Why all that damn fuss about turning seventy? Everybody expects you to be happy and proud, and to throw a big party. I guess it's because they wouldn't place a bet on you reaching eighty. Not that I'd want to, you know. Getting old is much too lonely. Seen from outside I have no reason to complain. I've got friends, and my children visit me often. My days are filled with activities, so why am I whining?
It's because of the long, lonely nights. Alfred, my dear husband, died ten years ago, bless him. He was such a devoted lover that no woman could have wanted for better. His eagerness made me stay slim and trim through those dangerous years after menopause, where most women put on extra layers of fat, and the almost daily exercise kept my pussy wet and more than willing. But what's the use? He died on top of me a few days after my sixtieth birthday, in a rather unusual position. His blessed cock was buried in my pussy while he made love to my toes with his mouth and fingers. He knew how sensitive my toes are. By the time I had fought myself out from under his strong body and got him pushed and pulled to a proper position for a sixty-three year old gentleman, on his side of our bed, so I could call 911, he was way beyond all reviving procedures.
God in Heaven how I missed him. I seemed to cry 24 hours a day. My family and friends tried to console me, bless them, but they were not there at night. About a week after we had buried dear Alfred, when I was alone in the dark of my bedroom, my eyes were weeping, and my pussy as well, and I had to resort to my favourite teenage pastime: Masturbation.
As time passed by I stopped weeping over my loss of Alfred, but my pussy didn't stop weeping, and it didn't stop longing for those delicious fucks. Heavens, how I masturbated. Fingers, dildos, vibrators. Of course I could quench the fires, but the rest of the nights felt even lonelier with no shoulder for my head and without Alfred's melodious snoring.
I felt so bad that I decided to do something about it. I'd try to find a lover to fill the void. Shouldn't be impossible. After all I'm very attractive for my age, looking years younger. But I was ever so wrong. The few men of my own age, who still seemed to be out 'hunting', only had eyes for the painted singles in their forties. I bottomed out twice. Went to a hotel room with a guy in his early seventies, and later a soft gentleman in his late sixties. Both of them were clumsy and selfish, and neither of them managed to produce a respectable stand. But they managed to make me feel dirty and unworthy. Back to my lonely sessions. At least my right hand never failed me, and it seemed to have the same dirty feelings as I had.
So what's the big deal about turning seventy?
I tried to avoid the festivities by announcing my wish for a trip to Europe on the day. They didn't buy it. My whole family wanted the party, and at last I gave up. Friends and family provided nice gifts and the occasional speech, and I provided dinner and entertainment for about 70 people. During dessert my lovely granddaughter hit her glass to announce she wanted to make a speech.
"Dear Granny. You know how much we all love you, and you know how I love to go round to your place on my way home from school. But you don't know how clearly I sense that you are too much alone in that wonderful house. I know your opinion of messy puppies, so for a year and a half I have visited this kennel to train my gift for you. He is absolutely house-trained and disciplined, and he will be a loving and obedient friend for you." She turned round and left the hall for a moment. When she returned, she was leading the most beautiful Collie up to my place at the end of the table. While she handed the leach to me, she knelt beside the dog and whispered a few words into his ear. Then she went back to her place and continued: "I know it is a risky business to give animals as a gift, but I wish you'll give Boy a couple of days. If you don't like him, I'll bring him back to the kennel. Please see him as the best way I could express my love for you, Granny."
Oh, that darned lovely girl brought tears to my eyes, while I absentminded let my right hand pat Boy's head. He raised his head and gave my hand a small lick. Then he lay down beside my chair and placed one of his paws on top of my shoe. Cloe was absolutely right: Boy had to be the most well trained dog I ever met.
When the party was over Cloe and her father (my son) insisted they'd give me a lift. Well at home we crossed my lawn, and I let Boy off the leach. For a few minutes he was busy marking his territory and get ready for the night. Meanwhile my granddaughter brought a beautiful basket with a couple of soft blankets in it. She carried it into my bedroom and placed it in a corner. "Boy", she called. He came running fast, pushed his head against her blonde hair on his way to the basket, and soon he was curled up in it.
"He has slept in that basket for 8 months, Granny. I think you should let him have it, at least in the beginning.
"Never fear, Cloe. I'll let him have it for as long as he wants. Give's a hug. Your gift is so considerate and perfect you almost make me cry again, girl."
"You're welcome, Granny. We'll leave now, but for the first couple of days I'll come round on my way home from school, to see how you two get along. OK?"
We got along just fine. Boy really was well trained and he was a very loving creature. Every time I had been away from him, if only for a few minutes, he would greet my return with little yelps and nudging some part of me with his head until I had patted him and said hello.
On the second day Cloe arrived in her father's car with three bags of sand. We found a corner in the garden where she removed some of the grass and a little dirt and then she filled up the small hole with sand. When she had finished she said:"Granny, has he dropped a little pooh-pooh somewhere in your garden?"
"Yes. He dropped something over there." I pointed to a bush. "I haven't yet had time to pick it up."
"That's great," Cloe smiled. With her small shovel she picked up the dropping and carried it to the sandpit. She then called for Boy and 'had a talk with him' at the sandpit. When she got up from her kneeling position she smiled at me and said:"That's it, Granny. From now on he'll use this place instead of your garden. Just keep an eye on him for a day or two when he's out here. If you see him do the preliminaries to do a dropping, call him over here and he'll do it."
What a sweet girl. We hugged and she took off in her father's car. That night it happened.
I was getting ready for bed when I felt the strong urge to do something about my weeping pussy. It was a warm summer's night so I discarded my nightgown and went to bed. A few minutes later my hand was down there, and I pushed the covers aside. I was completely lost in my passion when I felt Boy jump onto the bed, and before I could do something about it he was lapping at my thighs and my fingers. I was just terribly horny and I have to admit that his persistent tongue sent strong jolts of lust through my old body. For a second I pulled my hand away and left my pussy open to his attack. It was Heaven! It was dirtier and more kinky than any of the wonderful things dear Alfred had done to please me. I was pushed into one of the most wonderful orgasms I had ever had. When I came down from Mount Everest I had to push Boy's head away for a little while, but as soon as I let go he was there again. He pushed his long narrow nose against my entrance, and soon his tongue penetrated me. I was completely dizzy and wild, and it seemed like Boy was an accomplished pussy licker, even better than Alfred had been. After my second bone-wrecking orgasm I hugged Boy. I got out of bed and pulled his basket up beside my bed and told him to go to sleep. Obediently he curled up in the basket, and when I lay down again I could hang my arm over the edge of the bed to pat his head while I went to sleep.
I woke up in the morning feeling a lot more relaxed than I had done for years, but I also felt ashamed of myself for what I had done the night before. Boy got out of his basket when he heard me move, and went to the door. Then he went back to my bed and pushed his head into my hand and returned to the door. After I let him out into the garden I went to have a shower and get dressed. He returned while I was preparing my breakfast, and he would not leave me alone until I had given him a great hug.
All during the morning I had to stop myself several times from looking at his beautiful head and remember how he had satisfied me the night before.
In the afternoon Cloe popped in. Oh, that girl is sunshine in human form. She was as happy to meet Boy as he was to see her. She sat down for a cup of tea in the garden, and we talked while Boy ran about and made fun of himself. Later she went to my bedroom and noticed the basket, which I had moved close to my bed. "Oh, I see you two are getting friends," she laughed. I couldn't help it, but I blushed like a teenager when I looked into her bright eyes. "Hey, Granny, don't be shy."
"God, am I that obvious?"
"Sure. But where do you think he learned that skill? It's not easy for a dog to do it right, you know."
I just looked at her. What she was saying was so new and strange to me that I lost my words.
"Let's be sure there is no misunderstanding," she said with a bright smile, "Boy visited you last night, didn't he?"
.... There is more of this story ...