesting shelves. She had a very round potbelly with four interesting scars. One evening I had touched each one and she had explained, one from her appendix and three from a laparoscopic removal of her gall bladder. The roundness of her belly made her look about five months pregnant but, of course, she wasn't. The heavy, dark, thick, curly pubic hair ran up the roundness of her belly, about halfway to her belly button.
Her legs were her worst feature. Her thighs were muscular but every thin, and her calves were far too thin for the rest of her. She had matched scars down her kneecaps where her knees had been rebuilt. Her feet were long and bony with matching bunions at the joint of her big toes, and corns on three other toes. I kept her thick horny nails shaped and colored.
I reached out, pointed my forefinger at the floor and twirled it, the universal signal for "turn around."
She had an interesting scar just inside her left shoulder blade. It was a pink, puckered line she had received when she and her son had been grab assing in the kitchen one time and she had fallen across the hot rack on her stove. It looked like a brand. I touched it, as I always did. I liked it.
Her ass was gorgeous. Where her hips flared she had two distinct dimples. Her ass was nicely rounded, dimpled with cellulite giving it an interesting texture. You could see the hint of staining where she consistently resisted my urge to get everything bleached back there. The gluteal crease where her ass met the tops of her thighs was deep enough to hold a roll of quarters (I had experimented once). An altogether wonderful ass.
"Do I pass inspection?" she asked, smiling.
"You, my sweet," I said, bowing a little, "are going to be a BIG hit."
She smiled again.
"Is it wrong, David," she asked, "that now that I've said 'yes' I'm looking forward to it?"
I grinned.
"Slut," I said
She grinned back.
