My name is Greta.

I am about one month past my eightieth birthday and am in disgustingly good health for a woman of my years.

My husband of almost forty-two years passed away this last winter after a long bout with cancer that wasted him away to a shadow of his former self.

I shamefully admit that I was cheating on him right up to the final curtain with every Tom, Dick and Harry with enough stamina to get it up and get it inside where it really counts the most at the end of the day.

After I passed seventy-five, I didn’t get very many orgasms because I was too worried about making noise and alerting my husband or any other relatives about my terrible need for sex.

When I was a young girl and in university, I had experimented with the usual sex things like multiple partners, a fling with some dark skinned males that seemed to enjoy my rear door more than my pussy and the odd female close friend that would give me oral support when I needed it the most.

Now I suspect most of you readers under the age of forty would think that an eighty year old woman should just do her knitting and wander off silently into the grave with a little inconvenience as possible. Unfortunately, I have taken the opposite point of view and have been trying to do as many randy males as possible considering my reduced ability to entice the boys into firing position to engage my ports of entry.

I have discovered the best course of attack is to simply bend over in the tightest jeans or slacks I can slide on and wave my backside directly in front of their hardened maleness. I usually wear control top pantyhose underneath with a cut out crotch for easy entry and it helps to disguise the fact of my advanced age and loose skin because I followed a strict diet to keep my figure in an attractive shape for male attentions.

My facial skin care is quite expensive but I manage to keep things looking more like a lady in her mid-sixties rather than my true elderly status of a person in the later stages of life.

It may seem strange to you but I have a firm belief that male spunk on one’s skin is a great youthful stimulant and I need to have at least a couple of applications every day to keep my younger appearance maintained properly for retaining an attraction for masculine insertions. I don’t mind if the gentleman uses my front entrance or my rear door just as long as he deposits a nice load of cream for my personal use.

I know most doctors will state without hesitation that my views are scientifically unsound but in all honesty I have to insist on my correctness because it certainly seems to work for me all things considered.

I am in a skilled nursing home now with almost one hundred other senior citizens.

My husband and I had occupied a room as a single resident unit and that meant that my fifty percent share was now one hundred percent and I was considering a move to a less expensive location but for the fact that I was suffering from a need for proximity to medical attention with regard to my long term problem with an erratic heartbeat. I had learned to cope with that fact and was quite careful about taking my medication and trying my best not to do anything to the extreme.

I have to admit that extreme issue was most difficult in the area of sexual relations because I a hot-blooded sort of female with a great need for hard pounding preferably from the rear with great regularity. In point of fact, my shrink had told me in no uncertain terms that I was a “flaming nymphomaniac” and that I should try to get dick in me at least three times a day to stay satisfied.

I found that to be good advice, but in recent years I had fallen to the average of twice a day and that seemed to sustain me without any noticeable aging patterns to push me into that ready for the grave look all older folks eventually come to at the end of the life cycle.

The nice man down in the financial office explained to me that they could carry me on the books as if I had a room-mate in the room with me for up to ninety days but after that they would have to collect the full rate. I knew that was a definite no-go but I kept that to myself and just nodded my head like I was one of those submissive dummies upstairs.

The man reminded me of my first husband Ralph.

Ralph had this thing of spanking me every time he came home from work and he would pound my ass cheeks telling me I was a bitch for him being late, or for making a mistake or for being caught doing something he was not supposed to do. I guess he used me as his “whipping boy” to help him get relaxed after a hard day’s work. In all honesty, I have to admit I didn’t mind because he invariably would hump me hard from behind as soon as he was finished and usually did me twice before we even sat down at the table to eat. I generally consider Ralph to be my favorite husband of the three that I was allotted during my life span and I remember his wonderful spanking sessions with great fondness in this late stage of life.

I noticed that Mister Hodges, the financial advisor had a large paddle on the wall and I asked him what it signified.

“Well, Mrs. Johnson, I have to be frank and tell you with some degree of shame that I used that to discipline the new pledges to the fraternity. Of course, they were all men and I certainly didn’t use it on females under my responsibility.”

“I wonder if you have had any fantasies about using that paddle on a lady’s bottom just to teach her the basics about proper behavior. I am afraid that I have been a bad girl today and am in need of a correction. Do you think you might be able to give it to me with that huge thing, if I bend over the edge of your desk like this and close my eyes whilst you make me take ten good ones?”