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By Jenny Wanshel (chilly2@biosys.net) 6/25/01

The college widow was born in 1850. During the war she lost her heart to an older boy who went off to the Union Army. He was killed in the fighting.
After the war, she was educated at one of the first new colleges for young women. A visiting male professor courted and married her. They were wed the day after her graduation and went off to honeymoon in Europe.
He was 48, she was 22. He was virile and experienced and on their honeymoon he taught her the art of love. She had her first orgasm on ship in the middle of the Atlantic, one night late after midnight, and a purser passing by on the deck heard her little cry.
That was exactly 10 days after she had sex for the first time.
"It's not going to hurt too much?" she had asked.
"You'll see! It's not so bad."
"Well, what do you think?" he asked, after it was over.
"It did hurt, you know."
"You'll get over it."
"I hope so." She got up her nerve to ask. "I don't suppose you've done this sort of thing before?"
He laughed. "I've never been married before. I'm 48 years old and I lived on the Continent for two years. What do you think, hmm?"
"I think you seemed quite sure of what you were doing."
"Never ask a man my age about his past," he laughed. "I can assure you of one thing -I never married anyone before. You're my first and only wife."
"You knew when it was going to hurt."
"Oh that! Well, I never did that to a girl before. I just knew from talking to the doctor, and books. I never "deflowered" a virgin before."
"Deflowered! So that's what they call it?"
"Um-hmm."
"But whatever for?"
"It's like a flower, is it not? So -the tight bud of the flower has been forcibly opened and the petals plucked."
She blushed down to the roots. "Well, I suppose that's a metaphor.
I won't say I feel plucked."
"Something that rhymes with plucked," he smiled.
"What rhymes with plucked?"
She honestly didn't know.
"I'll have to give you a language lesson," he said. She learned eleven new words.
"But why is it called a "prick"?, she asked.
"Because it "pricks" you in the cunny."
"More than a prick -it felt like being shot with a cannon."
"Hmmm, that's a good one. Say, do you feel like being shot again?"
"No!"
"Well, maybe we'll wait 'til tomorrow then. It won't hurt so much the next time."
"You don't know," she said.
"Husbands and wives do it every night."
"They do?" she asked, wide eyed. She had no idea.
"You'll see!" He laughed.
It did not go in easily at first. His hard prick hurt her tender young cunt. She had never even put her fingertip in there before. Her snug little hole was so tight you could have sharpened a pencil in it, at first. Gradually she relaxed and expanded to take his penis inside her. It felt like she was giving birth. Hot tears ran down her cheeks, but she was brave and told him "don't stop".
The second night it went easier and by the fifth night he could slide it right in without hurting her although she felt it. Lord how she felt it!
It was several nights later in the voyage out that it finally went right. The purser had noticed the pretty young bride, and as he passed by their cabin he glanced at the open porthole, wondering if the newlyweds were "at it" again.
Through the curtain covering the open porthole wafted a startled little cry. The purser raised his eyebrows, and moved on.
"Oh goodness," she said, when she had caught her breath. "Goodness gracious me!"
"There -did that feel like being shot with a cannon?" her husband asked.
"Oh yes -but in a nice way."
"Want me to shoot you again?"
"Oh, I think so. Yes."
He smiled. "Well, you'll have to wait -until it gets hard again."
"Will I have to wait long?"
"You'll see." He looked down at himself. His thick cannon was curled up in repose in its little nest of curly hair.
"Why does it have to wait?"
"No one knows."
"This is the most wonderful feeling in the world. Do other women feel what I just felt?"
"Would you have the nerve to ask your women friends?"
"No!"
"Well, I wouldn't dare ask them either."
After a pause, he added: "From what I've read I don't think you're the only one, though."
"It would be nice if I was," she said.
"Why?"
"Because then I would be the happiest woman in the world."
"I thought you were the happiest woman in the world."
"I am now," she smiled.
She put her hand on his thick manly cock and stroked it gently.
"Hurry up and get it hard again!" she said, with a twinkle in her eye.
"You're pretty forward for a 22 year old girl." He felt her breasts and tweaked her stiff little nipples.
"Wouldn't you like to nuzzle them some more?" she asked.
"Your wish is my command, princess."
He brought his head down and began to suck gently on her firm young breast. Her stiff nipple rose into his mouth and she sighed.
She cuddled his penis gently with her fingertips. "So this is the cross I have to bear."
"Hmm?" he mumbled with a mouthful of tit.
"Mrs. McGillicuddy told me that marital relations are the cross a young bride has to bear."
"Well, not every man does it as well as I do, I suppose."
"Perhaps some men have bigger "pricks" than yours? Because I think yours is about as big as a woman could stand, without it killing her."
"Hmm, that's a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one. I'm sure mine is as big as a woman could stand, and you may tell your woman friends so if they ask-"
"Never!" she cried.
"--but on the other hand, I think it doubtful that many men have bigger ones. Of course I have no way of knowing, for sure, but I would prefer to doubt it."
"Then what's the explanation?"
"Two factors: one, the woman is adequately prepared by the tender, loving action of the man's mouth and fingertips on the sensitive parts of her body --"
"Yes, you do that very well," she said.
"--and, two, the man rests his weight on his elbows while doing it, so as not to crush his bride; and three --"
"You said two reasons."
"-three, the man has enough stamina to continue with deep vaginal thrusting for ten minutes or more, to give his wife's excitement enough time to build to a crescendo."
"Yes, that was it. You think other men don't do those things?"
"Man comes home tired after a long day at work, has a few shots of whisky --"
"Disgusting!" she cried.
"Well, not me -some other fellow. I took the pledge years ago. So he has a few shots of whisky and then goes to bed. He's tired and drunk and he climbs heavily on his wife, fumbles around and puts his engorged organ in her before she is ready, lies heavily on her, rams her a dozen times until he spurts and then rolls off and falls heavily asleep, keeping her awake with his loud snoring."
"A dozen times? How many times did you ram me?" she asked.
"Oh, let's see. Once a second for ten minutes...that would be 600 times."
"I would say once every two seconds. It's thrust, withdraw, pause, thrust, withdraw, pause..." she said thoughtfully.
"Three hundred times, then."
"Three hundred! My goodness. And you think poor Mrs. McGillicuddy..."
"Well, I have never met the woman, nor her husband. But I would imagine, yes."
"And if I ever told her about you and me--?"
"To what avail? Her husband is not going to change his habits, at his age. She's already resigned to "bearing the cross", and perhaps she feels a certain secret satisfaction at playing the martyr. And you never know, she might have been lying."
"Why?"
"To prepare you for the worst -if it wasn't any good."
"I don't think I could ever tell her," she said. "And if I did -suppose she was tempted to steal you from me!"
He laughed. "A girl of 22 worrying about such things! I suppose they let you read French novels at college."
"I think a woman in love knows instinctively to fear another woman, even if she's never read a French novel in her life."
"Well, I doubt old Mrs. McGillicuddy is much of a threat to you.
I picture a stout old Irish washerwoman."
"She's not that at all. Her husband is a stockbroker, and she's no older than you."
"Still in the first blush of her youth, eh? At 48? I don't think she's much of a threat to you, love."
"Do men prefer younger women, then?"
"Not at all! But I made an exception for you."
"Oh, you liar. You could have had your pick of any of the girls at my school -and you knew it. I saw the way you looked at Miranda Holcomb."
"Who?" he pretended.
"Would you have asked her to marry you, if I had turned you down?
Or did you ask her first-and I was your second choice?"
"I never. You are the only girl I made up to at your school, I swear."
She squeezed his penis with her hand. "Your thing got bigger when I mentioned her," she accused.
It was swelling bigger.
"You've been touching it. That makes it get bigger."
"Is there any particular way I should touch it to make it get big faster?" she asked.
"Hmm, yes. Let me show you." He gave her a lesson in penis handling for virgin brides.
It got stiff.
"I'm going to time you, and see how many thrusts it takes to make me climax," she said brightly. She got out the bedside windup ship's clock.
She lost count several times, but she checked the clock afterward and did the arithmetic -it took 402 thrusts to her climax.
"I can't imagine a bride doing bedroom arithmetic in my father's day," he said.
"Well, perhaps that is the result of a young lady getting a college education, and being trained to think scientifically."
"I think you got a seduction, instead."
She stuck her tongue out at him.
"Was it good?"
"It was heaven," she said. "Do you think that means I'll have a baby?"
"There's no connection, I think. However, it has been suggested in the literature that perhaps when the woman's cunny is spasming like that, the contraction sucks the man's sperm into the womb, assisting impregnation."
"But...I had my climax before you spurted into me, not after. So it didn't help."
"If I had spurted first, my prick would have gotten soft and you would not have had your climax at all. So I doubt that theory is correct."
Looking back on it, years later, she wistfully recalled that it had been a wonderful honeymoon. She remembered the first cascade of ecstasy mounting and overwhelming her body, that first time, as clearly as if it had been yesterday. Nothing would ever be as unexpectedly wonderful as that.
After their honeymoon they returned to the pretty New England college town where he held a chair at a small but distinguished college for men.
He owned a small house that he shared with another bachelor professor.
He sold it and bought a bigger house for her, anticipating children. She had a miscarriage, and later gave birth to a child that died in infancy. There were no more pregnancies after that.
He died of a stroke, one afternoon at the age of 64, in his study.
She was 38.
She came into full possession of the large house and a modest amount of money. To make ends meet she decided to keep the house and take in boarders from the college. There was room to take in four boys.
She kept a cook who prepared three meals a day which she served at the large table in the dining room, and a maid that did her best to keep the place clean, to the extent that was possible with four college boys in the house. The boys wouldn't leave the maid, a pretty Irish girl, alone, and finally the widow sent her off and replaced her with a stout, older woman with a face like a fireplug. The boys left the new maid alone after that.
It was the last straw when she walked into the kitchen and found one of the boys with his hand on the backside of the young maid's skirt, catching a feel of her bottom. The maid squealed and giggled, and went pale when she turned around and saw the widow standing in the doorway.
"That will be enough of that," the widow said coolly.
"They won't leave me alone, mum."
"I know." She gave the Irish girl a month's wages and sent her off.
She couldn't help feeling a twinge of envy at the sight of the two youngsters flirting, though.
Sadly, in the last years of their marriage her husband's powers of virility in the marital bed had diminished; even as her own sexual powers and yearnings steadily increased.
Secretly, to her shame and chagrin, she learned how to relieve herself by masturbating. She discovered the pleasant feeling by accident, and didn't dare ask the doctor if it was as unhealthy for women as it was for men.
Under the counterpane her delicate fingers stole down and lifted her nightshirt. With the lights out, the grandfather clock ticking softly in the hall, her head resting on the soft goose down pillow with her eyes shut tight, she let her hand lie between her thighs.
She felt the pleasant warmth steal up her loins, and then her fingertips brushed ever so gently at the entrance to her mound. She felt the soft downy curls and pressed at the warm folds of flesh under them.
Softly, her fingertips traced a line along the edges of her labia, feeling them gently, until they puffed out slightly, and then her exploring fingertips felt a slight moistness lubricating them, as they slid in a long elliptical path around the sides of her labia, circling around the outer rim of her vulva like an ice skater.
Her fingertips grew moist and she carefully touched the very tip of her forefinger against the side of the hard nubbin. The tight ring of vaginal muscle clamped hard when she did this. She traced the patterns her husband had taught her with his tongue, stroking her puffy labial lips, teasing her taut little clitoris, finally trilling it gently as she brought herself nearer and nearer to the big exciting climax that finally burst over her like a summer shower. Her husband's death came suddenly, but it was not a total shock. His health had been declining for years.
She wore black for a year. All of the men she knew were the friends of her husband, or the husbands of her friends, and all of them were married, except for a couple of confirmed bachelors with no interest in the fairer sex. It seldom happened that a man pressed her hand in a meaningful way.
There were four lively young men boarding in the house now, whom she thought of as the sons she never had. Sometimes they reminded her of the boy who had been lost in the war, and when one of them wanted to enlist in the cavalry she begged him, with tears in her eyes, not to go. He had never had a woman look at him that way and he did not go.
Once a week on bath night the maid boiled gallons and gallons of hot water. The boys took turns in the washtub. What with four boys going in and out of the wash room, in various states of undress, the widow sometimes caught a glimpse of strong legs and muscular naked chests.
Sometimes the boys would be whooping and snapping towels at each other and the widow would see them passing by, oblivious to her presence, clad in nothing more than a towel wrapped around each boy's waist like a loincloth.
Once when the big washtub was set up in the kitchen she couldn't resist peeking in to catch a glimpse of the dripping bodies of the virile young studs cavorting and splashing in their towels and linen. Well, they weren't entirely naked, and it was only a peek!
Her eyes grew bright at the brief glimpse she caught. When the last boy was done and on his way back to his room she intercepted him -he was not even dressed, with a thick flannel towel wrapped around him, carrying his pants and shirt -and asked him to empty out the tub for her and bring it to her room so she could bathe too.
"May I put my trousers on first?" he asked.
"No need. It will only take a second."
He had great difficulty emptying the washtub out without losing the towel, which made her laugh. They carried it to her room together. There were kettles still boil on the stove and a bucket for the well pump, and she brought in the hot kettles while he brought buckets of cold well water and together they half-filled the tub.
She was tempted to flirt.
"The maid's gone to bed," she said softly. "Would you mind?"
"Mind what?" he asked with a sophomore's obtuseness.
"I've got no one to unfasten my buttons. It's very hard without the maid to help. Would you do it for me?"
She smiled at him with demurely downcast eyes.
Well, he had four sisters and he had been expected to help a girl with her fastenings before. He didn't mind in the least.
She closed the door, flushing slightly. She really shouldn't be behind a closed door with a young man she was not married to, undressing. Of course the boys were like sons to her.
She turned her back and said, "Well, all right then. Start with the top buttons."
He brought his hands up and fumbled with the first tight little button, working it out of the little loop of thread.
She could feel his hands trembling slightly. It was hard to tell because she was trembling slightly herself.
"These buttons are deuced tight," he complained.
He took his time and carefully unbuttoned a dozen small buttons from their loops. The back of her dress started to gape open and he caught a glimpse of the white woolen corset cover she wore over her corset.
"So, what do you think of the foot-ball squad's chances against Amherst?" she asked.
"Well, the boys say they are ready to paste Amherst good," he said. "I reckon they have not got anyone on their squad that can run like Bill."
Bill was in his sixth year of undergraduate study. The professor who coached the foot-ball squad would not let him graduate. Several professors had even conspired to give him undeserved flunking grades in order to keep him on the team.
"Oh yes, Bill can run like a steam engine, can he not? I saw him play against Princeton last year -they could not stop him. They had to halt the game because the score was so lopsided, do you remember?"
Several more buttons came unbuttoned. He was down to the skirt now.
"Well, that's all of them," he said. He started to go, heading toward the door.
"Wait, you're not done yet. I'll need some more assistance once I get this off."
She pulled the dress down off her shoulders, struggled to wiggle the skirt down and then stepped out of the big crinoline and cotton mass.
He watched her dumbfounded. She was standing in front of him in her frilly white corset cover.
It covered her from her neck to her knees. She had white stockings on her legs and boots laced tightly over them. She sat on her bed and took her boots off as he watched.
Then she stood up, turned her back to him, and unbuttoned her corset cover.
As it came open, he saw her corset, and above it, her bare shoulders.
He was dazed. He stood behind her. Her auburn hair was piled up tight on her head, but a stray wisp had worked its way free and lay upon her soft white neck.
"My husband used to do this for me," she said softly. "At night, when the maid was gone to bed. We used to stay up so late -he would be studying or writing and I would stay up with him. Now, I have to get up early in the morning to help cook get the breakfast ready and get you boys off to school. So I don't stay up as late."
He felt awkward. "Am I done?" he said. He didn't want to be done. She was old enough to be his mother, true, but she smelled nice and she had those full red lips and those deep soft eyes, and there she was with her neck and shoulders bare and her soft hair piled up, and he felt his heart hammering hard inside his chest.
"Oh no, you have to stay and unlace my corset," she said brightly.
"You have sisters, so I suppose you have seen them in their corsets before? I wouldn't have asked you otherwise, but I knew you would take it in stride. I don't have any children of my own here to help me -you know you boys are like sons to me."
"Yes, ma'am." Well, a son should not be having thoughts like that about his mother, so he tried to suppress them. Part of him badly wanted to see what "mother" would look like when she took a few more undergarments off.
"Here now, help me get this off," she asked, struggling with it.
He helped her pull her arms out of the short sleeves of her corset cover, but when he went to help her pull the bottom half down she stopped him.
"I can do that part, thank you," she said. The legs of her corset cover still covered her lower limbs, but the top was now hanging around her waist, and she had nothing on under it but her corset and short drawers.
Her arms and shoulders were bare and her corset was the only thing covering her bare body, above the waist.
He saw a glorious vision of wonderful full pink curves, sweet and fleshy, hidden under the corset and bulging out slightly around the edges.
She stripped off the corset cover, down to her drawers. They were fine white linen, molded to the soft curves of her ass and thighs.
"Do you think you could unfasten my corset strings now?" she asked.
"Y-y-yes," he stammered. A hundred boys would have fought him for the privilege.
He knew how to untie corset strings -he had four sisters, and their family could only afford one maid, so he had often had to help with mysteries of feminine apparel in a pinch.
"Ah," she sighed, as the strings started to come loose. "It feels so nice to get out of this tight thing at the end of the day."
Standing bare inches from her he could smell the odor of her warm body under the corset as it started to come off. It was musky and sensual. Something about her fragrance aroused him to a fever pitch.
His heart beat quickly and his breathing was fast and shallow.
There were an awful lot of strings, bows, whalebone stays and lace in the way, but as the strings loosened in his hands and the corset gaped open in the back he saw the taut, thin little woolen undervest that was pasted to her skin. He could see the upper part of her naked back. Her smooth flesh was the color of a peach.
"I heard a rather funny joke," he said. "A old Frenchman comes home at night, after a long day at his office, and unties his pretty young wife's corset strings. The strings are all tied behind her in neat bows (like yours). "Mon Dieu!" he says, slapping his forehead, puzzled. "Ze knots are bows. Yet I could swear zat when I left you zis morning, I tied zem in square knots!"
She giggled. Her late husband used to bring home naughty jokes like that from the faculty club. How she missed his funny stories!
"Have you got it now?" she said, as the last strings came untied.
Her corset dropped to the floor. She wiggled out of her snug little undervest. She turned her back as it came off.
All she had left were her flimsy little short drawers. They covered her bottom, that was all. And they clung to her curving ass like sheer silk.
Her back was turned to him and he saw the smooth curve of her naked back. If she turned around he would see her breasts. His heart was in his throat.
"There," she said. Then she turned around, smiling. But she was clutching the flimsy undervest to her chest modestly to cover her breasts.
He could dimly make out the two big round masses of her lovely breasts heaving under the vest where she clutched it to herself, under the soft white wool. She just barely covered most of her chest.
She was flushed from her face down to her cleavage. There was a fragrant, musky odor rising from her pink skin.
"I can finish from here," she said brightly, smiling into his eyes. "Thank you very much -you've been a big help."
"You're welcome, ma'am," he said awkwardly. His long cock was sticking up like a tent pole under his bath towel and he wondered if she could see the bulge. He blushed.
She could see from the protrusion under his towel that he was excited, and her eyes widened. She bit her lower lip.
"No need to blush, now. You've seen your sisters in their under garments, I know. You won't tell anyone, will you?"
"No ma'am."
"Good boy. Now go to your room -it's past your bedtime."