The Widower
Copyright© 2026 by Just Another Smut Writer
Chapter 1: Saturday, Amy
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1: Saturday, Amy - Mike’s was widowed in his 20’s by cancer. Lauren, his wife, knew he had a high sex drive, so before she died, she set up a harem for him.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Romantic Lesbian Heterosexual Cuckold Wimp Husband Mother Daughter Light Bond Rough Spanking Harem Black Female White Male White Female Oriental Female Hispanic Female White Couple Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie First Facial Fisting Masturbation Oral Sex Scatology Squirting Water Sports BBW Hairy Public Sex AI Generated
The Neighbor’s Comfort
Mike sat motionless in the living room, the television’s black screen reflecting nothing but the hollow weight inside him. His body felt leaden, drained of everything except the dull ache of absence. Lauren’s casket still floated behind his eyes—the polished wood, the flowers, the dirt that would soon cover her. Three months from diagnosis to grave. Three months of watching her waste away while he held her hand and tried not to cry in front of her.
His mind kept circling back to the last time they’d fucked, a month before the end. She’d been too weak to ride him the way she used to, but she’d still managed to straddle his hips, guiding his thick eight-inch cock into her slick heat with shaking hands. “I want to feel you one more time,” she’d whispered, voice hoarse from chemo. She’d rocked slowly, grinding her clit against his pubic bone, telling him how much she loved the way he stretched her open. He’d come inside her with tears on his face.
Now that same cock lay soft against his thigh beneath thin athletic shorts, twitching at the memory.
The doorbell cut through the fog. He ignored it. It rang again, sharper. Mike pushed himself up on stiff legs and shuffled to the door.
Amy stood on the porch holding a cardboard box. Her blonde ponytail swung as she shifted her weight. The black yoga pants clung to her runner’s ass and narrow waist; the white tank top was thin enough that he could see the faint outline of her nipples. Blood rushed south so fast it made him dizzy.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t hear it the first time.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mike.” Her voice was soft, careful. “I was worried. Brought dinner.” She lifted the box. When he reached for it their fingers brushed. His cock, already half-hard from the sight of her, pushed visibly against the thin fabric of his shorts. Amy’s eyes flicked down, lingered, then rose again. Heat crawled up his neck.
“I ... sorry,” he said again.
She shook her head. “It’s autonomic. Happens. Besides, it’s flattering.” Her tone stayed light, but her gaze dropped once more, slower this time. “It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”
Mike swallowed. “Since Lauren got sick ... yeah.”
He stepped aside. “Come in.” Amy walked past him into the kitchen, hips swaying. The yoga pants disappeared between her cheeks with every step. He followed, trying not to stare, failing.
She set the box on the counter and began unpacking—lasagna, garlic bread, salad, a bottle of red wine. Enough for four people. Mike watched the way her small breasts shifted under the tank top, the way her ass flexed when she reached for the lasagna. His erection refused to fade. She glanced at it again, deliberately this time.
“Where’s Phil?” he asked.
“Out of town on business again.” She didn’t elaborate.
Mike cleared his throat. “Stay and eat with me. There’s way too much here.”
Amy hesitated, then nodded. They carried plates to the dining table. He poured wine. Conversation started slow—work, the weather—then drifted. Mike swung between staring at his plate and half-hearted flirting. Amy met every dark comment with something lighter, pulling him back each time. Her foot brushed his under the table and stayed there.
Amy set her fork down halfway through the meal, her fingers lingering on the stem of her wine glass. “Lauren told me once that you two still averaged sex twice a day even after over a year of marriage.”
Heat flooded my face. My cock gave a heavy twitch under the table. She kept going, voice soft but steady. “She said you have a very high sex drive.” Her cheeks flushed, but she held my gaze. “She told me that when she was gone, as her best friend I should ... take care of you.”
The words landed like a punch to the gut. My shaft throbbed hard, pressing against the thin fabric of my shorts. Amy’s eyes dropped, caught the movement, then lifted again with a small, nervous smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
I swallowed. “She really said that?”
Amy nodded. “More than once.” The silence stretched thick between us. Outside the light was fading, but inside the air felt warmer, heavier, charged with everything we weren’t saying yet. I could still hear Lauren’s voice in my head, the way she’d whispered it to me in those last weeks: Amy will look after you. She promised.
I poured the last of the wine into Amy’s glass, watching the deep red swirl. My hand stayed steady, but my pulse hammered in my throat. Across the table she sat with one leg tucked under the other, the thin white tank clinging to her small, firm breasts. The black yoga pants stretched tight over her runner’s thighs and hugged the narrow waist I kept stealing glances at. I could still feel the echo of Lauren’s words: take care of you.
Amy lifted her glass, sipped, then set it down with a soft clink. “I shouldn’t have said that about Lauren,” she murmured. “But it’s true. She told me everything.” Her cheeks flushed darker. “How you two couldn’t keep your hands off each other. How thick you are. How she loved the way you filled her.”
My cock, already half-hard under the table, gave a heavy twitch. I shifted in my chair, trying to adjust without being obvious. Amy noticed anyway. Her eyes flicked down, lingered, then rose again with that same nervous little smile.
“She said you average twice a day,” Amy continued, voice low. “Even after over a year. I used to tease her about it, but she just laughed and told me I was jealous.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table, the neckline of her tank dipping enough to show the soft upper curves of her breasts. “Maybe I was.”
The silence that followed felt charged, almost physical. I cleared my throat. “Phil doesn’t...?” I left the question unfinished, but she understood.
Amy shook her head slowly. “He’s sweet. I love him. But he only wants sex about once a week, and besides he’s small. I haven’t had anything like you since college.” Her tongue touched her lower lip, quick and unconscious. “Lauren used to brag about how your eight inches stretched her, how you’d leave her dripping for hours afterward. She said you came like a faucet.”
My shaft throbbed hard against my thigh. I could feel a wet spot forming in my boxers. Amy’s gaze dropped again, watching the fabric tent. This time she didn’t look away.
My throat tightened. “And you’re actually thinking about it?”
Amy’s tongue touched her lower lip again. “I’ve been thinking about it since Lauren died. Phil’s been traveling. I’ve been running extra miles trying to burn it off, but every time I see you ... it just comes back.” Her eyes flicked down to the obvious bulge in my shorts again. “I still think about it,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “About what it would feel like.” She met my eyes. “About what Lauren offered me.”
I shifted in my chair and swallowed. My voice came out rough. “Amy, if we do this—” She cut me off gently. “I know what it means. I love Phil. But he doesn’t fill me the way you would. The way you filled Lauren. She used to brag about how sore she’d be the next day.” Amy’s voice dropped lower. “I want that again. I want to feel stretched and used and dripping.”