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This is the last in a series of chapters in which our heroine, Kate, tells of a few of her varied sexual escapades accumulated over a lifetime as a successful businesswoman and a sexually liberated woman. Kate began this series by asking herself whether she was a slut, but it no longer seems to be a question of concern and the reader is left to his or her own conclusions on the issue. Rest assured that at age 65 she has not given up sex.
I leaned back in the hot tub on the back porch of my Pacific Heights home in San Francisco and took a sip of the delicious wine I had specially selected for my 65th birthday. It was a lovely Burgundy grown in one of the premier cru vineyards I inherited from my third husband, Yves. I looked across the hot tub at three good friends from my past who had joined me to celebrate my birthday—Halili, the tall Kenyan beauty I had first met in my college years in Berkeley; Sandy, the trophy wife of my former boss at Robards Publishing; and Mary Margaret, the former nun I had seduced when she was still living in a convent in northern Quebec.
It had been many years since I had seen any of them and, if you had asked me when I was celebrating my 60th birthday, I would have said it was unlikely that I would ever see any of them again. I had enjoyed marvelous sex with each of them at one time, but then our lives had moved on in different directions.
When I was 60 and started this series, I was happily married to my fourth husband, Henry, an Englishman who owned a book store in London and as near as I could tell dabbled in various forms of espionage for several Western intelligence agencies. It was his freelancing that had eventually gotten him killed—shot execution style, one night a year ago, in an alley in Marseille. When a spy is killed, he may not have the kind of send off most folks have. I got a phone call from the Sûreté, telling me he had been shot and his body cremated. There was no explanation of who did it or why, and I was encouraged not to enquire further. Eventually they sent me his remains along with a death certificate, which allowed me to wind up his affairs, or at least those that I could find out about. I also received several visits from gentlemen in dark suits presumably representing various other espionage agencies he dealt with, or at least some of them. They mostly wanted to know if I had any papers or other records he created and to remind me that I really shouldn’t discuss anything I knew about him with anyone. Best just to forgive and forget, they said.
I never really knew what organizations his free-lance activities associated him with, beyond MI5 in Britain and the CIA in the US. There were likely others. Actually, given his lifestyle, it’s not completely clear that he is actually dead. Who knows whose remains are in the urn I keep in my laundry room. I am sure the Sûreté is more than capable of whipping up a phony French death certificate and cremating the remains of some transient who died in a Marseille alley of a drug overdose. In any case, he is gone, and I’m single again and getting used to it.
So for my 65th, since there were no longer any men in my life, and after four husbands I wasn’t seeking any more long term relationships with men, I decided to find the women who had been my most interesting lovers. Not my only female lovers by any means, but certainly the most interesting. It took a little work, but I had assembled them in San Francisco for the occasion and now, after a fine dinner out, we were sitting naked in my hot tub enjoying one of my winery’s better Burgundies.
Halili was in her early seventies now, and while she had aged, of course, she would still have passed for a woman in her early fifties. Her skin was still the creamy pale chocolate I remembered from my introduction to lesbian sex with her at her then-husband’s pool in Walnut Creek so many years ago. Her closely trimmed hair had gone to gray, but her body was still in great condition. She was still stunning. After the Professor died, she had never remarried. During her years teaching at a junior college in San Jose, she had gone from one lesbian relationship to another, with none lasting more than a year.
Sandy Worthington, now in her early fifties, still lived on the horse farm she and her husband Jim had bought after Jim’s sale of Robards Publishing. Like Halili, she was a widow. Jim had been killed when a horse fell and rolled on him a couple of years after they bought the ranch. She also had a large home in Woodside, an upscale community just to the west of Palo Alto, Kartal Escort where she kept additional horses. She basically looked like she had when I first met her and Jim in a debauched evening following a wedding in San Francisco. Maybe some minor crows feet around her eyes, but otherwise still the same glamorous woman.
Mary Margaret, now in her late-forties, was as beautiful as she had been when I first met her at the convent in Port Cartier, Quebec—perhaps more. When I met her in Quebec she was barely into her early twenties, and she had the kind of beauty that deepened and grew as she aged. Like the others, she was also widowed. Her doctor husband had died of cancer leaving her to finish raising two children as a single mother in Calgary. The children were now off to college, but she still lived in Calgary, alone in the big house she had shared with her husband and children. She told us that it had been long enough so that the pain of her loss was gone and although she occasionally had “a fling,” as she put it, she had no desire to enter into a permanent relationship with a man or a woman.
My friends were chatting quietly among themselves when I spoke up. I raised my glass in a toast and said, “Here’s to widowhood.”
They all raised their glasses in response. After we were all widows. Then Sandy asked, “Is ‘widowhood’ really a word?”
“It is when you’ve had this much to drink,” Mary Margaret said, “Besides, trust her, she’s an editor. An editor with a golden tongue, I might add.”
“Oh, so we’re going there, are we?” said Halilli.
“Absolutely!” responded Mary Margaret. She raised her glass again and said, “Here’s to Kate’s golden tongue.” We all knew she wasn’t talking about my skills with the spoken English language.
The others laughed and raised their glasses. “To Kate’s tongue,” they said in a drunken unison. I laughed and stuck my tongue out as far as it would go and then lasciviously licked my lips.
“Oh girl, you are so bad,” Hallili said.
“Hmm,” I responded. “I don’t remember you ever complaining about my tongue before. Have you become a Puritan?”
“Hardly,” she laughed. “I agree, your tongue is one of the most talented I have ever been fucked by. And by the way,” she added, “Widowhood is a word. Trust me, I’m an English teacher.”
“She really does have a golden tongue,” Sandy said, jumping into the conversation. “I remember the first time we met. She ate me to the most glorious climax I’ve ever had, before or since.”
“Really,” I said. “The first time was the best? I remember some other times that you seemed to seriously enjoy.”
“Well, okay. You were always good. I so missed sex with you once that fool of a husband of mine sold the company and destroyed our relationship.”
“Her golden tongue fucked me right out of my nunhood,” Mary Margaret said slurring her words as she jumped back into the conversation.
“Whoa!” Sandy interjected. “I’ll buy ‘widowhood,’ but ‘nunhood.’ That can’t be a word.”
We were all laughing hard now, even Mary Margaret. Once she recovered she said, “Okay, maybe it’s not a word, but you all know what I mean. If it wasn’t for what her golden tongue did to me that night in the Montreal Ritz-Carlton, I would be a dried up old crone scurrying around in my habit in St. Pauline’s convent in the frozen north of Quebec.”
“Oh, you naughty girl, Kate,” Halili said. “You seduced a nun?”
I smiled and even chuckled a bit. “Yeah, I guess I did. I mean, I didn’t set out to seduce her, but well, we both had a bit too much wine, and . . .”
“Like tonight?” interrupted Sandy.
“Yes,” I laughed. “Like tonight, and,” I said, picking up from where I was interrupted, “she was just so beautiful, and she wanted to learn about sex, so . . .”
“I did!” interrupted Mary Margaret.
As I looked across at my friends, I realized that Halili appeared to be fondling Mary Margaret’s breasts just below the water level.
“Halili!” I exclaimed. “Who are you to be criticizing me for seducing a nun. It looks like that is exactly what you are doing right now.”
“Ex-nun,” said Mary Margaret. “And it feels great.”
“Ummm,” said Halili. “What Sandy is doing to my pussy with her hand feels great too.”
“And what I am doing to my pussy with my other hand feels great,” said Sandy.
“Why you horny sluts!” I said barely choking back a laugh.
“What else did you expect?” Sandy asked.
“Wait!” Mary Margaret exclaimed. “It’s Kate’s birthday. I think we should all do her.”
“Oh yes,” chimed Kartal Escort Bayan in the other two.
“Kate, sit up on the edge of the hot tub and spread your legs,” ordered Sandy.
“Who can object to this,” I said as I hoisted myself up on the side of the tub.
Halili slid in between my legs, her knees on the floor of the hot tub and her face positioned perfectly before my pussy. At first she just palmed my sex. The pressure sent the raunchiest sensations through my clit, even though it wasn’t directly exposed. Meanwhile Sandy and Mary Margaret stood on either side of me, each groping one of my tits. Mary Margaret leaned in and kissed my lips. Her kiss was so soft and tender, just as I had remembered it from our night in Montreal.
Then, as I savored Mary Margaret’s deft exploration of my mouth with her tongue, I got a sudden shock as Sandy sucked one of my nipples into her mouth and lightly raked her teeth across it’s engorged surface. A moment later Mary Margaret pinched the nipple of my other tit. Oh fuck, I thought. I’m in heaven.
They kept it up and kept it up—all three of them: Halili licking my pussy with two fingers shoved deep into my cunt, Mary Margaret divinely sucking on a nipple while she massaged the rest of the breast, and Sandy doing the same. What was I doing? Moaning and crying. I came twice before they decided to switch roles.
Now Mary Margaret was between my legs lapping away at my pussy. It was so good. She was staying away from my clit, so I was just kind of cruising, not really close to an orgasm, but so turned on. Sandy was sitting opposite me on the other side of the hot tub with her legs spread masturbating, slowly and calmly, not in a hurry to cum. It was so sexy to watch her while Mary Margaret lapped at my pussy, occasionally briefly inserting a couple of fingers into my cunt.
But where had Halili gone? “Oh fuck, that’s so hot watching you, Sandy.” Halili’s absence drifted out of my marginal consciousness as I spoke to Sandy. I pushed Mary Margaret’s face into my pussy, holding her head in place with my fingers entwined in her long, thick, blonde hair.
“Is it turning you on, watching me?” Sandy softly asked me, her voice at least an octave lower than her normal speaking tone. She used the hand not busy masturbating to hold one of her tits out towards me. “Does it make you hot to watch me? I can tell you it’s making me hot to watch Mary Margaret eating you. God, that’s so fucking sexy. It’s way better than when I used to watch Jim fuck you or eat your pussy.”
When she said that, I had a flashback to the first time I had partied with Sandy and Jim. Jim had been fucking me, and I was looking over his shoulder watching Sandy finger-fuck herself at the same pace as Jim was fucking me. Our eyes were locked, and when I finally came she did at the same time, or maybe it was her climax that triggered mine. Or maybe it was Jim. Fuck, who knew? We all three came pretty much at the same time.
“Are you getting close?” I asked Sandy as I continued to stare at her.
“Yes. Let’s do it. Make yourself cum right now.” As I spoke I pushed harder on Mary Margaret’s head. She got the hint and I felt her begin to lick my clit. Meanwhile Sandy was rubbing her clit furiously with one hand while she finger-fucked herself with the other hand. Her face was screwed up tight on the edge of ecstasy. I must have looked the same. I was hanging just on the edge of a climax.
Then Mary Margaret grabbed the hood over my clit and pulled back on it with her lips while her tongue stroked my clit. That did it. It was like a whole body explosion. I threw my head back and literally howled at the moon.
As I came back down, still crying and whimpering, I heard Sandy scream as she tipped into her orgasm. “Oh fuck! Ohhhh fuuuuuuck!” Then she slid back into the pool and lay her head back on the edge, her long dark hair spread out behind her.
A few moments later Halili reappeared, holding a large dildo she had apparently retrieved from her things in the house. “I thought we would need this,” she said, “But it looks like I’m too late.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said, barely able to talk. Sandy looked up and groaned.
But Mary Margaret looked up from between my legs, “Oh no, you’re not late. Just in time. Let me have that thing.”
“Oh no, pretty girl,” Halili said. “I want to do you. Trade places with Kate, and let me and my friend here between your legs.
“I’ve got a better idea,” I said. “Let’s go in the house and use the couch.”
We all Escort Kartal climbed out of the tub, toweled ourselves dry and walked into my living room. Sandy and I curled up together on one couch and Mary Margaret lay back on the other one, her legs spread invitingly for Halili. Halili dropped between Mary Margaret’s legs and began to slowly lick her inner pussy lips, using her fingers of one hand to spread the outer lips to give her access to the more sensitive tissue below. Mary Margaret was slouched on the couch, almost reclining, using her hands to massage her large breasts. Two children had made them even larger than I remembered.
After several minutes of lapping at Mary Margaret’s cunt, Halili pulled her head back and began to slowly force the big dildo into Mary Margaret.
Mary Margaret groaned and then speaking softly said, “Oh fuck that’s good—so good. Put it all the way in. Fill me up. Oh god, that feels so good.”
Now Halili shoved the dildo firmly and quickly into her and Mary Margaret’s eyes flew open. “Oh fuck!” she yelled. “Yes, fuck me with it, fuck me!”
Halili began fucking her firmly and quickly with the dildo, and Mary Margaret grabbed her knees and pulled them back almost beside her head. “Harder, god damn it! Harder!” she yelled.
“Watch this,” I whispered to Sandy, remembering how the first time I had made love to Mary Margaret I had made her cum just by fondling her breasts and nipples. I walked quickly and quietly behind the couch and leaned over Mary Margaret. I pinched a nipple hard with each of my hands. That tipped her over into a screaming climax.
Then I walked back and sat beside Sandy as she and Halili looked at me. Mary Margaret was still more or less out of it. She had curled up into a fetal position and was crying just like that first time in Montreal.
“What did you do?” asked Halili.
“Just tweaked her nipples,” I said. “She has very sensitive nipples.”
By this time Mary Margaret was coming around. “Wow,” she said softly. “Oh Kate, you remembered.”
“Oh yes, I remembered,” I said. “Haven’t had much sex in awhile have you?” I asked.
She smiled as she cleared the tears from her eyes. “No it’s been a little lean. After my husband, Arnie, died I certainly didn’t want to go back to that crazy lifestyle I had in Montreal when I was stripping and hooking on the side, but I was so lost without Arnie, just couldn’t get back into a social life. That’s the first time someone other than me has made me cum in a long time.” She shook her head, still trying to clear it. “Wow. That was incredible.”
“That’s ten years without sex?” Halile asked.
“Yeah, I guess so. I haven’t been counting though. Pretty much.”
“Well, hang around with this group, and you will have a tough time some days going more than ten minutes.”
We all laughed.
“What about you Halili? I didn’t see you get off. Don’t we need to do you now?” Sandy asked.
“No, no Sandy, girl. I was test-driving the dildo while I watched you guys before I came out of the house. I guess that’s a habit I learned from the Professor. I love getting myself off while I watch other people do it. I just didn’t scream as loud as you guys did.”
We sat around and finished the last of bottle of wine we had opened and then crashed, exhausted. My birthday was a stunning success I decided as I drifted off to sleep.
Post Script—Two years later
A couple of years have passed since my 65th birthday party described above, and my life has changed a lot. This story would not be complete without a short summary of what has happened in the last couple of years.
First Sandy decided she really preferred California to New Jersey. She sold the horse farm she and Jim had bought and all of the horses except her two favorites, which she trailered out to California. Now she lives full time in her big house in Woodside.
Shortly after that, Mary Margaret and Sandy decided they were in love and got married. Mary Margaret sold her house in Calgary and moved in with her new spouse. She is still wrangling with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, but she and Sandy have a good lawyer, and I am confident they will get it worked out.
Sandy and Mary Margaret worked hard to get me to move in with them, and I eventually succumbed. I was really tired of San Francisco’s cold fog. Woodside is so much warmer and nicer. I sold the big house in Pacific Heights and moved in with them. I also sold my publishing company, and I am now writing my own erotica instead of just publishing other peoples’ work.
Finally we have convinced Halili to move in with us. So there we are—four aging widows on a horse ranch in Woodside. The sex is still good, but we have pretty much learned to make do without men—most of the time.
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