mature xxx

They sit, one in each corner of the double closet, like two, squat, white, abstract pieces of art, open to whatever interpretation the viewer chooses to make of them. Only the sculptor can validate the interpretation of any observer. Even though I own them I have no intention of even confirming what they represent or why they stand, alone and abandoned, in the corner of my clothes closet. They are both my cross and my salvation, all in the same breath; my sole remaining link to the past and the only hope I have for the future.

Like Scylla and Charybdis, master and mistress of the perils of the sea, and guardians of the straits in ancient Greek mythology, they guard the entrance of my own private hell; or rather they are in and of themselves my own private hell. No one, should they be discovered before my death, will ever fathom their significance in my life or the purpose of their contents. After all, they are so much more than what they appear on the surface, and only I know.

They swim before my eyes shimmering, the lettering on the sides flowing together and then separating, forming grotesque faces, first looking at me and then at each other as if deciding as to how to devour me, as if they have not already done so.

God damned you, John. God damns you to hell for leaving me responsible for them and their contents! How could you? Why would you? What did I ever do to deserve this? I was a good wife, a loving and caring wife. I followed your lead and I supported you. I kept your house and bore your children.

No matter how I shift my head on the pillow in my neatly arranged bedroom, I cannot avoid seeing them peeking out around the edges of the doors on each side of the open closet. I silently curse, once again, as I fling my glass, and the remnants of the latest drink of scotch, against the far wall of the master bedroom. The scotch diluted by the melting ice cubes, trickles down the beige wall to puddle at the baseboard beside the shards of broken glass and the fast melting ice. The two white sentinels remain impassive in the closet; observing all and saying nothing.

Deep in the recesses of my mind I know that I am not thinking clearly. Thankfully, the scotch is once again starting to take command, but I don’t care. Or maybe I cared too much, and that is why I am drinking too much, all by myself in my lonely bedroom, alone in my bed.

Naked in the bed, I let my fingers, cold and wet from clutching the ever-present glass, slide down my flat belly into the luxuriant bush of thickening auburn hair covering my pussy and spreading up my flat belly. A sly smile teases at the corner of my lips. Just like a real beaver, a coarse outer layer of fur covering the fine inner layer and the tender, sensitive skin underneath. My index finger slides down to the top of my ever-moist slit, slipping into the crevasse to torment once again the ever-agitated bud hidden in the dampened fold of skin. My eyelids droop as a slight thrill courses through my body. As I drift back into the memories, to more sensual times, my finger starts to stroke in and out, and the wet sounds of my arousal echo though the silent, lonely bedroom. The sentinels watch from the closet saying nothing, observing all.

As my fingers increase their tempo, memories of that last, fateful morning come flooding back, as if it were only yesterday. A morning that started out promising something new, stimulating invigorating and forbidden in our sex lives, and ended in disaster.

As we stand in the shower, the needle sharp spray pounds down, soothing our tired muscles, and cleansing the sweat from our bodies after our early morning eye opener. John is standing behind me in the tiny stall, his ever turgid cock wedged in the narrow crack of my ass, a constant reminder of what he is always looking for from me and what I am more than willing to give. Steam, rising from the scalding waters, clouds the small room, masking everything in its billowy clouds, and making everything slick to the touch.

“Oh John, that feels so good,” I whisper, barely loud enough to be heard over the pounding water, as his callused fingers, covered in soap suds, slide over my tender nipples and down my taut belly. “You’re insatiable, don’t you ever get enough?” His fingers tense but he knows that I don’t really mean it as my body relaxes in his hands.

“Will you relax, Peggy, the kids are all gone, off on their own, probably screwing their brains out. We have the house all to ourselves, finally. We can yell and scream and chase each other through the house to our hearts’ content if we want. We are alone and I am going to ravish you in a way you have never been ravished before.” The comment piques my curiosity but my mind is quickly distracted as his finger slides over my slick belly into the sopping hair covering my wet slit.

“You can scream and yell all you want. Only the walls can hear and they can’t talk.” He whispers into my ear as his finger massages the soapsuds trapped in the thick mat of auburn hair that has always been my secret pride and joy. I can feel his teeth start to nibble at the lobe of my ear as the blood starts to run more quickly through my veins. Can I ever get enough of my man, I silently ask myself, as I feel his stiff cock probing insistently at me from behind.

My mind wants to follow this conversation, to question what he means, to question what is to come. John’s fingers are entwined in the tangled hair of my bush. The coarse curls protrude through his spread fingers. His index finger finds my leaking slit and starts to gently massage the little button. His hard cock slides up and down the narrow crack between the small cheeks of my ass, rubbing against the puckered little rosebud that is my asshole. My attention wanders and I quickly forget the provoking words, and lose myself in the physical sensations of the moment.

The coarse whiskers on the side of his unshaven cheek chafe the sensitive skin on the side of my neck. His unseen lips open, once again, capturing my earlobe between them, sucking on it, teasing, and pulling at it. His tongue flicks out, probing the opening to my ear. A shiver darts down my neck, down, down into my sex. The smell of my arousal permeates the heavy steam, giving it a special scent, the smell of a woman in heat.

My mind and body start to relax, to float gently into that ever so special world I visit solely in the arms of my loving husband. “Oh, John… don’t you ever get enough,” I moan over my shoulder. The words of protest are made lie to by the actions of my body, as I melt back into him.

I feel his lips release my earlobe and he whispers right into my ear, “Never Peggy, I never get enough of that tight little pussy of yours.” A smile, unseen by him, teases at the corner of my mouth as my neck arches back and I fit the crown on my head under his chin; my lips searching for his, my eyes closed in the pounding spray.

His left hand slides up the flat plane of my tummy and cups my right breast. His fingers separate and the hard, engorged bud of my nipple slips between them to be teased, sending a shiver up my spine. I barely notice his right hand slipping out of my bush, abandoning the dripping slit and its sensitive little treasure, and circling over my hip. He eases back and the log that is his rampant cock slips out of the crease of my ass. Surely he is not going to stop, not now. “John…please don’t stop,” I whine, a tone of pleading in my voice.

“Relax Peggy, relax and go with the flow. I won’t leave you hanging. We are going to experiment, try new things. We are all alone, so nobody will hear us, nobody.” His gentle, soothing words, the warm water and my singing nerves ease my fears and I ignore the signals my questioning mind has started to send. His hand glides across the small of my back, the fingers like fire on my sensitive skin. They slide down the crease of my ass where only moments ago his thick cock had been so firmly lodged. Lubricated with the rich, thick suds he worked up in my bush, his long thick fingers work their way in my crack, teasing my nether hole as they slip back and forth across the sensitive opening.

My breath starts to come in ragged gasps as hoarsely I cry out, “Oh, John, it feels so good, sooooo good, please don’t stop, pleaaaase!” His hand massages the tense muscles in the cheek of my ass, his fingers slide up and down the crack and slowly I relax under his gentle massage. His left hand moves from one breast to the other, tormenting my rigid nipples. My head is thrown back, and the hot spray beats on my face.

Unconsciously, my legs inch apart, as the soles of my feet slip on the suds covered floor of the shower. My knees buckle, giving easier access to his exploring fingers. I lean forward and rest my forehead on my forearm on the shower wall. My free hand grasps his as he pulls at my taut, singing nipples. Deep in my conscious thought I marvel at John’s renewed vigor. Maybe we should have encouraged the kids to move out sooner, I think as his fingers slide up and down my crack, working their way into the narrow channel as my muscles relax. I gasp as I suck in air to satisfy my racing lungs.

I inch my hips back and open my legs further apart as his fingers work their way into my crack. The spray beats on my back and runs down the crack of my ass, providing a lubricant for his roving fingers. Lank strands of my still dark hair hang down into my face, the water dripping from the ends. I see nothing, feel nothing but the rough hands massaging my taunt ass. His index finger begins to circle the brown, puckered hole, touching, teasing the tense little bud.

My eyes are partially open and the water blurs my vision but my brain begins to register this alien presence in this forbidden, most private area. “John…John…what are you doing?”

“Relax Peggy, our sex life is about to get a lot more interesting,” is his cryptic response.

The finger swirls around the tight little hole, touching, stroking, teasing but never probing, never threatening to penetrate. The tight muscle slowly begins to relax under the soft touch, sensing that all is well, that this alien appendage is not a threat, a danger. The warning bells in my head turn off and, as my eyelids droop once again, I slide back into the world of my senses and feelings as my tingling nerve endings take me to my own special place that only I know and cherish.

“…Oh, John, oh…you don’t know what you are doing to me. Oh, please don’t stop, please…” Deep inside me my taut nerves start to sing. A low moaning, like the wind singing through the telephone wires on a deadly quiet winter evening precursing the coming of a heavy winter storm, starts to escape from my lips. My eerie moan is lost in the sound of spray beating on my back before it slides over my hips and down my legs to disappear into the swirling drain. The sharp, pungent smell of my arousal mingles with the steam to add a special perfume to the heavy air. I gasp for breath as the steam sears my lungs but nothing can tear me away from my man and his lust for me.

The feelings, the sensations, as old as woman and time, flow through my body. The feelings, known only to a woman, begin to build. His roughened fingers continue to slide back and forth against the tender flesh, touching, massaging the sensitive nerve endings. The sensations begin to grow, to take command of my body and my mind. All rational thought is lost as my nerves scream for one thing and only one thing. My fists clench and unclench as they start to gently beat a tattoo against the plastic wall of the shower stall.

I am swimming in the current of conflicting feelings, emotions, and passions. I barely notice his hand extending his long roughened forefinger into my thick bush and up my dripping channel. I am so wet, so aroused, that it slides in like a hot knife sliding into butter, worming its way without resistance up my tight channel. The scarred and twisted finger roughly massages my little button on its way past, sending shock waves deep into my belly. A shudder passes through my body and I shake, impaled on his finger.

He slowly draws his finger out as my muscles, with a will all of there own, clamp down on him, trying to stop him from escaping. Then, when he starts back in, relaxing, to invite and welcome his penetration. The cadence builds as he slides his finger back and forth, the roughened sides abrading against the tender walls and the little bud hidden at the end of the channel. My body relaxes, totally surrenders, into the loving hands of my man. As the birds chirp outside the window in the early morning light, I float off into my own special world one more time this magical morning.

Every muscle in my body relaxes as I dreamily flow on the current of feelings generated by my loving man. The warm water cascading over me, the stroking finger sliding in and out of my lubricated channel sending thrills coursing through my body. The pad of his thumb caressing the sensitive muscles guarding my nether hole…pop!

My eyes open as wide as two saucers but not before his horny thumb has breached the relaxed sphincter muscle, and lubricated by the warm water and the soapsuds, has slipped up my anal chute. It slides in to the first knuckle before I can bear down on the muscle and prevent any further penetration. “No, John…no… I don’t want that…We’ve never…no, John…please…take it out…please, John, take it out, John!”

He gives no sign of hearing a word that I have said. “John, no, we have never done this. We always agreed you are too big or rather I am too small. You’ll tear me apart.” I turn my head, trying to see John, but he is bent over my back and I cannot see his eyes.

Finally he answers, his voice behind me, close to my ear. “Relax, Peggy, I won’t hurt you. Things are going to be different from now on, the kids are gone, scream, cry if you want, there is nobody here to hear you, except the gulls and your screams will just blend into their shrieks. Nobody is going to hear you and nobody is going to know, just us.”

He leans closer to my ear and whispers, in a voice that penetrates over the hissing spray, right into the core of my brain. “I am going to fuck you in the ass whether you like it or not. Get it through your head, it is going to happen, not someday, not sometime, but today and now…right now. I am going to skewer you on my pole and you are going to dance, whether you like it or not! It is up to you to decide how hard or how easy it is going to be on you.”

The words, whispered into my ear, send a cold chill down my spine and fleetingly I wonder if the hot water has run out. I start pleading, “No, John, please, we’ve never done this. We always agreed that you are two big, that it would never fit, that you will rip me apart and we could never explain to the doctor what had happened. Please, no, I’ll bleed, I’ll have to go to the hospital to be stitched up. Everyone will know what has happened. All out friends, the kids, no, John, please.”

The hope that I may be able to reason with him in spite of his arousal is totally destroyed by his next words. “Yes, Peggy, yes. I am going to drive my rod into that tight little ass of yours if it is the last thing I do on the face of this earth. You have twitched it in front of me for twenty-five years in your tight jeans and shorts. I have dreamed of it, I have fantasized about it and I am going to have it, possess it. If they put me away in a windowless room for the rest of my life, it will be worth it. I will spend every last moment of my life remembering each detail, each sensation as I worm it up your delectable ass.”

The cold hand of sheer terror grips my heart. As a big lump starts to form in my throat I start to beg, “No, John, please no, we’ve never, you are too big, you’ll tear me, rip me apart, please don’t pleaaaase!” The words fall on deaf ears.

His thumb works to loosen the tightened muscle. He leans over my back. I can hear him, over the noise of the shower. “Yes, yes, Peggy, it is going to happen. I am going to drive my cock up your tight little ass until it is tickling your belly button…from the inside. I’m tired of watching you prance around the house in your tight little shorts with your come hither look. I always wondered what it would be like, and now, I am going to find out.”

Trapped against the shower wall, there is no escape.

The thumb starts to work its way up the forbidden virgin hole in my body. It slides, ever so slowly, up to the knuckle and then back, threatening to withdraw totally after having stormed the ramparts. The sphincter muscle adopts a will of its own, ignoring the commands from my brain, to clamp down, to seize the intruder and expel it from this virgin territory. The anal muscles surrender, yielding victory to the intruder, grasping it, and sucking it deeper and deeper into my bowel. The initial shock, the initial pain, passes as the muscles relax and his thumb starts an in and out rhythm.

As the pain subsides the sensations take over. The deep hum starts again, deep in my core. My body starts to slide down the slippery slope, welcoming the new sensations; forgetting the fears, the worries, and the potential dangers. For the first time in my married life, John is in total command of my body. I am totally exposed as his fingers saw in and out of my orifices. My brain, losing the battle for control of my body, emits one last silent prayer of hope that he will not hurt me. “Oh God, John, it feels so good. Don’t stop, please God, don’t stop.”

His fingers slide up my channels. His hands, roughened by years of immersion in salt-water brine, chafe at my tender protected membranes. The back of his finger slides over my little bud each time it slides up my canal to probe at the opening of my uterus and now barren womb. The lump has disappeared from my throat as I gasp for air in the steamy shower. All fear has disappeared as I goad him on. “Oh, Jesus, don’t stop, shove your finger deeper, John, deeper.”

My legs slip further and further apart as if they have a will of their own and somehow are still taking orders from my leaking pussy. My head, resting on my forearm, slides down the wall and my ass tilts upward to give him easier, fuller access to my leaking holes. Modesty and fear have been forgotten, I can’t get enough of his probing fingers. Exposed, I am begging for it with every fiber of my being. Every muscle, every nerve ending is screaming at me, fuck me, fuck me now, fuck me hard, deep…but his fingers just keep sliding in and out of my self-lubricating holes.

The muscles in my little rosebud stretch, accepting, even welcoming, the alien invader. The sensation of the thick, rough thumb insistently prodding up this forbidden passage is indescribable. Grasping, clutching, pulling, they try to suck the thumb up my tight, dark back channel.

The warm water, the probing thumb and the suds are beginning to have a consequence that is decidedly not erotic as the urge to void my bowel grows. I’ m so lost in the waves of ecstasy coursing through my body that I scarcely notice. I can hear a female voice in the shower stall starting to moan and only barely am I aware the sounds are coming from deep in my own throat.

John, chewing lightly on my earlobe, whispers in a voice only I can hear. “Get ready Peggy, get ready for the first day of the rest of your life.”

The meaning of his comment is lost on me in my state of sexual arousal. His thumb and forefinger saw, in and out, of my delicate, sensitive holes. My own body secretions seep out and run down my legs staining the shower stall before swirling away down the drain. I would be mortified under any other circumstances but I am so aroused I do not even notice or indeed care.
“Get ready, babe,” he whispers, his words stoking the fire burning in me to a white heat.

“Oh yes, put it in, put that hard cock of yours up my cunt, now, please put it in now. I want it now, please.” The words of encouragement spill from my lips, but my mind fails to register what he is really saying to me. I begin to pant, my sobs reverberating over the sounds of the hissing water in the small stall. His fingers slip from my holes and briefly a cooling wisp of humid air sneaks in my most sensitive channels before the muscles can close the gaping holes.

John’s hands grasp the tight cheeks of my ass in an iron grip and his fingers sink through the sparse flesh to latch onto the bones. I feel the bulbous head of his enflamed cock slide down the crack of my ass. Deftly, I maneuver my feet once again and cant my hips up so he can slip the rock hard cock up into my pussy.

Before it can register on my agitated brain, the spongy head of his cock is lodged in the entrance to my ass. The muscles, relaxed and limp from the gentle massage of his thumb, are in no condition to resist. With a gentle pop that I feel more than hear, the head of his cock slips past the muscular barrier and starts to worm its way deep into my bowel.

“No John, please, no, take it out, please take it out.” I scream over the rushing water. The searing pain shoots up my spine to my brain. “You’ll hurt me, you’re too big. Oh stop please stop, please. I can’t take it.”

My pleas fall on deaf ears. The iron bar that is his cock continues inexorably to worm its way up my virgin back channel. The muscles bear down, trying to expel the invader, but to no avail. His hands grasp my hips like the talons of an eagle grasping its prey, refusing to relinquish its hold until all resistance is gone. Defenseless, I am impaled on his rigid cock.

John straightens his back and his legs lock in place and, impaled on his iron rod, my tiny body is lifted from the wet floor, as my legs wildly search for purchase. Circling my waist with his left arm he uses his right to rip the shower curtain from its moorings. Terrified, my anal muscles bear down, fearful that if they let go he will rip my insides apart as he tears his cock from my ass.

“Please, please John, take it out. It hurts, oh God, it hurts. I’m going to start to bleed. Oh, God, please take it out before you really hurt me.” Again my words of anguish have no impact. Lost in his own sexual frenzy, he gives no sign that he has heard me.

Soaking wet and covered in soapsuds, he carries me, suspended from his cock, out of the bathroom as my arms and legs flail away, and seeking a purchase somewhere, anywhere. The soles of my feet dance in the air like a hanged man searching, searching for a purchase but finding nothing. A tear cascades down my cheek as the pain and the humiliation compete for my attention. My anal muscles clamp down in one last desperate effort to prevent me from voiding myself onto the carpet. “Please John, please take it out, it hurts so bad, please.”

Again my faint cries bounce off the bedroom walls, seemingly unheard by any other human being. Arms and legs flailing, I can find no purchase to use to try and tear myself off his ravaging cock, which uses every movement by me to its advantage, to further slide into my abused anal opening.

John’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and, as he falls forward, I am forced to abandon my efforts to escape as I throw out my arms to break my fall, face down on the tumbled sheets. As he nestles his face once more into the crook of my neck, his rough whiskers scraping the tender skin, I hear him, hoarse with arousal, say, “Yes, oh yes,” as he worms the last inch into my tortured opening. His balls, charged with yet another load of his seed, come to rest deep in my narrow crack. He begins to move, stroking, sliding, ever so slightly working to expand, to lubricate the tight channel. My fingers clutch the sheets and my toes spread, digging into the carpet, seeking purchase somehow to help me escape the driving rod in my rear.

The effort is wasted as he continues to worm away, ignoring my futile efforts. Again his voice penetrates my brain over the pain. “Relax, Peggy, accept it, welcome it, it is a taste of the future. Let your muscles relax, will them to relax or I really will hurt you.”

My mind finally accepts the inevitable and I consciously force my eyes shut, willing my abused muscles to relax, to accept what is taking place. Strangely it helps. The pain subsides and the need to void my bowel passes. I am left with a feeling of being stuffed, totally stuffed by a pulsating rod extending deep into my belly. The pain dissipates as I give up the struggle.

John senses my surrender. His left hand releases its grip and slides under my belly and the finger starts to play with my love bud once again. Freed from the struggle and accepting the inevitable, I start to feel that special tingling once again. It seems so impossible but it is there, growing as the muscles relax and accept the alien intrusion on their hitherto private space.

John starts to move, the strokes longer and a little more quick. He withdraws each time until the head of his cock is just inside the tight anal ring. As my muscles grasp at it, trying to suck it back in, he stops and starts to slide back up the chute. Each time he pushes it a little harder, a little faster, up the passage that has never experienced penetration before. Leaning over my shoulder he says, “It feels good, doesn’t it, Peggy? Never thought you would ever have 8 inches of man cock rammed up your tight little ass, did you? All the times you coyly said no, it’ll hurt too much, it’s too big, it won’t fit, you thought I had forgotten, didn’t you?”

Each lewd word is accompanied by a twitch of his rigid cock, each phrase with a gentle jab up my anal canal. He is a man I no longer know his words and his actions at the same time both exciting and frightening.

“How deep do you think I can work my cock in your ass, Peggy? Five inches, do you think I can work it up five inches?” John punctuates his question with another jab. “Maybe further, think I could do 6 inches? Think you could take 6 inches, Peggy, if I really worked at it?” Each question is punctuated by another jab as his steel hard cock mercilessly drives up the virgin canal.

“What do you think, Peggy? Cat got your tongue? I can’t hear you. There is nobody here to hear you whimper and cry today. Just you and me, Peggy, and my cock up your tight little ass.” Another jab, harder and deeper than the others, adds an exclamation point to his words. “What’s the matter, the cat still got your tongue?”

My silence seems to goad him, to drive him to renew his efforts to skewer me on his rod to the very hilt. I can feel his cock flexing, pulsing deep in my bowel. Tear flow down my cheeks to soak into the already damp sheets but they are no longer tears of physical agony. God, how it hurt going into my tight, narrow channel. Now the muscles are relaxing, accepting his invasion, grasping, even welcoming it, into my moist, dark cavern.

As the muscles relax accepting him into me, the lump in my throat disappears and for the first time in what seems like hours my voice returns. “God, John, it feels so different,” I say, turning my head to look into the gloom over my shoulder. “It hurt so bad when you put it in but the burning is going away, it’s starting to feel…” But the sentence is never completed as he interrupts.

“How is it starting to feel, Peggy,” he asks as he gives his hard cock another twitch, worming it in another fraction of an inch. It feels like it is pushing at my bellybutton, trying to escape. “Is it starting to feel good, Peggy, is it? Tell me, do you like to get fucked in the ass? Would you like me to take you this way more often? Just like a big Brahma bull takes a cow he fancies, no fuss, no muss, just pure animalistic screwing?”

The sheer lewdness of his comments, whispered in my ear for only me to hear, sends a shiver down my spine. I fail to answer, not because I am searching for words, but rather because I am reluctant to admit how good it is starting to feel. Mortified, suspended on his cock, I bury my face in the sheets to hide my humiliation. I could never admit, even to John, what a turn on it is to be dominated, totally dominated by him. The pain, the humiliation, of being powerless, of being fucked by the male animal, is a turn on the likes of which I have never experienced before.

My innate caution begins to shed like a molting snake as the sensations of what is taking place drive the receding pain aside. The muscles in my rectum relax even further as I welcome him in me. His words, his actions drive me to speak. “Yes, fuck me in the ass. I want to feel you deep in me, now. Drive it into me now, you pervert. Drive it deeper into me now, John.”

The unexpected words of encouragement act like a slap in the face to him. As impossible as it seems, his cock stiffens further, expanding, threatening to tear me apart. His fingers dig deeper into my hips, pulling him in tighter, deeper. His slow strokes into my rectum increase their tempo. As any female animal, I can feel his arousal.

“It feels good, doesn’t it, Peggy? Eight inches of rock-hard man cock deep in your ass. Can you feel it every time I drive it into you? Can you feel it?” The comments are accompanied by deep, penetrating, gut-wrenching jabs, each threatening to tear me apart.

My inhibitions and my caution are gone as I slip into this strangely erotic act. “Oh God, yes, I feel it. It’s good, oh so good. Stop talking and start fucking me now, John.”

John leans over my shoulder, whispering in my ear, wheedling, encouraging, and urging me on. “It’s time to come, Peggy. I want you to grasp me with your muscles, suck me in, and milk me. Can you do that? Can you fuck me back?”

“Yes, oh yes, yes, yes,” I scream at the top of my lungs. He thrusts into me in earnest now, pumping like a piston in a well-oiled machine, which has gone out of control. I can feel the droplets of his sweat splashing onto my naked back.

“I’m almost there, Peggy, can you feel it, I am going to come deep in your ass, I can’t hold it any longer.” His finger starts to stroke in and out of my pussy at a feverish pace, the callused finger roughly scraping at my engorged bud. He stops sliding his finger further up and before I realize it the tip of his finger, buried in the wet depths of my pussy, is massaging the tip of his inflamed cock through the anal membrane.

Screaming incoherently, “Oh, oh my God,” my body goes rigid as wave after wave of my climax courses through every nerve ending in my body. As I fall on the bed, my muscles totally abandon me, I can feel his cock convulsing and his seed bathing the inflamed walls of my rectum with its warm, soothing elixir of life.

John collapses on my back, pinning me to the soiled sheets. Neither of us has the energy to move. Two physically exhausted people lay helpless, gasping for air. The harsh, rasping sounds of our deep gasps reflect off the silent walls. The sun is just beginning to peek through the edges of the curtains but we are both drained of all energy. His cock deflates and slips out of my tortured asshole to hang limply along his thigh. My anal muscles, too stretched to respond quickly to seal the entrance, let the cool breeze from the early morning off the ocean play across my exhausted anal lips and up the dark passage, sending a chill up my spine. Finally the muscles respond, closing the hole; but not before the last vestiges of his seed and all other unimaginable substances trickle down the crack of my ass to puddle on the sheets.

Gradually our tortured lungs slow as our heart rates begin to fall back to normal. I lick my dry lips, but I am not ready to break the silence. There is nothing to say, at least not at the present time. Each of us has too much to think about.

Never have I ever done anything like this in my life. Never have I dreamed of doing anything like this in my life, not even in my most wild erotic dreams, the likes of which I never shared with another living soul - not even John. The most we have ever done is talked about it, but I had always refused for any number of reasons. I always thought that he accepted my reluctance. This morning he acted like a crazy man, unwilling to listen, to take guidance from me, bent on taking pleasure and giving it.

The scary part, the truly scary part of the whole experience, is that I have to admit, but only to myself, that I liked it, I really liked it. As my mind struggles to come to grips with this new and exciting aspect of my sex life – no, our sex life - I can feel John rise from the bed. He walks around the foot of the bed and comes to a stop with his knees inches from my face.

John bends down close to my ear and says, “liked it, didn’t you, Peggy?” The tone of his voice says it all. It is not a question, but rather a simple statement of fact. He knows, he can read my body like an open book. “You liked it, you never thought you would. You never thought you could bring yourself to do it, but you did it and you liked it. I may have taken the decision out of your hands, I may have forced you in the beginning and you don’t like that, but you liked it – no, you loved it.”

John pauses to let his words sink in and for me to respond. Silent, my mind churns, unwilling to reduce my thoughts and feelings to words yet. Sensing this he continues. “You have some thinking to do this morning, some self-examination. Our sex life is going to change in the next few weeks. We are going to try things we never dreamed, let alone dared, in the past. You liked this morning. You never thought you would, but you did. You have the desire to explore your sexuality with me, but do you have the courage?”

The lethargy that has seeped into my body makes me slow to react to his words, but gradually they penetrate and my eyes open wide. His words slide home. He knows, he really knows, just how turned on I was in the end, impaled on his cock, helpless in his arms. As I lift my head to look at him for the first time every muscle in my body screams in rage, demanding time to recuperate. My eyes crawl up his long legs and I see his still partially erect cock hanging down his leg, slick with our juices. He contracts his stomach muscles and it twitches, showing all visible signs of coming back to life to invade some orifice of my body for a third time this morning. A stab of fear pierces my heart as I realize that my mouth is all that is left.

Words of protest rise like bile to my lips to spew forth uncontrolled and lacking thought and organization. “No, no more this morning. I really didn’t enjoy it. No woman could enjoy that. It was nothing more than my nerve-endings responding to stimulation, nothing more. No decent woman would enjoy that. It is not decent, it’s not right, and you know it, John.” The protest is half-hearted and the tone lacks conviction. He knows it and so do I.

Starring at his twitching cock, I fail to see the smile that creases his face. A smile is not an accurate description of his expression; maybe the word smirk would be far more descriptive and closer to the truth. As he looks down he says, “You’re lying Peggy, and what is more, I know you are lying. You liked it. You liked it a lot. It thrilled you and scared you at the same time. It scared you that I might rip you apart and you would have to explain to the doctor. It scared you that you liked it too. Most of all, it scared you because you liked it and you are worried that the kids or our friends will find out and think you are some kind of sexual pervert.”

My jaw drops as my eyes widen. He knows, he is reading my mind. “No, it’s wrong,” I whisper, almost to myself, but there is no feeling in my voice. I am going through the motions, saying the words without feeling or belief.

John startles me as he leans forward and slaps me viciously across the cheek of my ass with his huge hand. I jump on the bed, my muscles screaming at the abuse, but I fail to hear them. The burning pain from the slap spreads like fire through my fatigued body. “Stop, oh god that hurts,” I squeal as my hand snakes around so that I can massage the tender cheeks.

“Then stop lying to yourself and to me, Peggy. I won’t have it.” He punctuates his comment with another slap but this one lacks the force of the last. It is a reinforcement of his words, not the emphasis of a new statement. “It’s not about right and wrong, it’s about pleasure and pain.”

John’s words sink in as I massage the red cheeks where the clear imprint of his hand can be clearly seen as I stretch to look over my shoulder.

As I continue to rub my stinging cheeks, he straightens up. My head swivels once again to follow his movement. My eyes are riveted to his cock, hanging down the side of his naked leg, slick with my juices and dripping the last of his seed on the carpet, droplet by droplet. His voice, deep and strong, booms over my head. “Jesus H. fucking Christ, Peggy, but you are a great fuck. The older we get the better you seem to get. Why don’t you lie in bed late this morning? I’ll get my own breakfast. Besides, I have to work in the garage this morning. The tractor has a slow leak in the rear tire and I have to fix it before I have to call the service vehicle to change it.” I simply nod my head in acknowledgement, far too exhausted to even groan.

As he dresses, he continues talking. Each word he says sears on my brain, never to be forgotten. “Things are going to get interesting, Peggy. Every day from now on is going to be a sexual surprise for you, for us. Do you hear me?” All I can do is nod my head in acknowledgement. “When you get up, have a nice hot bath and shave your bush bare, do you hear me?”

My head pops up from the bed, the agonizing scream of tortured muscles totally ignored. My eye pop open and my jaw drops. “What?”

“You heard me, shave it. Shave it bald, so smooth it feels like the bottom of a freshly changed baby. When you’re done, rub some nice cream into it.”

Swallowing hard, I struggle to moisten my mouth to get the words out. “Why, what are you going to do tonight?”

The look that comes on his face is unlike any look I have ever seen on his face before. It is the look of a man totally satisfied with himself, the look of a man utterly convinced he is in total command of the situation. “Tonight I am going to start by trying to suck your insides out through your pussy. I love that thick bush, but as much as I do, if I wanted a flossing I’d go to the drugstore for floss. Did you know that the human tongue is the strongest muscle in the human body?” The question is rhetorical and we both know it.

I can only nod in agreement that I have heard what he has said.

John is unwilling to accept my nod as compliance and pushes the issue. “Answer me, Peggy. I can’t hear you.”

“I understand,” I croak in a voice that I can barely recognize as my own.

“Oh, and one last thing, after you get up and straightened away, I want you to bring me a black coffee in the garage and…” he pauses looking at me intensely, waiting for a reaction.

Dumbly, I stare at him, waiting for the rest. Finally he continues, knowing he has my attention.

“Bring me your auburn curls you shaved off so I know you have done what you were told. Peggy, this will be our little signal that you are interested in playing this new game. If you fail to bring them to me, I will know that there is no future in this line of exploration. Your call, babe.”

I remain speechless as John completes dressing and, as he is about to leave the bedroom, he pauses, and returns. Transfixed, I watch as he checks to make sure I am watching, and assured, reaches into his trouser pocket. Dramatically, he throws a heavy coin into the bucket on his side of the closet. His parting comment is almost lost on me. “Cheer up, your honeymoon cruise is getting a lot closer than you think.”
He leaves the bedroom, closing the door, to go to work. He leaves me in our soiled bed, my sore asshole still weeping his seed, my muscles slack and my thoughts racing in circles. The soft rays of the early morning sun peek through the curtains, and the shriek of the gulls, scavenging for scraps on the nearby wharves, pierce the air. Familiar, they do nothing to calm me.

Racing, my mind flits from one thought to another, far too agitated to dwell on any single issue for more than a few seconds. Questions followed by more questions and still more and no answers. Random thoughts tumble over one another pell-mell.

Few, a desperate few, things are clear.

John planned this morning. It was not an accident; it was planned. John knew he was going to take charge sometime. In spite of my repeated refusals over the years, he planned to take me in the ass regardless of what I said. The impact of this realization is nothing compared to the fact that he knows, in spite of my crying, whining and protestations to the contrary, that I enjoyed it, really enjoyed it. The very thought of how much I enjoyed it sends waves of guilt and anguish through my body. How could I enjoy it? What kind of pervert am I?

I am a respected member of our little community, active in our church, a supporter of the local P.T.A. I am the mother of four grown children and now, a woman who enjoys being dominated, humiliated and sodomized by her husband. What if someone finds out? What if John brags to a few of his buddies at the Legion? What if the kids find out? What will they think?

Churning, swirling, my mind is a cauldron of conflicting thoughts, emotions and sensations all competing for my attention and all succeeding. Two things, and only two things, are clear. It was planned and I enjoyed it in spite of my apprehensions and my reluctance. I enjoyed it.

The light curtains shift in the changing breeze. The rising sun changes the air currents over the water and the cool flow sweeps into the room, playing over my exposed body, caressing and soothing the inflamed entrance of my anal canal. My sphincter muscle slowly regains its elasticity, closing off the once virgin hole, cutting off the cooling wisp from my inflamed bowel. The flow of our juices slows to a trickle and it starts to cake on my skin, cracking and flaking off at the least movement on my part. In spite of all else, I remain practical enough to wonder if the stains will come off the Percale sheets as I slip back to sleep.

It is well into the morning before I take John his mug of black coffee. The thoughts going through my head are just as confused as they were before and I have made few concrete decisions. The only one that has to be made has been. The rest will have to wait.

“John,” I call, my hesitation obvious in my voice. “John, where are you? I can’t see or hear you.”

The only answer is the silence of an abandoned garage. The sunlight streams through the dirty windows as the dust hangs suspended in the air currents. A cold chill runs through me in spite of the warmth of the morning. My heart skips a beat as a sense of foreboding permeates every fiber of my being.

“John,” I call one again, a sense of urgency in my voice. “John, I brought your coffee and, I brought you the other thing you wanted.” I can’t bring myself to say out loud what else I have in the neatly folded blue facecloth in my left hand. As I advance into the garage my sense of foreboding increases.

I pass around the front of the tractor and I can see him for the first time, stretched out on the floor, deathly still, not working, not struggling with a frozen bolt, not cursing, just deathly still and silent.

“John, oh God John!” My scream bounces off the walls of the garage but goes unanswered. As I drop to my knees, I pick up his head. Cradling it in my lap, my brain comprehends what my heart refuses to accept. His cold, clammy skin signals that all life has left his body. I rock back and forth on my knees, cradling his head in my lap, crooning over and over, “John, John, John, how could you do this to me?” The words make no sense except to me but they go unheard except by the walls. Over and over my mind tries to comprehend, to fathom, the incomprehensible. How can one’s life change so quickly, how? My fingers slip lightly through his hair, caressing it this one last time. His greasy baseball hat lies on the concrete floor, its peak facing me emblazoned with the legend, “He who dies with the most toys, wins!”

My fingers continue to slide through my slick channel as the drug-induced dream of that fateful morning plays out in my mind yet once more. My juices flow, unabated through the juncture of my legs to pool on the sheets to be changed yet again. The muscles in my legs tighten and the skinny cheeks of my ass rise from the bed as my orgasm, induced by the vivid memories of the last time washes through my body. Gasping, I collapse on the bed, hauling great gulps of the stale bedroom air into my lungs.

“Mom…Mom… are you alright? Mom, unlock the door! Please Mom, unlock the door now.” The soft, tremulous voice of my youngest daughter begins to penetrate the fog that shrouds my mind. The begging, pleading tone is obvious, although it fails to register on me.

Groggy, I open my eyes and desperately try to focus on the bedroom light fixture madly swirling on the ceiling over the bed.

“Mom!” she screams, as she bangs insistently on the locked door.

The tone of desperation finally registers on me. “Stop banging, Debbie, I hear you. Put on the kettle so we can have a cup of tea. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Mom, Cindy is with me, are you all right?” The tone of uncertainty is still present in spite of my reassurance that all is well.

“I’m fine, put on the kettle.” The hoarse croak of my voice, while lost on me is not lost on the girls locked on the other side of the door. The worried, knowing look they exchange would send a chill down my back if I saw it or was in any shape to interpret it.

Rolling on my side, I ease my legs over the edge of the bed and slip my bare feet deep into the pile carpet, fearful that any jarring move will aggravate the thumping deep in my brain. Gingerly, I sit on the side of the bed and hold my head in the palms of my hand, my elbows resting on my knees. The big red digits of the bedside clock flash, searing their story onto my fragile brain. 6:27…but is it A.M. or P.M.? How long have I been locked away in my bedroom in my own private little hell? Is it dusk or dawn beyond the drawn drapes?

Raising my head ever so slowly I try to peak around the corner of the drapes without having to get up and push them aside. The dim light of the setting sun peeks around the corner. Braver, I hold my head and, rise, pulling the drapes aside to see the fiery ball of the sun settling into the waves of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The wind, freshening from the northeast, is churning Rustico Harbour. The building waves are slapping against the lobster boats still tied to the wharf.

As my mind clears, the fog, the self induced numbing fog rises, and I realize once again, that all is in its place, all is as it should be in my universe, except John is gone. He has left me to face this world, to cope on my own.

I just can’t do it. I’m not strong enough. Only the scotch can ease the pain, make life bearable, even tolerable. It is sitting on the kitchen counter waiting, beckoning to me and I have to get past Cindy and Debbie to get to it. Two more sentinels guardian the portals of my house, but they are living, breathing flesh and blood of my loins, and they want answers, demand answers. I have no answers, only hurt.

As my head pounds, I ease myself from the tumbled bed and start to search the room for fresh clothes to don to meet my daughters. Panties come from the laundry basket, clean but waiting to be folded. A bra is on the floor, discarded by the side of the bed. ‘A boulder holder,’ as John used to say, but he was being generous. I snap it on and slide it into place, squeezing my eyes shut to clear the red flashes in front of my eyes. ‘Pebble holder’ would be closer to the truth. My wrinkled shorts lie on the floor, discarded with the bra, in my haste to escape, once again, into my imagination.

Thank God for the little bathroom off the bedroom. It is the only luxury John and I opted to put in when we started to build this little bungalow on the western shore of the harbour when we married twenty-five years ago.

Hair combed, teeth brushed, lipstick in place and three extra strength Tylenol sitting on the remnants of the scotch in my stomach, I take one last look around the bedroom to make sure everything is in place.

The bone-white louvered doors to the double closet are still open. The white sentinel on John’s side stands alone, guarding an empty closet, the stark, bare walls marked only by the scuffmarks of his boots near the baseboard. The five-gallon drum sits in the corner abandoned. The white top is firmly in place, marred only by a slit in its top. On the front, only the fading label hints at its original contents - “MacLarens Cherry Pie Filling.” Below, in slightly less noticeable letters reads, “for Wholesale use only.” On my side of the closet, partially hidden, its mate peaks out from behind my suspended dresses and skirts. The label, “MacLarens Lemon Pie Filling,” is only visible in its entirety when I am rummaging in the still full side of my closet.

Fearful that the girls will come in on some pretext or other and find the sentinels and their secret hoard, I close the doors to the closet tightly and sweep my eyes, one last time, around the room.

Yes, the drawer to the bedside table is closed. My marital aids are hidden from sight. Satisfied at last, I open the door and pad down the hallway to the kitchen in my bare feet to find Cindy and Debbie deep in a quiet but animated discussion at the kitchen table.

As they turn to face me as one when I enter the room, the guilty look on their faces says it all. There is no doubt that they have been talking about me. They remain, bless them, as transparent as they were as children were.

Debbie breaks the silence, but not without exchanging a quick glance at Cindy. “Mom, are you all right? You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine, Debbie, you and Cindy woke me up.”

The look they exchange may say many things but it certainly does not convey any regret that they have disturbed me.

Debbie continues, “Have you eaten your supper?”

The question flusters me. The scotch and the erotic dream of my last time with John have clouded my mind, slowing my thought processes. I am in a state of mental confusion. What did I do all day? Did I eat at all? The look of consternation on my face is obvious to the two girls sitting at the table.

“Mom, do you remember what you did today?” Anger and resentment flash through my mind but I bite my tongue. They mean well, they just don’t understand. They simply don’t understand what I am going through. “Of course I remember what I did today. I just laid down for a short nap. I was going to have supper when I got up.

” I wasn’t expecting the two of you tonight. Why are you here, especially together? You never come to visit together.”

One again there is a silent look exchanged between them, almost as if they are saying to each other, “See, I told you so.” Unbeknownst to me, the curtain has been raised and a well-rehearsed scene is about to take place in which I am a principal character. The sole reward for a good performance for the girls will be the salvation of one tormented soul. A poor performance will alienate them from their mother forever. In spite of the risks, they are compelled by their love for their mother to give the performance of their lives.

The drama opens innocuously.

“Mom, is there anything in the fridge for supper?” Cindy asks, rising from the table.

Cindy opens the fridge to find it empty of any practical ingredients to prepare a nourishing meal. Two quarts of milk, a container of margarine, a few onions and several old potatoes are the only items, which are salvageable. The rest is covered in mould, showing all signs of being there well past the normal shelf life. “Mom, when was the last time you went to the Co-op to get groceries?”

She doesn’t expect an answer, as the evidence before her is self-explanatory.

My eyes drop, unable to bear her stare.

Shrugging her shoulders in surrender, Cindy takes out the milk, onions and potatoes and, after rummaging in the cupboard for several minutes, finds two cans of Snow’s Clams. Basic ingredients in hand, she goes to work making a clam chowder.

“Mom?” Debbie whispers, reaching across the worn kitchen table to take my hand.

My attention shifts back to Debbie as Cindy goes about her task, but Cindy’s attention never leaves the conversation.

Debbie starts talking. “Mom, this isn’t a surprise visit tonight. Cindy and I are here to have a heart-to-heart talk with you. Maybe the correct phrase is mother to daughters, but somehow that doesn’t seem appropriate under the circumstances.” Her eyes drop to the table, but she keeps talking in spite of her obvious desire to fall silent. “We thought it was best that Harry and Joe weren’t here, but they know what we are going to talk to you about, and they are 100 percent behind us.”

The look of apprehension that crosses my face is obvious. Even Cindy, working across the kitchen, and watching me carefully out of the corner of her eye as she dices onions, can see it.

Debbie, with a quick furtive glance at her sister, continues. “Do you want to end up in the hospital? Do you want to end up in the psychiatric floor of the regional hospital? Is that what you want, you really want?”

I can only stammer a weak protest. “Really, Debbie, don’t be silly. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me. I am fine, truly I am. I feel fine. I am perfectly normal. Really, what put such a silly thought into your head?”

Debbie is unprepared to accept my denial. Ignoring my futile protests, she continues as if I had not spoken. “No, Mom, you are not fine and we cannot allow the situation to continue, or we are going to lose you, just like we lost Dad. The only difference will be that we will lose you, and your body will still be here.”

Once again the salty tears start to flow down my cheeks as silently, sobs start to rack my tiny frame. Have I sunk so low that now my children have to try and rescue me, no salvage me, the only parent they have left? The reaction is not lost on either of the girls but they make no effort to comfort me.

“Mom,” Debbie continues, “we all face grief in a different way. Some of us show it to others, wearing it like a badge of honor on our sleeves, vocally proclaiming our loss for all to know. Some of us keep it private as if the hurt, if nourished and cherished deep within us, will somehow keep us close to the person we have lost. In the end we all face up to it and move on with our lives. We remember the past fondly, lovingly, but we move on with the good memories safely stored in our hearts and our minds.”

I say nothing as I stare into my lap. The staccato sound of the knife dicing the potatoes is the only sound in the kitchen.

“The time has come,” she continues, as she reaches to take my hand in hers, “Mom, for you to move on with your life. The time for grief is past, the time to remember is forever, but you have to move on with your life. Dad is dead. He has been dead for 18 months. He died of a massive heart attack at the age of 48 in the barn trying to change the rear tire on the tractor. He should have had Coastal Tire Services come in and change it, but he wanted to save a hundred dollars. Well, he saved the money and now he is dead and gone. All you have of him is his ashes in the fancy urn on top of your dresser.”

The words spark my resistance for the first time. I raise my head protesting, “Really, Debbie, that is no way for you to be talking about your father. I don’t like your tone.”

I try to pull my hand away from Debbie but she will not let go. It is as if she is afraid I will use it as an excuse to slip further and further away into the private little corner of my mind that I have created with the liquor, for just John and I.

Debbie continues relentlessly. “You are living here like a pauper. There is virtually no food in the house and you rarely go out unless it is to the government liquor store. We are scared. We are scared that we are going to lose you. We have talked to your doctor and he is worried as well. He thinks you are turning into an alcoholic, if you are not already one. If we can’t help you, if we can’t reach you with words, pleas, yes even begging, this one last time, we are going to have you committed to a hospital for treatment. The doctor said he would sign the papers. Is that what you want us to do, Mom? Is that really what you want us to do? Because we will, Mom, we love you too much to lose you if there is anything we can do to prevent it.”

The tears flow down her face to drip on the scarred surface of the kitchen table. For some strange reason, I look at Cindy busy at the counter, to see the tears flowing down her cheeks as well, as she dices onion. It never crosses my mind that the onion fumes induce them.

Unexpectedly Cindy enters the conversation, as if to give Debbie a brief respite to collect herself. “Mom, more and more you are withdrawing from reality. Dr. Macdonald is more concerned by that than he is about the alcohol.”

The fact that they are questioning my sanity sparks an indignant response in me. “That’s silly talk! I’ve never heard such silly talk in my life. I am in perfect touch with reality. I just miss your father.”

Cindy ignores my protest and she savagely chops away at the onions, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “No, Mom, it is not silly talk. You live here like a hermit on the shores of the harbour. You never go out unless it is to walk to the end of the road to the government liquor store for more scotch. You drink and lay on your bed and stare at your pussy pails and then pass out playing with the toys you and Dad used to enjoy so much.”

A crimson flush spreads across my face as I try to defend John and myself. “Really, Cindy, you have no call, no right, to speak to me like that. I am your mother. Besides, where did you get those terrible ideas?” Embarrassed and mortified, I fall silent.

My embarrassment causes Cindy to stop talking. She turns beet red and drops her eyes to the counter where she assaults the potatoes and onions with the frenching knife with the vengeance of an executioner who has just discovered how a guillotine works.

The girls have obviously planned to double-team me, and Cindy passes the ball back to Debbie. “Mom, you are losing touch. You are living here like a hermit as if you were living from one social assistance check to another. There is no food in the house. Mom, you are a woman who is worth between two and three million dollars and you show no signs of realizing it, comprehending it. Can you not see why we think you are slipping away from reality?

“Dad is dead. We all loved him, we will all remember and cherish his memory, but life goes on. All of us have to look to the future. We can’t, you can’t, continue to live in the past.”

For the first time I keep my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself. Deep in the recesses of my mind I know, intuitively, I know that there is a kernel of truth in what they are saying to me. Embarrassing it may be, but true it is.

Debbie clutches my hand as a drowning man would a lifeline. There is no question they are trying to save me from self-destruction. The question is, do I want to be saved?

The words start to pour out of Debbie’s mouth in a torrent. “Mom, you are a very wealthy woman. The McCains want to buy you out. They have offered $2,000 an acre for the various fields and are willing to pay extra for the equipment and barns if you will make it all one package. The lobster license and the boat and equipment are worth another $500,000. The boys are not interested in taking over. The have no desire to spend their lives working like draft animals like you and dad. Our husbands are not interested either.” She falls silent, spent from her effort but she continues to clutch my hand in hers for dear life.
Gently I squeeze Debbie’s hand with mine, and cover both of them with my other hand. “You will discover, girls, that there is no price high enough to buy off loneliness. I looked after the house and our family all our married lives. Your father looked after the business and Gerry Boyle looked after the books and paid the bills. It is just the way it worked. We never talked about money or retirement, just about all of our obligations. I never knew, nor did I suspect, that we were that well off.”

My comments prompt Cindy to rejoin the conversation once again. “Mom, you’re not. You are property rich and cash poor. The fields have not been planted in two years and the boat has not been in the water the last two seasons. There are bills that have to be paid. Decisions have to be made. Life has to go on. The grieving has to come to an end and life has to go on. Please, Mom, please. Accept the fact that there is going to be a big empty spot in your life where Daddy used to be and it will never be filled. There is room for lots of other things, people, experiences, maybe even a new love that will distract you from that lonely, empty spot.”

Cindy’s words hit a nerve and as indignantly I say, “Really, Cindy, that’s awful.”

Cindy, like Debbie, has regained her second wind. Emboldened by the fact that they have engaged me in a conversation, she pushes on. “Yes, you could and you should. You’re only 45 years old; you’re still young. You still have your looks, your figure, that special smile that drove daddy crazy. You’re smart and you have a great sense of humor. You have empathy for people, which is genuine. Mom, you could be one foxy woman, if you put a little effort into it. You have just let yourself go in the last couple of years. A real good shopping trip to Charlottetown, a day at the beauty parlor, a new hairstyle, a manicure, a pedicure; and, voila, one foxy babe!”

Somehow the words are contagious, infecting me with a new spirit, at least for the moment. “Girls, really, the next thing you will be suggesting is that I start trolling the bars for a boy-toy.” All three of us burst into gales of laughter, the way we used to around the kitchen table when we gathered at the end of the day for girl talk.

“Mom,” Cindy says when the laughter starts to die down, “your life isn’t over, you have just started another chapter. The story is about to take a whole different course, albeit an unexpected course. It might be exciting.”

“After all,” Debbie continues, “you might meet a tall, dark stranger with a monster dick and live happily together until he screws you to death.”

The graphic suggestion is a little too ribald for me under the circumstance and I decide that it is time to curb this conversation. “Girls, that isn’t very nice talk.”

“Maybe, mom,” Debbie adds, “but it is part of the solution to the problem. You and Daddy used to fuck like a pair of minks. You could never get enough of each other. You’re horny and you need to get laid, that’s part of the loneliness you are talking about.”

I sputter in protest. “Really, Debbie, you and Cindy shouldn’t be talking to me like that. It isn’t proper to speak to your mother like that, besides, it isn’t true.”

God, I’m lying through my teeth, but I could never admit it to these two children. What, in God’s name, would they think of me? Just the thought of some of the ordinary things we did early in the morning as the sun just started to turn the edge of the Gulf pink, causes me to clench my legs together. If, just one more time, I could awake with John’s cock wedged in the crack of my ass, stiff as a spike, ready to be driven home. If I could feel, just one more time, his rough hand massaging my tummy under my nightgown and his callused finger rimming my belly button. Then, to slide down the plane of my belly to my moist pussy, to massage that little nub, to bring it alive, before it probed into my vaginal canal. If, just for one last time, the rough stubble on his cheek could chafe against the side of my neck as he nibbles at my earlobe and whispers hoarsely in my ear ‘Doo you have to pee, pee?”

Such an innocent question about such a routine bodily function, but such a pregnant question. I always have to pee early in the morning. What he was always suggesting to me was to go pee because he wanted to mount me before we both started our day. Dutifully I always padded my way into the little bathroom and, squatting silently on the porcelain throne, dropped my panties to the floor kicking them into the corner by the laundry hamper, before I started to tinkle. There was always a quiet whisper from the darkened bedroom, “No playing with yourself and don’t pat it too dry. No sense in wasting paper.” As if drying it would have any long-lasting effects. Just the thought of slipping back into bed, of throwing my skinny leg across his muscular body and bracing myself with the palms of my hands on each of his shoulders as he slowly spread my lips apart to insert his angry red cock was enough to make me drip.

By the time his rigid shaft of blood-engorged muscle slowly sank into my depths, I was always dripping like a broken kitchen faucet, my juices sliding down my legs. And when we were done, bathed in sweat, I would lay cuddled in his arms like a tiny kitten hidden and protected between the forelegs of a giant Great Dane. If I could, just for one last time, start my day with his juices moistening my organs and seeping out of the lips of my pussy to dampen the crotch of my panties. So for one last day I could secretly slip my hands down the front of my jeans and dampen my fingers in his juice - our juices - and smell him.

Lost in my momentary reverie, I forget who is present and moan, “God damn you John, you never even said good bye.”

“Mom,” Debbie asks, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine Debbie, really I am. I was just reminiscing for a moment.”

“That’s fine mom, memories are ok as long as you remember they are just memories, to be visited and cherished, but not to become the focal point of your life, agreed, mom?”

I feel trapped into a corner. There is only one acceptable answer. “Yes, agreed, Debbie.”

Debbie continues, clearly not willing to give up control of the conversation yet. “Mom, in the next few days we have to work out a financial plan for your future. There are bills that have to be paid. The creditors have been more than willing to wait because they understand that the assets are in place to cover the liabilities. However, the interest charges are mounting up.”

Silently, Cindy takes the conversation all in as she ladles out the clam chowder into three bowls. Finally, having eaten supper in comparative silence, Debbie returns to the topic at hand like a vengeful angel.

“Cindy and I are going to return tomorrow evening with coin rollers and the three of us are going to drag the two pussy pails from the closet. The boys have promised to take the rolled coin to the bank. We can talk about a financial plan for the future.”

The thought of the two special pails leaving my closet sends a wave of anxiety coursing through me. Am I ready to give up one of the very real remaining links that I have with John? “Girls, I don’t know, I…”

A tone of exasperation is evident in Debbie’s words. “Enough, Mom, you know the alternative. The choice is to start and make a new life or go into the hospital. There is no third choice. Is that clear enough for you?”

Embarrassed, I drop my chin and can’t look then in the eye. Reluctantly, in a quiet and subdued voice I respond, “Yes, I understand, but…”

Cindy jumps into the conversation, once again giving Debbie a chance to catch her breath. “No buts, Mom, none. We love you too much to risk losing you. The four of us will do whatever is necessary to keep you with us.”

I watch the girls clean up the remnants of our meager supper, saying nothing and suffering their silence. It is obvious that they have discussed their plan of action with their brothers and are determined to carry it through. The question is, do I have the willpower to challenge them, to try an maintain my life as it is with my memories just a little longer or must I finally give in and go on with my life?

A quick kiss on the cheek and they are off, saying nothing, not even good-bye. All has been said. There is, in fact, nothing else to be said. The next move is mine and I have to make it by suppertime tomorrow night or face the consequences.

The almost empty can of coffee yields just enough for one last pot. A fresh cup in hand, I pad in my bare feet to the family room and turn on the TV, not for the entertainment but for the company in the silent, lonely house. Has the situation really degenerated as badly as they claim? Am I really teetering on the border of reality? I don’t feel any different; I don’t look any different. Well, maybe more gaunt and haunted-looking, but whose business is that beside myself?

The TV blares on but I hear nothing, lost in my own thoughts. Over and over I ask the same question to myself. “They wouldn’t commit me to the physciatric ward, would they?’ The answer eludes me. They have always been dutiful daughters and done what they were told, but they love me and if they thought I was in danger they might, they just might.

Exhausted in body and mind, I fall into an uneasy sleep on the sofa, alone with my dreams and memories - or are they one and the same?

I wake to the lonely cry of the herring gulls and, although bleary-eyed, I am free from a hangover for the first time in months. Going to the kitchen I pour myself a cup of stale coffee from the Silex and open the sliding patio doors off the dining area to the deck facing the yard and the harbour.

The pale light of the false dawn is barely visible on the eastern skyline over the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The chug, chug, chug of the old sic-cylinder engines in the decrepit lobster boats can be heard in the still morning air across the glass smooth water of the silent harbour.

John’s friends, his fishing companions, are warming up their engines, taking on fuel and bait, preparing for another day on the ocean, tending their pots.

One by one, like phantom ships, they float silently by in the dark as I sip away at my bitter coffee. The odd pale face behind the wheel peers to port and, seeing me, framed in the light of the kitchen spilling through the patio doors, offers a tentative wave. Each is hesitant, almost embarrassed, to wave. It is as if they fear in their own private wave might add to my grief, that somehow their mere presence on this summer morning might awaken even more painful memories in me.

John is gone. His spirit, his memory might survive but he is gone. As much as I don’t want to accept it, the fact remains that he is gone. Life, as painful as it is, goes on. Why did it take my daughters to threaten me to finally bring me to the harsh reality? John is gone, forever, accept it, I tell myself. Ruefully, I shake my head one last time, throw the dregs of my coffee over the railing into what used to be a nicely mowed lawn and prepared to greet the first day of my life without John.

The first rays of the sun peek over the horizon to reveal the huge shape of our lobster boat perched on blocks in the corner of the yard. It seems to float on a sea of uncut grass. The harsh black numbers “103331″ stand out on the peeling, white paint of the wheelhouse. The number is the original number of our government lobster-fishing license, which we scrimped and saved for twenty-five years ago. It was purchased before we even had a roof over our heads. It was more important; it was our means of making a living. The boat came immediately afterward because it was worthless with out the license.

Even in the early morning light it is obvious that the boat is starting to deteriorate. The paint is starting to peel and the electrical and mechanical systems need servicing. The time has come. Decisions are going to have to be made, if not for my sake then, at least, for the sake of the children.

Focused for the first time in months, I take one last look at the yard and the harbour stretching beyond it and then silently turn, re-entering the kitchen and closing the door.

Unexpectedly, I am resolved to look forward, not backward, to a life without John. To grow old alone waiting for the time when, once again, we can be together again forever. What would one of the psycharists that the girls threatened me with say, if they knew I was harboring such maudlin thoughts? Would they think I was suicidal? Would they want to lock me away, for my sake? Would they want to put me on zombie pills to go through my days floating in la-la land like a cloud lazily floating over the gulf? The only way to avoid this fate is to get command of my life, at least to all outward appearances.

The girls will find a new mother when they return tonight. There are issues that I will have to come to grips with today, to develop answers that will seem credible. The pails of coins can be explained for exactly what they are. The girls are grown up. They can understand us saving the coinage out of our pockets each time we had sex to pay for the Caribbean Cruise we never had or the honeymoon we missed.

The real issue is how am I going to explain the gold Kruggerrand that sits on the top of the pail on his side of the bed. Obviously, they are going to know it was for some special sexual favor. What can I offer that will sidetrack them from the real reason. Not only will that Kruggerrand have to be cashed in, but 19 more I found in his dresser.

It is clear that he intended to take our sex life down a totally different path and he had planned it out. How can I hide his intentions and the fact that his plans so excited me that it has contributed to my inability to come to grips with his untimely death?

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