Her name was Camelia. It was such an old fashioned Southern name that fit her perfectly. For most of her adult life, she had taught music at a local school but after her husband passed away, she abruptly quit her job and began teaching piano to students in her home.

"It's not because of the students," she once told me. "It's the paperwork and the lack of support from the administration. I"m sixty and just can't see myself hanging on there even another week."

And why should she? She and her husband had worked hard and invested well. Finances were not a worry for her.

So five days a week, young boys and girls filed in and out of her front door with sheet music stuck under their arms. Music, it seemed, became the backdrop of our neighborhood. At any given time, Mozart or Ravel could be heard wafting over the backyard fences.

When my wife was at home dying of cancer, she always wanted her window opened just a crack just so she could hear the melodies (no matter how badly they were sometimes performed.)

She died in April at the age of twenty-nine. Camelia brought a pan of chicken spaghetti over after the funeral. She sat on the sofa and cried - partly for my loss and partly for her own. Then, she went home to her empty house and I remained home alone in mine.

For the months that followed, I threw myself into my work - often not arriving home until late at night. Before going to bed, I would have a single glass of wine while standing on the back deck looking up at the stars and licking the wounds of loneliness. More times than not, Camelia would be sitting on her deck as well with her hands folded in her lap listening to the comforting sounds of nature.

She was still a striking woman in my opinion. Gray, shoulder-length hair and hardly a wrinkle on her face with the exception of some crow's feet which actually accentuated her sparkling blue eyes in a positive way. Of course, being the academic that she was, fashionable, black horn-rimmed glasses were almost always perched half-way on her nose. Her figure was (for a woman her age) slightly "padded" as one might expect but her extra weight was well distributed mostly to her breasts, hips, and bottom.

On those occasions when our lives passed in the night, we always acknowledged each other's presence. I, with a gentlemanly lift of my wine glass and she with a genteel lowering of her head. But we rarely if ever spoke. Each of us was living in our own world of being the "surviving spouse."

One particular Fall evening, however, as I was sipping my wine, I looked over, and there she was, as predictable as ever. I raised my glass as always but this time she did something unexpected. She lifted her own wine glass in the air and then turned it upside down to show that it was empty.

I laughed - at first not immediately taking the hint. Then it struck me. She was inviting me over, or was she? I really was not sure. I watched as she got up and went indoors. I stood there for a moment and wondered what I should do.  'I'd better just finish my wine and go to bed,' I said to myself. 'But what if she is over there - waiting for me - expecting me to bring her a glass of wine?' I thought.

Against my better judgment, I went inside, grabbed the bottle of wine, and made my way out the front door. Within less than a minute I was standing outside her house in the light of her front porch. Just as I was about to ring the doorbell, the door opened.

"Just what I needed!" She said greeting me with a kiss on the cheek.

"Yes, I brought wine," I said showing her the bottle.

"That is NOT what I need, Grant." she replied taking the bottle from my hand and setting it on the foyer table. "I need to remember that I am alive," she added as she moved closer and buried her face against my chest.

We were very different people and I was a man half her age. Yet, none of that mattered at that moment. We both were crippled from the same deep loss and we both needed to feel the closeness of human touch again. She was right. I needed to feel alive again as well.

With our passion set ablaze, I devoured her mouth with my own as she led me down the hall to her bedroom, walking backward all the way.

After that, it was what can only be described as a crazy whirlwind of lust and determined fucking. We fell into her bed and she immediately forced my head down between her legs where I was met with an unkempt bush of soft gray hair. "Hurry," she said, so I buried my mouth on her and began to eat her soft folds with my teeth. "Oh, yes! Do that!" she sang as she dug her nails into my shoulders until I thought I might bleed. "That feels so good."

I quickly understood that she loved a man's tongue on her pussy so I took my time and feasted on her like a starving man. She savored every moment of my oral madness until finally taking my cock in hand and guiding it deep into her warm center.

"Do it hard," she whispered. "You can't hurt me." The way she told me what she wanted excited me even more. With hard thrusts, I plowed her until my balls slapped hard against her ample bottom.

Each thrust I gave her was a calculated impalement of her body. If she wanted it hard - she would get it hard. But I soon discovered that she was as indestructible as she was insatiable. "Deeper, harder, come on give it to me," she demanded as her nails dug scarlet trails down my back. Her large breasts bounced hard against her chin each time I pounded her. When I would start to cum, she would know it instinctively and would grab the base of my cock and squeeze it tight - looking me right in the eye. "Don't you dare!" she said - forbidding me to deny her the last ounce of her satisfaction.

When she sensed that the urge had subsided, she would release her grip and start again - bucking her hips upward, drawing me in. We made love like that for hours - up to the edge and back again. Fucking like animals who knew no rules. Our only rule was the law of nature's impulse. We each took what we wanted until finally, she pushed me aside, slid down, and took my swollen member in her mouth. With a few strokes of her hand, I emptied my semen into her eager mouth until it oozed from between her lips.

"Ohhh, that's so good," she purred as she licked my cum from between her fingers as if it was cake icing.

She was still asleep when I left that next morning and that night, when I went out on the deck, she was there as I knew she would be. And as always, I lifted my wine glass in a gentlemanly way. And she lifted hers...  and then turned it upside down and laughed.

Oh yes, there would be beautiful music in the neighborhood again tonight.