The Widower
Copyright© 2026 by Just Another Smut Writer
Chapter 2: Sunday, Betty
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 2: Sunday, Betty - 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 Squirting Water Sports BBW Hairy Public Sex AI Generated
Sweaty Run, Sweaty Fuck
I woke with my cock already stiff and throbbing against my stomach. The memory of Amy’s throat convulsing around my shaft the night before still burned in my mind. I lay there replaying every gag, every desperate swallow, every filthy moan she’d made while I used her mouth. My morning wood throbbed under the sheet, already leaking. Lauren’s last wishes felt more real than ever.
My phone buzzed at nine.
Amy: Just finished my run. Coming over now. Don’t get dressed.
I was still in pajama pants when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and there she was—ponytail swinging, skin glistening, tiny running shorts riding high on her ass, sports bra damp with sweat. She stepped inside without a word, kicked the door shut, and pressed her sweaty body against mine.
“Lock it,” she whispered.
I turned the deadbolt. Amy was already peeling off her sports bra. Her small, firm tits sprang free, nipples stiff from the cool air. She kicked off her shoes and shoved her shorts down, leaving only her white socks and a sheer lace thong, blond curls visible through the fabric.
“Why aren’t you naked yet?” she asked.
I shoved my pajama pants down. My thick eight-inch cock sprang up, already hard and drooling.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about last night,” she said, voice low. “I want to train my throat on you again. Lauren always said you needed a girl who could take every inch.”
Amy dropped to her knees in the entryway. She wrapped her lips around the swollen head and drove straight down, gagging hard as my thick shaft stretched her throat. Spit poured down her chin onto her tits. She forced herself deeper until her nose pressed against my stomach, tears streaming down her face.
“Fuck, that’s it,” I groaned. “Take it all.”
The first few strokes were slow, deliberate. She worked me deeper each time, nose brushing my trimmed pubes, throat fluttering around the head. Spit ran down my shaft and dripped onto the hardwood. When she pulled off for air, thick strings connected her lips to my glistening cock.
“Fuck my face,” she begged, voice hoarse. “Use me. Train me like you trained Lauren. I want to gag and cry and still beg for more.”
I grabbed her ponytail and thrust. Amy’s eyes watered instantly, mascara already smearing. Wet, obscene sounds filled the hallway—gluck, gluck, gluck—as I fucked her throat. She gagged hard but stayed locked on, hands gripping my thighs for balance. Every time I bottomed out, her nose mashed against my stomach and her throat convulsed around me. Tears streaked her cheeks. Spit soaked my balls and ran down her chin onto her bare tits.
Minutes later she pulled away, eyes glassy. “I need you inside me. Fuck my pussy raw.”
She stood, turned around, and bent over the hallway table. She pulled the thong aside, exposing her dripping cunt. I stepped behind her, lined up, and drove in to the hilt in one thrust. Amy cried out, pussy clenching around my thickness. She was soaked—whether from sweat or arousal I couldn’t tell, but it didn’t matter. I gripped her narrow waist and pounded her, the table legs scraping the floor with every stroke.
“Deeper—fuck—yes!” she moaned. “Stretch me like you stretched Lauren.”
Her tight cunt gripped me like a fist. I reached around and rubbed her clit while I fucked her, feeling her juices coat my fingers. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed through the house. Amy’s ponytail swung wildly. Every thrust forced a fresh gush of wetness down her thighs.
“Fill me,” she cried. “Creampie my pussy. I want to feel it leaking out of me all day.”
I slammed in one final time and exploded. Thick ropes of fertile cum flooded her pussy, pulse after pulse, until it overflowed and ran down her legs in white rivulets. Amy came with me, walls fluttering, a broken moan tearing from her throat.
She stood on shaky legs, cum running down her legs. Amy scooped some up with her fingers and licked them clean, moaning at the taste. “God, I missed this. Tomorrow I want you to fuck my pussy again and leave another load inside. I’m going to go to work with your cum dripping from me.”
She straightened, legs shaky, and started pulling her sweaty running clothes back on over the mess. Cum continued to leak down her thigh as she tugged the shorts into place. She kissed my cheek, leaving a faint smear of our mixed fluids.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she whispered, then slipped out the door.
I stood there in the entryway, cock still half-hard and shiny, watching her jog back across the street. My balls already ached for more.
Mom’s Promise
The doorbell rang just after three. I opened it to find Lauren’s mother Betty standing on the porch, her arms full of paper bags that pressed against the soft swell of her hips. The light blue dress she wore moved gently with each breath, the hem resting just above her knees, and her black heels clicked softly on the hardwood as she stepped inside. Red hair touched with gray framed her face—Lauren’s face, older and gentler, yet unmistakably the same. Her neckline dipped just enough to hint at the generous curves beneath.
“Mom,” I said, surprised. “What’s all this?”
She smiled the way she always had when Lauren brought her home for holidays—warm, steady, full of quiet affection. “Meal train, sweetheart. My turn today. I thought you could use something made with care.”
I took the bags from her and set them on the counter. “You didn’t have to do that.”
She touched my arm lightly. “Lauren would have wanted me here. Besides, you need real food, not takeout every night.”
She moved through the kitchen with familiar ease, rolling up her sleeves and scrubbing potatoes at the sink. I watched the gentle slope of her shoulders, the way her dress followed the line of her back. When she asked me to sit, I poured two mugs of coffee and waited at the table.
Conversation came slowly at first—work, weather, small safe things. Then it turned, as it always did now, to Lauren. Betty’s eyes glistened but stayed dry. Her voice was low when she spoke.
“I still can’t believe she’s gone,” she said. “Every morning I reach for the phone.”
“Same,” I answered. “The house feels too quiet. I keep listening for her keys.”
Betty reached across the table and covered my hand with hers. Her fingers were warm, soft, steady. We sat with the silence for a while, letting the weight of it settle between us.
Eventually she set her cup down and met my eyes.
“She loved you so much, Mike. She used to tell me how close you two were ... in every way.” A faint blush touched her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. “She worried about what would happen to you when she was gone.”
I swallowed. “She told you that?”
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