by HAL

Copyright© 2017 by HAL

Sex Story: The will contains a lengthy codicil. It explains why only women are at the reading of the will. As the codicil is read, they start ticking off who has already been mentioned.

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   .

The solicitor cleared his throat as he looked out on the chairs occupied by a range of beautiful women of all ages.

“Hmm, if I may have your attention ladies and urr, well, just ladies actually. This is most unusual. We don’t actually have ‘the reading of the will’ as Agatha Christie and others would have you believe. However, in this case Colonel Saunders stipulated that this was how it should be done. Part of my duties as executor is to read the following. Anyone can leave and will still be a beneficiary, but to be honest, having already read it, I would suggest that to say ‘I was there’ may be quite something in the future.”

One young lady got up, realised she was alone in choosing to leave, and sat down with a sigh.

“This is a codicil to the last will and testament of Colonel Joseph Henry Saunders of The Maples, Broadstairs, Kent. Forgive the fact that it comes before the will, but you will realise why by the end.” The solicitor hesitated “I am reading from his own missive now”

“The doctor said ‘Jim, I have some bad news I’m afraid’. I have never been Jim! I was James to my mother and father (though in truth I hardly remember him before he went off to war and never came back); I was Jimmy at Prep School; Saunders, J at Marlborough; ‘J’ at Oxford and variously, Lieutenant, Captain, Major, Colonel Saunders (yes, yes, smirk if you must) in the Army. No-one, NO-ONE ever had the rudeness to presume to call me Jim! He sat on the edge of the desk to put me at my ease. God! The arrogance of youth. I had commanded soldiers in Northern Ireland, Croatia, Sierra Leone and (unofficially) Syria and now this doctor with a certificate and no manners was trying to have a good bedside manner! Still, he was trying I suppose. I let him carry on with his matesy diagnosis of my last campaign. ‘We’ve found a little something, nothing to worry about.’ Nothing for YOU to worry about, I thought, you’ll go home to some dolly bird nurse and get tea, sympathy, and oral sex for having a hard day. I’m the one to worry! ‘It’s a heart murmur. Well arrhythmia actually, that means the old ticker isn’t working as it should’ If I’d had a gun I swear I would have shot him (like Sean McAcalease – but that’s a story that must stay under the covers for 30 years), I’ve got a first from Oxford, and he’s talking about the ‘old ticker’. I wanted to shout ‘You stupid fucking prick, I’ve got more brain cells and killed more people than you’ll ever have or than you’ve saved (respectively). Just tell me the problem you moronic piece of politically correct crap!’ I admit my patience isn’t what it was. What I said was ‘oh yes?’

‘How old are you Jim?’

‘Colonel, I prefer to be called Colonel. I’m 71’

‘Yes, Jim, 71, well there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have another 20 years at least with some care and attention. You need to take it easy. The heart, you see, it’s the only one we’ve got.’ Oh really! And I thought I was like Doctor Who and had two! I realised it was time to wind this dickhead. ‘The heart?’ I said ‘What does it do? Is it necessary? Perhaps you could take it out. I had my appendix out when I was 9, and my tonsils when I was 11. Lots of ice-cream I remember. Do you get ice-cream for having your heart out?’

‘Ah, umm no, it’s not like that. You’ll have to keep the one you have I’m afraid. They are in short supply’

‘I suppose those damned black sambos have stolen them all!’ I could see he was really, really uncomfortable. I’m not racist at all. My son married a beautiful girl, Janey, from Nigeria. In Sierra Leone we worked with the local population and the local army and I loved it. They knew the animals and plants as real things, not as ecological theories. But this doctor had ground my gears (is that the right expression?) and I knew non-PC would unsettle him as well as confirm his prejudices of old people like me. Listen sonny, I actually DO have best friends who are black, I bet you just think the black nurses like you whereas they (and the white ones) despise your arrogant self from top to bottom. Anyway...

‘Umm, right, anyway’ he said ‘your G.P. Doctor Mysorilani ... Mysorilantib ... Mysorilantiba’ I interrupted ‘you mean Dr. Mysorilantibablitom? He’s from Sri Lanka, very nice man.’ ‘Yes,’ he said ‘I’m sure he’ll be in touch.’

I had been to the doctor a month ago and been told I needed a referral. This being urgent and this being the NHS and me being over 70 (just) I was told there would be a 12 month wait for this urgent referral. I went private. Perhaps that was a mistake, it just meant I heard the bad news earlier.

My doctor contacted me in three days, by which time I’d already decided on the course of treatment required. He IS a very nice man, always calls me Colonel James; and he suggested gentle exercise and ‘taking it easy.’ God, I thought, I’ve been active all my life, this is how society kills you, by making you put your feet up.

I joined the local dramatic society. They were putting on ‘Playboy of the Western World’ and I read for the lead. I said I thought it would be a radical interpretation to put a 70 year old in the lead. They disagreed, I knew they would, but it got me noticed by Mrs B- (no names, no pack drill). Mrs B-” The solicitor looked up, a middle aged woman with a trim figure smiled. “was very good looking. I was going to say for her age but I apologise as that would be ungallant, for she was good looking for any age. Since I hope she is listening to this (and that she has obeyed the instruction that only the beneficiaries may come, not partners, spouses, friends or relations) I will not embarrass her by mentioning her age.”

Again the solicitor looked up. Mentally he had to agree with the late Colonel Saunders, she was very well preserved for, what? 50? He smiled at her and she nodded. Would he, could he? Probably not.

“We first kissed in front of the rest of the cast, and later in front of an audience varying from 29 to 154; by that time we were already kissing when not on the stage. I am being entirely honest in this memoir, so don’t be embarrassed Agnes. The others will also be named. You deserve especial mention for opening up my life again.

When Cecille died 20 years ago, so did my sex life. It was hard. I missed her hugely and lost my libido completely. I gardened, I walked; I ticked off most of the Monroes; but there was never anybody else. Until that warning heart flutter and the diagnosis ‘strenuous activity could bring on a massive heart attack’. Agnes set me free again. We slept together when the group took our play to Scarborough for a season of amateur productions. We were a success! The audience loved us. And when it was time to leave on the Friday, Agnes rang home and said she’d been delayed. I never found out what excuse she gave. I didn’t need to give one. I just rang my son, got the inevitable answer phone and told him not to ring on Sunday as arranged as I wouldn’t be there. I didn’t suggest he ring my mobile phone (he doesn’t know I have one, I never wanted to be available 24/7. That’s what we say isn’t it? 24/7. It just means ‘all the time’). We moved from the hotel to a guest house with a good view of the bay and the castle and a fine line in English Breakfasts (fried bacon, sausage, egg, black pudding, white pudding, fried bread, tomato, baked beans, toast and as much tea as you can manage. No coffee, none of your fancy ways here thank you!). Oh, and a double room. That first night we cuddled and fell asleep, woke up hungry. Had a big breakfast and walked to Robin Hood’s Bay. That was a long, lovely walk, but we got the bus back. Then I ran a bath for her and we took the plunge. That is to say I soaped her back, and her front, and her legs. And the bits in between. She was embarrassed at first, so was I but I tried not to show it. When it came to my turn it was very obvious that I was enjoying it all! We went to bed at 6pm, and the sex was great! I know Agnes enjoyed it too because she came twice. Orgasmed I mean. We both knew this dirty weekend was a one night stand if that isn’t chronologically incorrect; we knew it was a one-off. After a plate of chips it was back to the bedroom and another round of hide the sausage! At 1am I woke up with an unusual feeling. It was someone’s hand stroking an already erect penis. Mine! And of course the hand was Agnes’s. She let me rub her to come again. I wasn’t sure I could keep going long enough; but I came into her and she closed her legs for more tightness and I came surprisingly quickly. By then I was shattered.

I’m sure you are all thinking ‘but that could have killed you!’ You’re right. That was the point. I didn’t want to drift into death with a limp todger. ‘Let me die a young man’s death’ wrote Roger McGough. I had decided to achieve it. I would die having the most fun you can have, shagging a lovely woman.

Here I should apologise. To you all, but even more to Agnes. I had targeted her from the moment I joined the play group. I’m not a bad judge of character, I could see she needed a bit of excitement. But it was unfair on you all I suppose to put you at risk of having a man die of sex on top (or under or beside) you. That’s why I kept notes, determined that you all should receive something for your part in my sex-as-suicide plan.

In the morning when we came down for breakfast the landlady looked daggers at us. Apparently respectable couples don’t have sex right through the night. But that was alright because we definitely weren’t a respectable couple. Going back up to pack, as she bent over her bag, packing it, I could see her knickers through her jeans. VPL isn’t it? What a turnon! I walked softly up behind her and before she knew what I was about I had her jeans undone and down round her ankles. Her knickers I pulled to one side; I’d read about people doing that, but I realised I needed more practice, so I just pulled them down too. Agnes, bless her, made little noises like ‘no, no Colonel, you mustn’t’, getting into the spirit of this quick hump before the landlady came. I was in her tight place like a shot and she braced herself on the bed as I humped her again. Oh that was good, maybe the best! The feeling of being the rampant male. We had to checkout immediately after and there was no time to wash. Agnes had a damp pair of pants and an aching groin. I had a wet willy and a sore one too from so much sudden use! But we both left happy and went our separate ways. I didn’t stay in the play group much longer, by mutual consent, it was a little difficult playing opposite her as a nun in The Sound Of Music when you knew her innermost body parts.

She gave me confidence. I could have gone for a prostitute of course, there are plenty in the seedy parts of town. Or I could have paid more for an ‘escort’ with extras in the side. I could afford it, but really I didn’t fancy that. I wanted people who wanted me.

Andrea was a hitchhiker. It is of course dangerous to hitchhike, and pretty dangerous to pick them up too. The men might attack you and the girls might blackmail you; but then I saw her and, no ulterior motives I swear, I thought she was vulnerable and I should stop. ‘where are you going?’ I asked and she replied ‘Bath’. Bath was way past where I’d been heading, but I thought I should help. We travelled down the motorway and chatted. She was a post-graduate, just breaking up with her pointless boyfriend. I never found out who was ditching who, but it didn’t matter because either way she was upset and I bought her dinner and delivered her to her halls. That would have been the end of it except that I decided to explore Bath for a couple of days and then I discovered her student card in the floor. If it had been her phone I would have been suspicious of a setup, but a student card was replaceable, but it would be troublesome not having it and I was in Bath still. So I went round to her halls and there in the kitchen was a lout manhandling her! It was (I found out later) her old boyfriend, he’d come down to have a row and it was definitely turning physical. ‘Excuse me’ I said ‘you probably need to leave.’ I was always polite, even in Northern Ireland. He looked at me, I could see him taking stock of my age. ‘Leave it granddad, we don’t want anybody getting hurt’ He replied. ‘That’s why you need to go’ I said.

He advanced on me, aggressively, threateningly. I had given him a chance and he clearly wasn’t in the mood to take it. As he reached out to push me from the room I grabbed, twisted and kneed. He half fell and found his twisted arm taking all his own weight as I held it and pushed his leg down. He screamed in pain and left not long after. Andrea rushed over and hugged me, she was upset, and I comforted her, in the kitchen, in the corridor and then in her room. That’s when elderly concerned hugs became, well, different. I never lead her on; oh, I’m not disowning my part in this story. I was (as you already know) up for sex; but that hadn’t been the aim here. She was willing (not ‘grateful, pity sex’), and I was willing. That there was 45 years between us was irrelevant at that stage.

I was sure Andrea would do for me. She went like a train! [the woman who had stood up to leave earlier went bright red] She was also extremely flexible and I was able to fuck her in positions that would be impossible for most people. She bent her body right over and hooked her feet behind her head. This position opened her posterior to all sorts of interesting penetrations. From the front it was like an extreme version of feet on the shoulders, but since they were locked in place there was no counter pressure to my thrusts. Yoga, I can’t recommend it enough. I stayed around Bath (another call to my son to say I’d be late for my visit, he was not unhappy with that. It’s alright, I know an old codger reminiscing all day is a bit of a pain) [a young-middleaged woman now looked embarrassed, she’d wondered why she, his daughter-in-law, and not his own son, was invited. It dawned on her now he was telling the whole story]. We made love several times between lectures. She was doing Security Studies and we had some very interesting discussions on my experiences in various places. I think she was surprised by how much the ‘boots on the ground’ understood that brute force and ignorance aren’t the solution to trouble spots. It’s the politicians at home that want to feel macho by sending in the SAS or something. We can see that bombing a country back to the middle ages just creates more problems. Sorry, lecture over. I really tried to fuck myself to death. One day I even felt my heart give a jump – during our fourth session of the day. Andrea was on top and riding my todger like a cow girl. I was tweaking her nipples and trying (unsuccessfully) to reach round and find her bottom. She had limits, and her bottom was out of bounds, which never stopped me trying. My heart went into a kind of double pump mode as I came. I thought ‘this is it!’ but when I relaxed so did it and she finished herself with her fingers and made me taste my own spunk! I’d never, ever done that before! She told me a previous boyfriend had used it as a secret ingredient in his mayonnaise; I’m glad I don’t know people like that (but then how would I know?).

I left after a couple of days, I needed a rest. I’d like to think she did too. [The solicitor looked up, Andrea smiled and nodded slightly]. I went on to my son’s where he was of course at work and Janey welcomed me. Janey has always been very physical with her welcomes. My dear, beloved, wife was really not that keen on her. Sorry Janey but you know that’s true, nothing to do with colour before people get the wrong idea, just well, Cecille was less publically demonstrative. And she was even less keen on the fulsome hugs you used to give me with a blouse that did little to hide the charming bosom you were thrusting against me. I can’t say I objected much.

When I arrived I could tell there was an ‘atmosphere’. When Ronny, sorry Ron, I know he hates that childish name ‘Ronny’; when he got home the air felt like ice. I wondered if I should find an excuse and leave. I stayed that night and, when Ron left for work the next day I sat with her after she’d taken little Tony to nursery. Seems Ron had been playing away. Maybe not a lot, maybe only the once, who knows? Once you’ve tried it what’s to stop you trying again? Anyway, Janey was right to be hurt and definitely right to be unhappy. But should she leave my son? We talked over the options. I’m an army man, strategy, options, logistics; all that is my bread and butter. There are always options. Perhaps the best option isn’t the most obvious at first. The one we came up with was definitely not amongst the ones she had first thought of. We went upstairs and I undressed her and myself. This was not in the suicide bid, but it was the result of feeling freer than I’d felt for ages. In my son’s bed I cuckolded him. Then we went and collected Tony from nursery. Lovely lad.

The atmosphere was less frigid that evening. Janey felt that what was good for the Drake was good for the Duck and it helped her forgive him if she was as guilty. But she hadn’t forgiven him entirely I’m pleased to say. Next day was a non-nursery day, the three of us went out for a drive. The day after we both had a job not to run back to the car after dropping Tony off to play for the morning.

“Can we try some other positions?” Janey asked as we went upstairs (two at a time).

“What have you in mind?”

“Take me from behind, Ron always insisted he liked to see my tits”

I noted the past tense, it had obviously been a while since they had had sex. Ever willing to comply I bent her over so her shoulder was on the bed with her feet on the floor. I lifted her slightly matronly skirt and pulled down her tights and pants. It was clear her ‘parts’ were already throbbing. They were red and engorged and ... well I found myself standing with me trousers round my ankles up to my groin in sexy voluptuous womanhood. She told me to just “go ahead”, but I wanted her to come too and moved her hand to her crotch and encouraged her to pleasure herself, something she was evidently experienced in doing [Janey went red now], even then I couldn’t hold out and came with a shout and a splurge of semen. She came a little after, I wouldn’t release my hold on her until she did.

We had just time for another, more conventional session. She let me stroke her to ecstasy and then sucked me off! I was lying with my son’s wife half naked with her laughing gear wrapped round my penis. I’m not sure this was every man’s fantasy, or even mine; but it was certainly a turn-on that I found hard to ignore. When I came, she dribbled the spunk onto her breasts and made me lick it off. If we had had time I would have stayed in bed all day with her.

By this time her culpability had made her forgive her husband, my son, his peccadillo. That night I heard them going at it, squeaky springs and all. She told me the next day before I left, she wasn’t on the pill so she had to make sure in any case that any child could be attributed to him, not me. [several people looked at her, already having noticed that she was pregnant, now they – like her – wondered whether the father was the father or the son, so to speak]. But she had definitely got over her anger, and it seemed that he was willing to do anything to gain re-entry to the loving bosom of his family. So cunnilingus, reverse cow-girl and even licking her out after he’d come in her, were all now on the menu. She only had to ask to receive! I feel like a kind of super-hero sex worker.

Madeleine was, for her at least, something of a busman’s holiday I think. She never told me her profession, so if I misjudge you Madeleine, I’m sorry. We met on the flight out to Tenerife. I booked it on a whim and found myself in a hotel from hell; full of young Club 18-30 types, noisy and obnoxious. When I ran into Madeleine again, on the beach, she suggested I could take the other room in her villa. I think she figured a 70 year old couldn’t be any trouble. The first time I saw her in her bikini on the balcony was the first time she realised even 70 year olds have red blood, not water, in their veins. My erection was immediately obvious in my shorts and it was impossible to pretend otherwise without more acting skills than either of us possessed.

She was lying on her back in a skimpy bikini through which her nipples began to appear at the top. At the bottom the small triangle of fabric left precious little to the imagination and hardly anything to be protected from the sun. She could see my eyes were looking at her legs and lower torso; perhaps that’s why her nipples started up, to distract me. If so they succeeded. She has large, impressive breasts, not enhanced I think [Madeleine laughed quietly, the colonel wasn’t as observant as he thought he was] and nipples to match their size. I found I couldn’t get the image of licking them out of my mind.

“Would you like a Sangria” I said,

“I’d say you need a cold shower” she replied.

A few short months ago I would have been hugely abashed by my display in front of her, but now I simply replied “I hope you’ll take it as a compliment for your perfect body” In such ways we slowly became easy with my persistent erection and her prominent nipples. So much so that she took off her top and put on some sun cream. I would have given a king’s ransom to put the sun cream on for her, but we had a way to go first. There was no chance of my ramrod hard penis going down now! She knew that I think.

I brought the drinks and we talked about our lives. Madeleine I felt was unfulfilled; whatever it was she did, and once again if I am wrong in my assumption I apologise [it seemed clear from her lack of reaction he was right about that at least], but she was intelligent, and had more to offer than her body. Perhaps my Will will help her to get her degree. Nevertheless, her body is clearly a significant asset; I would have been tempted to pay for it [‘you couldn’t afford me’ she murmured; later she re-assessed that]. Eventually she sighed, stood up and took my hand. She led me to her bedroom and bade me remove her bikini bottoms. I was hesitant. I didn’t want to do anything she was unwilling to do, though her prominent nipples and the smell of coconut oil sun shield was almost as intoxicating as the Sangria. She insisted and I got my first view of a total wax. No woman I’d ever known – the army can be quite intimate in a non-sexual way sometimes, and the women I’ve already mentioned, and certainly the women before my wife, back in the mists of youth – had ever been bald down below. It was both alluring and too ‘in your face’. I could see every detail of her female anatomy with ease (my eyesight has not been spoilt by onanism [younger woman looked bemused by the term, older women remembered looking up naughty words from the bible]). It was enormously arousing in a gratuitous way. No offence my dear, I find the search through a garden below quite fun; but I was still excited by your smooth body. Well, you know I was.

She let me take her and, by her moans, groans and gyrations made sure it was all over quite quickly. Being bald I could see the fluids start to leak out and now I led her to her bathroom where I ran a shower and washed her all over, up, down, front, back. I gently opened her and washed her out. The water had the effect I had anticipated and with soapy fingers from behind I was able to reciprocate the pleasure she had given me. I don’t think it right to take and not give. I’d had the same attitude on peace keeping missions where we were supposed to take punishment and do nothing. Not me guv! We made sure the Serb guns in Croatia and the IRA in Ireland were just a little less safe than they had assumed they were. Here, in a lady’s boudoir I was determined to assail and pleasure spots in return for being pleasured.

“Thank you” she said “most men see my body as a machine to give them pleasure, they don’t realise I need sex too”

“I get excited by hearing and seeing a woman orgasm, so it isn’t entirely altruistic”

She looked down and nodded “I see what you mean”

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