Hi. I'm Karen. Today is my birthday. I'm 60 years old today and I'm on my hands and knees picking berries from the strawberry patch in my backyard. I want to make a strawberry pie for tonight. My husband will be over. We don't live together, even though we are still married and still very much in love. It's just easier that way. If we are together too much, we seriously irritate each other. He's a Republican for god's sake. How can anyone think like that? But I wouldn't want to live without him.
He will probably bring flowers and a card, but I want a strawberry pie tonight, and he doesn't cook. Oh he can boil spaghetti and put sauce out of a jar on it. But bake a scratch pie? Not a chance.
Don't let me mislead you. I want him too. I want his big, hard dick and his wicked tongue. I want him to eat my pussy. I want him to fuck me silly. It's my birthday. Of course I should get fucked, deliciously fucked, fucked long and hard, on my birthday. Just because I'm 60 doesn't mean I shouldn't have yummy, raunchy, pounding, sex with the man I love. I've been thinking about it since I got up this morning, and I'm so horny.
And,
I want a strawberry pie. I have been making strawberry pies from this berry patch since I was a teenager when I lived here with my mother, Sarah, and her various husbands. My mother just couldn't stick with a husband. She went through three, and more boyfriends between (and during) her marriages than she could count. I think her fundamental problem was that she was a slut. That is a problem I can identify with. I wonder if it is genetic? Whatever. I decided long ago that my tendency to continuously seek out and bed new sex partners, if managed properly, isn't really a problem for me, but if not properly managed it leads to divorces, which I, like my mother, have had three of. And then there is the little matter of wrecking other peoples' marriages. I don't like that much either. So like I said, my tendency towards promiscuity has to be carefully managed.
My arrangement with my fourth husband, Ray, has worked out pretty well. We tried living together like regular spouses, but we drove each other nuts, except when we were in the sack. Plus neither of us were inclined towards monogamy. You might ask why we got married in the first place? We were in lust in Las Vegas, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Right now I'm crawling about in the strawberry garden out behind the old suburban Sacramento house I inherited from my mother, pulling weeds and putting them in one bucket, and picking ripe strawberries and putting them in the other bucket. It's a warm, sunny morning. It will probably reach 100 degrees today. Sacramento does that commonly in mid-summer, but right now it's probably in the upper 70s—warm but not unpleasant and the humidity is a lot lower here than it would be in the East or South today.
Because it is such a beautiful day, and because it's my birthday, and because it's a weekday and there is no one else around, and because I'm 60 today, and because I just don't give a shit anymore, I'm not wearing a bra—just a light loose fitting old T-shirt and a pair of baggy worn sweat pants that have been cut off into shorts. I wouldn't go to the market dressed like this, but it's fine for the back yard. I especially like the way the T-shirt hangs down as I crawl down the strawberry rows and lets my big soft tits swing back and forth—just like they do when Ray is fucking me from behind. Yes, they are bigger and softer now than they were when I first started picking berries in this patch. Ray thinks they are just fine. He loves to play with them. I think his favorite play is a titty fuck. Truth be told though, we both love fucking in just about any position we can stretch our aging bodies into. Ray is a plumber. No great intellectual depth there, but god can he fuck. And he's nice, aside from his unfortunate choice of political parties. What else can a girl want at 60 after three failed marriages? Good at fucking and nice is just fine. I spent my college years studying philosophy and then I taught philosophy as an adjunct professor at a JC for many years, and yup that's it. That's my philosophy of life—a man who is nice and a good fuck.
When I first started picking strawberries here, I was just a kid and I didn't have any noticeable tits, but by the time I was 18 I had a good sized set of jugs. No matter what I wore, it was obvious that my tits were more than a handful. Even before my own boobs grew out (and they were late for some reason) I knew what tits were because my mother used to walk around the house sometimes with her big tits hanging out or barely covered. She liked to wear a loosely belted, short robe when there was a man coming over to visit. Sometimes she didn't bother with the belt. When he showed up, she sent me out to pull weeds in the strawberry patch, or over to my friend's house, while she and her visitor fucked themselves into exhaustion. Usually they finished before her then current husband got home, but if not, well that might well be the end of yet another marriage.
I sit up, taking a break from crawling down the row I was working on, and think back to my late teens when I discovered, here in this very strawberry patch, just what kind of power over men my tits bestowed on me. I'm so horny as I think back on that experience. I can't resist reaching with my muddy fingers and rubbing my hard nipples through my T-shirt. Yes, it's getting the T-shirt dirty, but . . . oh, it feels so good. I'm trying to resist masturbating today. I want to save the passion for Ray and his big hard dick. I guess I'm not doing such a good job of resisting right now. I smile and tie my greying, strawberry blonde hair back into the knot it has slipped out of and return to my chore, letting my mind wander back to the summer of my 18
th
year:
* * * * *
It was nearing mid-day when my mother had sent me out to help Uncle Dick working in the strawberry patch. Uncle Dick didn't really need any help, but the motorcycle cop who lived across the street had just dropped by—probably looking for a nooner. Mom was always nice to Officer Sanchez because he kept us supplied in weed that he lifted from the evidence room.
Uncle Dick wasn't really my uncle. His brother was my mother's then current husband, Bill. Bill was husband number 3. This summer was his last. Bill always told me Uncle Dick had a tough time in Vietnam and he had promised their mother he would look after him. Bill wasn't about to let Uncle Dick drift off into living on the streets, which he surely would have done without our support. There was an old garage and shop on the back of our property which Bill had converted to living quarters for Uncle Dick. We called it the Shed. Uncle Dick helped with chores around the house and joined us at meal time. As far as I know he didn't work, and he didn't pay any room and board to us.
Sometimes Uncle Dick wasn't quite all there. He spoke slowly and would sometimes look at you for a long time while he tried to process what you said or decide how to respond. Other times he seemed fully together. It was odd. I never understood, but he seemed harmless. Neither he nor Bill would talk about Uncle Dick's two tours in Vietnam. One time when Bill was drunk he told me he thought Uncle Dick was gay. That turned out to be far from the case.
I had just graduated from high school. During my last year or so I had noticed guys staring at my big boobs during class. I also noticed that some of them seemed to have really big bulges in their pants when they got up from their desk as class ended. I found it embarrassing. When I asked my mother about this, we finally had the birds and bees lecture, and then she promptly took me to the health clinic and got me on the pill. I guess she figured I wouldn't be any better at resisting boys than she had been. She was right.
On this particular day in the strawberry patch I did something that really wasn't very nice. As soon as I started picking berries I noticed Uncle Dick taking sidelong glances at my boobs, just like the guys in school did. Gay my ass, I thought. I told him I would be right back and walked into the house, being careful not to disturb my mother who was with the motorcycle cop in the living room. I took off my T-shirt put on a blouse that was kind of baggy—no bra. Then I went back out and got down on my hands and knees and began picking berries. I had released the top two buttons on my blouse, so that once I was on my hands and knees it was easy for anyone at my level to look inside my blouse and see my big tits hanging down. I positioned myself so that I was facing Uncle Dick. Every time he lifted his head up he couldn't help but see all of my boobs. Exposing myself like this to him was making me horny as hell, so my nipples were fully engorged. I have big nipples that are a good half an inch long when fully engorged.
I wasn't trying to seduce Uncle Dick. I just wanted to find out if he was gay like Bill had said. He wasn't. Every time he looked up his face got a bit redder. It wasn't that hot yet. He even licked his lips before he forced himself to look down and resume picking berries. I wasn't getting a lot of berries in my basket because I was keeping my head up to watch Uncle Dick. This was fun.
Eventually my exhibitionism was more than Uncle Dick could take. He stood up abruptly, still looking down at me as he tried to get his mind to formulate words to explain why he was leaving. I had sat back on my haunches, and by this time there was probably only one button still holding the old blouse together. I was leaning forward just enough so he couldn't help but see all of my big tits by looking down the front of the blouse. It was that view, plus whatever shell shock he had received during the war, that was keeping him from saying something. He was just standing there staring at my big boobs.
"What's the matter, Uncle Dick?" I asked. "Is it too hot for you?"
He tried to talk, but nothing came out. Then he licked his lips, as he continued to stare at my tits. I couldn't help but see that he had a huge boner straining the zipper of the old khaki pants he wore. Definitely not gay. Not only had I confirmed he wasn't gay, I now realized that he appeared to have a very large cock. At this point in my life I had not had sex with enough different guys to begin to appreciate the value of a large cock. My girlfriends talked about it, but I really hadn't tried it, not a really big one.
"Perhaps you better take a break." I said, smiling sweetly.
"Ah . . . yeah . . . okay. . . . Yeah, I guess I better." He shuffled off to the Shed leaving his tools and his basket of berries behind.
I picked up both berry baskets and carried them into the house. I was going to put them in the kitchen, but as soon as I stepped into the house I heard Mom moaning. Okay so she's balling officer Sanchez, I thought. I expected that, but somehow it didn't sound right. Where were they? It sounded like they were in the kitchen, where I intended to take the berries and wash them. I set the baskets of strawberries down and tiptoed up to the kitchen door. It was an old fashioned swinging door—the kind with a small piece of glass at head height so you can see if someone is about to push it open and break your nose. I peeked through the glass and immediately saw where the sounds were coming from. Officer Sanchez was sitting on a kitchen chair. His legs stretched out in front of him, with his pants pushed down to the tops of his shiny black motorcycle boots. My naked mother was sitting atop him, her legs spread on either side of his and her big tits smashed against his face. Her robe was in a pile laying at the base of the refrigerator. Hector was sucking on one nipple and then the other, while Mom used her feet and legs to lever herself up and down on his lap. I couldn't see his cock, but the sounds my mother was making made it clear it was buried deeply in her cunt.
"Oh my god Hector. You cock feels so fucking good. I'm so full. Yes, yes, yes. So fucking good," and then a long groan, followed by a string of obscenities in Spanish.
Hector wasn't saying anything. His face was so buried in her tits that he probably couldn't have if he wanted to.
This was so nasty, I thought, watching my mother fucking the motorcycle cop from across the street. I was always pretty sure she was fucking him regularly. Why else would he keep us supplied with all that dope stolen from the evidence room. But now I was actually watching them fuck. I'd never seen anyone fucking before. I'd seen some pictures in a dirty magazine a girlfriend had stolen from her father's porn stash, but this was so way hotter. I knew I should leave, but . . . I couldn't. I just stood, playing with my tits while I watched.
After several minutes, Hector said something in Spanish and my mother stood up and got down on her knees in front of him. She put her face down on the floor and stuck her ass up. She looked just like one of the sluts in my friend's stolen porn mag. Hector stood up and stepped behind my mother, his cock, glistening with my mother's juices and sticking straight out.
"Is this what you want lady?" in heavily accented English. "Do you want my big pecker rammed into your wet cunt? Are you my slut who just can't get enough of this big cock?"
