Her Mother's Life In A Box free porn video

Two days after my mother's funeral, I got a call from a local number that wasn't in my contacts.
 
"Mrs. Lenoir? Mrs. Helen Lenoir?" a deep male voice asked.
 
"Yes, this is her. Who's asking?" I asked.
 
Clearing his voice, he started, "My name is Peter Benfort, I'm sorry for your loss. I'm deeply sorry. Your mother was an amazing woman..."
 
I interrupted him. He was talking like he knew my mother, but I've never heard his name, "I'm sorry. Do I know you? You seem to know my mother, but I have no idea who you are."
 
His voice became gentle, and I could feel he was smiling, "No, you don't know me, but I know you. Not personally I mean. Your mother and I have been friends since high school and... Listen, it's a long story to tell on the phone. Do you mind if we get together, let's say, for breakfast tomorrow? I have something for you. A box."
 
"A box? For me? From whom?" I asked.
 
And he answered, "From your mom. Is it okay to meet me at 9 at the Coffee Pot downtown?"
 
So, we agreed. Now I was a little nervous. Who was this guy that knew me, but whom I'd never heard of? And why did he have a box for me from my mother?
 
Needless to say, that night I couldn't sleep. I turned and turned, my head full of questions. Did I really know my mother? Was this guy a lover? Jeez... I gave up trying to sleep and got up to make herbal tea.
 
It was dark. The city lights were far away. No noise other than my heart drumming in my ears. Our house was on top of a hill and the 700 acres around were all ours and surrounded by a fence, so the privacy was guaranteed.
 
Finally, morning arrived, and I could get ready to meet Mr. Benfort.
 
As usual, I arrived early. I found a table in the corner and waited. I was trying to imagine his aspects, when a man approached the table, saying, "Helen! You look exactly like your mother!"
 
"Mr. Benfort, I presume," I said, not expecting him to be so tall, in good shape, with marks of his good nature around his eyes and mouth. I immediately liked him. He was handsome.
 
"Please, call me Peter," he said with a reassuring smile, holding out his hand.
 
He sat and I began talking, "I need to know everything, how did you know her, for how long, everything. Please."
 
"Yes darling. If you have time I intend to answer all your questions and more. But first..." he put a box on the table and unfastened a chain around his neck with a tiny key hooked to it, "This is yours. It's been around my neck for the past ten years."
 
I could feel the warmth of his skin on the metal of the key in my hand. I closed my fist and my eyes wondering what secrets were hiding in that box.
 
My thoughts were interrupted by his warm voice, "I can't answer all the questions until you'll open that box, but I can start telling you a few things.

"I met Diana in junior year when I moved here from Sacramento. We soon became… I can say, intimate, but your mother didn't want to marry me, so I never proposed. She wanted to keep our relationship a secret. She was surrounded by failed marriages and was afraid to lose me. She wanted to keep our friendship, our intimacy, and the excitement of our secret alive forever. I can't tell you if that was the right choice, but I can tell you that our relationship never got boring, the excitement has been as alive as the first day. Until her Alzheimer's overcame us. 

"I don't know if your father ever found out. I don't think so. He left with his secretary when you were ten. They moved away and your mother lost track of him, or probably never looked for him. But you already know this much. Ten years ago, a few days before you turned thirty, your mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. She made me promise to take care of you, closed our secrets in this box and gave me the key. I know what's inside, but I've never opened it.

"Now you go home, but before opening the box, I want a promise from you. Can you make a promise?"
 
With misty eyes and probably confusion, I asked, "What promise? I need to know the promise first."
 
He laughed and said, "Yes, you're like your mother. I want you to promise me to not judge us. Make yourself comfortable, turn off your phone, turn on some nice music, your mom's favorite, take your time, read everything, look at all the pictures. When you think you're ready to hear the whole story, give me a call," and he gave me a card with his name, address, and phone number.
 
With a faint voice, I asked, "Did you get married? Do you have a family?"
 
"Yes, I got married when I finished college and I have a son, Ryan, turning forty-two in a few days."
 
We talked about other things, like his work, my work, his son. When we were ready to say goodbye, I clasped the chain around my neck, and he smiled. I could fall in love with that charming smile.
 
I wasn't ready to open the box that day and for a few more days. It wasn't until the weekend that I felt ready. I did as Peter suggested, I turned off my phone, turned on my mother's favorite playlist of classical music, and I lit some candles around me.
 
I sat on the carpet leaning my back on the couch. I closed my eyes and started breathing deeply to connect with my mother.
 
No judging, "Keep the judgments out," she used to say when I was mad at some schoolmate.  
 
Opening the box, I could smell my mom’s perfume. She left a small piece of fabric with her perfume, Alien, her favorite. I could feel her beside me.
 
There was a letter in which she explained that she made this box before her disease took away her faculties, her abilities to remember. She explained the love she had for Peter. A love, a friendship nobody could ever take away. She was sure that a marriage could do that, take away the deep friendship, as it happened to all the people in her family.
 
There was a dry flower, the first flower Peter gave to her. A ring, a necklace, a handkerchief, a few letters written when they were apart during college years.
 
Everything was so delicately preserved. Each little memory in a Ziploc bag with the date and a note explaining the recurrence, the feelings. She allowed me to make them mine, but I didn't want to. Those were part of their story. But there was one that in my hand felt special; it was a stone kept in a metal holder, a pendant attached to a chain. During college, Peter visited Nepal and brought her this special stone from a sacred place. I immediately clasped it around my neck and felt like a caress on my cheek.
 
At the bottom of the box there was a thick envelope on which she wrote, Keep the judgment out of the fence, with her delicate handwriting.
 
Sipping my still warm tea, I slowly opened the envelope.
 
Inside there were pictures. Probably a hundred or more. Some, those in which my mom was very young, in black and white, then they became in colors. She was always alone in the pictures but clearly not alone in the room. She was beautiful. Not a perfect beauty, but beautiful, nonetheless.
 
In some pictures she was smiling, in others she was laughing, or serious, reading a book. Sometimes she was cooking or looking out of the window. In a few she was clearly reaching an orgasm, lucky her. But in all the pictures she was naked, or wearing a light, very transparent gown showing her nakedness underneath. She liked being naked at home and she taught me to be at ease with her and with my own nakedness. It was only around my father that she didn't feel comfortable.
 
I'm sure Peter was the photographer, and a very good one. I was jealous because I've never seen my mom so happy like she was in those pictures. But my jealousy was more for that kind of relationship, one that I’ve never found in any of my friends and partners.
 
There was one picture where she was crying, but I could see they were happy tears.
 
A couple of pictures showed a very pregnant mom.
 
Wait a minute! Oh my, was Peter my father? I couldn't believe it. I didn't think so, I didn't feel it, but the doubt was allowed.
 
Behind each picture there was a date and a reference to the moment.
 
There was one that I liked the most, she was dancing in candlelight. I’ve always loved to watch my mother dancing naked in candlelight. 
 
Then I found another smaller envelope, "My special Love". The handwriting wasn't hers. Peter? Of course. Inside were three pictures, one with my mother on the couch, one on the bed, one in the shower, all while masturbating. In the first two she was young, but the last one was taken eight years ago.
 
I had all those pictures on the carpet before me, and I cried. I missed her so much. I wanted so much to talk to her, about those pictures, about Peter, about their love. I was so jealous of them. They had something I've never been able to find for myself.
 
I finished my tea, staring at those pictures, unable to take my eyes away.
 
I fell asleep on the carpet, beside all those pictures and keeping my hand on the pendant.
 
I woke up at the first light of a new day with the content of the box on the carpet all around me.
 
What I'd discovered shocked me in a way but didn't surprise me. The shock came from their relationship, their intimacy, their deep love still alive even after so many years, even though they both followed different paths. And my mother's happiness. The airiness of my mother in those pictures didn't really surprise me.
 
On the other hand, I was disappointed and jealous. I wish I had known from her, I wished she had told me instead of leaving me a box. I wanted to be part of that world. Or better, I'd like to be able to create for myself a relationship like theirs, a relationship made of intimacy, airiness, love, happiness. All things that at forty I hadn’t found, yet. 
 
I wasn't ready to talk to Peter. I needed time to process and to elaborate all my feelings. And I was still wondering if Peter was my father or not. My mother always said - You look like your father - and for me it was obvious that Sean Lenoir was my father. Was he really?
 
I cleared the coffee table from all the trinkets and made room for the pictures. I sorted them by date to see my mother's changes in her body and her face. The first picture was taken the day she turned eighteen, the last one when she was fifty-nine, probably during one of her last moments of lucidity, one year before being admitted to the nursing home.
 
It took me almost a month to decide to call Peter and I called on a Friday evening.
 
He answered at the second ring, "Hello Helen. How are you doing?"
 
"Hello Peter. I'm sorry I didn't call sooner but I wasn't ready," I said, staring at the table with the pictures still there.
 
"I told you to take your time," he said in a calm, warm voice, and I could feel he was smiling. Then he added, "I'm pretty sure you have a few questions. Do you want to get together and talk?"
 
"Would it be okay for you to come here? Tomorrow for lunch? Oh, wait! Sorry, you have a wife and maybe it's inconvenient for you," I said, realizing he still had a wife who almost certainly knew nothing about all this.
 
He promptly answered, "My wife passed years ago. I'll be there by noon."
 
The day after, I opened the gate when I heard the buzzer. I greeted Peter with a hug. In his hands he was holding a colorful bouquet, "Thank you, but it wasn't necessary. I accept because I love flowers," I said giggling.
 
After some pleasantries, I was eager to ask the most important question, "Peter, forgive me for asking so abruptly, but I need to know one thing before anything else."
 
Before I could formulate my question, he stopped me saying, "No. I'm not your father. Was this the question?" Smiling.
 
"Yes. Thank you," I said, with a sigh of relief, “I mean, it’d be fine, but it’d be different, in my head.” Then I asked, "Do you want to see the pictures?"
 
His eyes suddenly humid, with a trembling voice he whispered, "Can I have a moment to see the pictures alone?"
 
I should have thought about it, "Sure. Come here, I'll show you where they are." I held his hand in mine feeling the warmth of his skin and guided him to the living room. Pointing the table, I said, "There, underneath the tablecloth. I ordered them by date. Take your time while I finish preparing lunch. No rush," and I kissed his moistened cheek.

He hugged me and whispered in my ear, "You are a special woman, just like her," returning the peck.
 
With a corner of my eye, from the kitchen I could see Peter staring at the pictures and lost in his memories.
 
We had lunch in the kitchen. The conversation was light, but it allowed us to know each other better. He liked movies and books, like me, and like my mother.
 
"I hope you're not scandalized by the pictures. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” he said, relishing the risotto I made.
 
"Not at all. It's not that," I answered, taking a few seconds to collect my thoughts, "After my father left, being just the two of us, my mother decided it was right to feel comfortable in the privacy of our house. So, we used to live naked or almost. It's not the nakedness, but your intimacy, your love. I have mixed feelings. I wish I could find what you had together, that airiness, that passion, that love. But also, I wonder why she never told me about you. Finding the truth in a box is not the same as hearing it from her voice," my voice broke from the lump in my throat.
 
Taking his time, relishing the roast beef, he replied, "At the beginning, she thought you were too young and inexperienced. She thought you needed to be more mature to understand without judging, but the time passed, and when she got the diagnosis and she knew that, at the time you'd be ready, she wouldn't be able to tell you the story anymore.

"That last picture, the one taken when she was fifty-nine. That was one of her last, rare clear moments. That day I asked her to talk to you, together. We wanted to wait until you'd be back from Alaska, but it was too late, remember? The nurse called asking you to come back, and when you arrived, she was lost and never came back to the present."
 
I remembered. When I arrived, my mother didn't know who I was. The day after she was fine, enough to ask me to admit her to the nursing home she'd already booked. I waited until Monday morning, and I drove her there. That was the last time she recognized who I was, and it lasted less than an hour.
 
We continued talking in the living room.
 
"Peter, you are an amazing photographer. You caught all the details of her expression, the light."
 
We talked for hours. I felt so comfortable in his presence. I talked freely about my inability to have a steady relationship, to love, and, most of all, to clear my mind enough to have an orgasm during sex. He said that only with the right partner would I be able to relax enough.
 
He left when it was already dark outside, with the promise to keep in touch.
 
On Monday morning I was in my office when I got a call from Peter. “Good morning, Helen, I hope you're not busy.“
 
“I am busy, but I need a good distraction.”
 
“Can I invite you to dinner Friday night? We can go out or we can eat here. I'm a good cook.”
 
Interesting. Very interesting. The day was suddenly getting exciting and hot.
 
Hot? Exciting? C'mon Helen, he could be your father. “I'd love it. Give me the address, I could be there by six thirty”
 
“Good. Bring a dessert, I'm not good at that.”
 
I was excited, like a girl invited to the prom. Get a life, girl!
 
On the drive there, I was imagining him excited to see me and aroused thinking about me. Really? Why should he be aroused? Oh my, I had it bad.
 
His house was warm, well decorated but cozy. I was nervous but he did well, putting me at ease. Talking with him was relaxing... or was it the wine?
 
After dinner we went for a short walk, and he showed me his land. He had horses and he promised to teach me how to ride. Back inside he started a fire and we had dessert with brandy, on the carpet in front of the fireplace. I wanted to stop time. I wished the night could last forever. I could feel why my mother fell in love with this charming man.
 
In the distance I heard a clock bell hitting eleven dongs.
 
"Eleven already? Oh my! I'm sorry. I better go home now," I said, not really convinced.
 
Placing his hand on mine, he said calmly, "Are you sure you can drive? You had wine and brandy. If you want, I have an extra bedroom," pointing to a closed door in the hallway.
 
I tried to convince him I was fine to drive, and it wasn't a very long drive, but when I got up, my head was spinning, and I lost balance. He laughed, hard, and he couldn't really stop laughing, and it was contagious. So, we both laughed uncontrollably.
 
Once we recovered our breathing, holding my hand, he led me to a closed room. A cozy bedroom with a bathroom attached and a glass wall viewing his land, I think. It was dark so I wasn't sure.
 
He showed me where to find towels, he brought me a new toothbrush and a big t-shirt, "This is all I have, sorry," he said approaching the window to close the curtains.
 
"No please, don't close them. I like to wake up with the light of the day. Thank you for letting me stay. You shouldn't have bothered. I'll leave as soon as I get up in the morning and I'll take the sheets with me to wash them," I said quickly, feeling nervous, excited, and tired, or tipsy.
 
And he started laughing again, "Seriously? You'll leave first thing in the morning? And you'll wash the sheets? Hilarious!" Then he got closer, and closer. He held my hands in his and I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face, "Helen, please don't go home. I hope you'll be still here tomorrow morning when I get up. I want to show you my land in the light and," he paused, closing his eyes, inhaling, exhaling, then continued, "I like having you around. Please stay. Now, goodnight sweetie," he said, placing a kiss on my forehead and leaving the room, closing the door behind him.
 
That kiss irradiated a warmth that lasted for the whole night.
 
I went to sleep wearing the t-shirt. I generally sleep in the nude, but that t-shirt was his and it felt like he was hugging me.
 
My heart was beating fast, preventing me from sleeping. I was still feeling his kiss on my forehead, his hands on mine, the warmth of his breath on my face, his scent on the t-shirt. I felt the excitement growing inside and my pussy felt wet and taut.
 
With the blanket up to my chin, I let my hands touch my body. My breast first, then down to my belly, and my pussy. In the silence and darkness, I could hear the wetness noise, moving my finger up and down from my clit to my entrance. I reached the release in a few minutes imagining it was Peter's finger, not mine. I made peace with myself. There was nothing I could do about the age difference. I was falling hard for this man so much older than me, but so young inside, smart, and so charming. 
 
I woke up with the warmth of the sun on my face. I stretched my body, and I was immediately happy recalling all the feelings of the previous evening.
 
I heard noises coming from the kitchen, followed by the delicious smell of coffee, and I heard whistling. So, I wasn't the only one happy.
 
As is my habit, I got up and went to the kitchen. When I saw how Peter looked at me, I realized I had his t-shirt on, and nothing else. I apologized and turned to go to put something else on.
 
"Don't worry about me," he said, stopping me, "You are Diana's daughter, I know how comfortable you are in the nude. Besides, If I can say it, I like the view," he said, examining me head to toe, and then turning around toward the stove, "Would you like some breakfast? I made hash browns."
 
"I'd love some, and coffee, a big cup of strong coffee, please," I said, feeling the excitement of the night before pervading my body.
 
"Bacon? Eggs?" he asked, with his killer smile.
 
"No eggs, but, well, I can't say no to bacon!" I said, hearing my stomach making weird noises. Then I said, "You know, you should be fined for that smile!"
 
"Is that so?" he said ironically, slightly turning his head, smiling, of course.
 
He placed the breakfast on the table and sat in front of me. Together we started eating, in silence. The silence wasn't embarrassing, it was relaxing, warm. And I realized I've never felt so at ease other than in my house, alone. Even with my boyfriends I always felt the need to fill the silence and couldn't wait to be alone. Here, with Peter, I felt at home. But I also needed his hands on me. 
 
I had to change the thread of my thoughts, so I said, "I'd like to see your horses, but I need to change clothes. I was thinking of going home, putting on something more appropriate, and coming back. That is if you don't have other plans for the day," and I added, "Mm, by the way, these hash browns are amazing!"
 
"Thank you," he replied. Then said, "Can I ask you something without being misunderstood?"
 
With my mouth full of bacon and hash browns, I said, "Of course."
 
"Ehm, well, is it inappropriate if I ask you to spend the weekend here? I like having company. Well, I like having your company. I feel less lonely with you around."
 
Giggling I replied, "Inappropriate? Why would you think that? I'd like that. A lot actually. Then I'll go home, take a shower, pack a few things, and I'll be back in a jiffy. You won't even notice my absence!"
 
Clearing the table, smiling, he whispered "That's not possible. I will notice your absence."
 
I got ready and I was heading to the car when he called out to say, "Would you mind packing your stuff and taking your shower here? Don't get me wrong, it's just that you'll be back sooner, and I'd like to know you're using my shower. Am I a pervert?"
 
I had to think for a moment. Not because I thought he was a pervert, but because if I had followed my instincts at that moment, I'd have run to hug and kiss him. Then it'd have been me the pervert, "Okay, I'll be back in less than thirty minutes."
 
Excited like a teenager, I ran home, packed a few essential things, some comfortable clothes in case we went riding, my laptop, and headed back. On the way back I thought about my mom. Would she be mad at me for falling in love with her lover? Was this all wrong? Was this real love or just the need of love and physical contact? Or was it just the need to have what they had? Parking in his driveway, I decided I wouldn't find the answer in that instant, but maybe it'd come at the end of the weekend.
 
I got out of the car and saw Peter there, at the door, waiting. Chuckling, I asked, "Did you wait there the whole time?"
 
He laughed with me, hugged me, and said, "I missed you."
 
That hug left me all mushy inside.
 
Once I dropped my bag on the bed, I took a shower and put on blue jeans, a shirt with a nice cleavage, and boots. Oopsy, I forgot to put my panties on, bad girl! I thought, smiling at my naughtiness.
 
"Are you ready to meet Chopin, Pirate, and La Bella?" he asked from the couch, folding the newspaper he was reading.
 
"Interesting names. Not sure about Pirate unless he looks like Johnny Depp. Chopin and La Bella sound more suitable to me," I replied.
 
"Let's go and I'll explain the names,” he said, holding out his hand to hold mine, and I let him do that. I loved the feeling of my hand in his.
 
Walking toward the stable I said, "Peter, I need to ask you a question hoping to have not misread you, but I need to be sure."
 
"Shoot," he promptly replied.
 
"Peter, you said a few things that confused me. Like when you said you like to have me around, or that you missed me, things like that. I just want you to understand that I'm not my mother. I could look like her, act like her sometimes," I stopped walking and turned to look him in the eyes and continued, "But in the end I'm a different person; I'm me. You know what I mean? I have my own feelings and I don't want you to play with them."
 
He placed his hands on my shoulder, pretty close to my neck, and I could feel the warmth of his skin.
 
"Helen, I know very well you're not Diana. I loved Diana with all my heart and when she died, part of me died with her. But meeting you was a totally new experience, a new feeling. I'm not going back in time, I'm moving forward, and I hope I can do that with you beside me. I know, there are more than twenty years between us, but if there's something I've learned with Diana, it is that judgement is for empty people, for people who don't want to deal with their own lives. I don't care about people's judgement if I'm happy, and if you are."
With his thumbs he was caressing my cheeks. "Can you do that? Are you feeling like I'm feeling?" he then asked, trying to read something inside my eyes.
 
My eyes got misty, my stomach was a knot of butterflies, my whole body longed for his touch. I hugged him and whispered, "You have no idea."
 
Then he gently stroked my face, I nestled in it, and closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of his breath getting closer and closer, until I felt his lips touching mine. And that was a sensation that emptied my head completely. It was a brief kiss, but enough to make my knees weak and he had to hold me up.
 
Chuckling he then said, "You're distracting me. I need to feed my horses. Let's go. So, Pirate is a Morgan but born with a defect, a white spot around his eye so it's not good for breeding, but he's the gentlest horse. Chopin is a wild horse from Corolla Beach. I found her bleeding from a flank. With a friend we cured her, but she was wild. One day the guy who helps me to keep the stable clean, was whistling a Chopin music and she kind of kissed him. So, we figured she liked the music. La Bella, well, you'll see why I gave her that name".
 
La Bella was an Akhal Teke, probably the most beautiful breed in the world. "Unfortunately, my son is the only person who can ride her. And he lives in Arkansas now. He's building a ranch and will bring her there," Peter said, stroking her nose and giving her a carrot.
 
He gave me Pirate and taught me how to brush his mane, his coat, how to set the saddle and reins, and he taught me to ride, "Jeez, it's high up here. I have vertigo!" I said, a little scared.
 
By lunchtime I was tired, happy, excited, stinky, and hungry.
 
Heading back home Peter asked me, "Are you one of those picky girls who don't eat meat, don't eat cheese, and so on?"
 
"Did you notice me at breakfast? I ate all your bacon,” I replied, giggling.
 
"Right. So, what do you think if we eat a burger and then I take you out for dinner?" he asked, placing his arm around my shoulders.
 
"Okay about burgers, but I'm not much for eating out." I said, "I'm sure we can find something for tonight. But first I think a shower would make me good."
 
"Want company?" he said, winking and holding me closer against him.
 
I didn't know how to answer. Yes, but better not? No and stop? Yes please?
 
Accepting my silence, he said, "I was kidding, I didn't mean to embarrass you."
 
"You didn't, Peter. You have no idea how much I'd love that. But I think we better go slow and let the desire grow. I want our bodies and souls to be at ease with each other, don't you agree?"
 
After a few seconds, holding the door open to let me in, he said, "Okay, but I want to ask you a favor; after the shower, can you put on my shirt? That will make my desire grow, really fast!"
 
I looked at him and I said, "Kiss me. Hard, and my desire will grow with yours." And he did. He kissed me. Gently at first, on my lips. Then with his tongue he licked my lower lip, and I opened my mouth for him. He entered with his tongue, gently, then he pulled me hard against his mouth and our tongues made love.
 
After a few minutes, or hours, I don't know, we stopped the kissing and he said, "Time for that shower. I need a cold one. Go! Hurry!" he said, placing a light pat on my butt.
 
As he requested, I put his shirt on, with panties this time.
 
In the kitchen he was making the patties. He was wearing a pair of worn blue jeans and a shirt, no shoes and no socks.
 
What was it about jeans that made that man's butt so sexy? It had my hands itchy to touch that butt.
 
"I make mine with cheese and onions," he said, startling me from my dirty thoughts.
 
"How did you know I was here?" I was puzzled.
 
"I can feel your presence. How do you like the burger?" he said.
 
We had dinner and after dinner we sat on the couch with country music in the background, the fire, and some brandy.
 
I liked talking with him and listening to his stories. He had a very good life and travelled a lot.
 
After a moment in which none of us were talking, he put a hand on my knee, stroking it with his thumb. I said nothing and didn't stop him. I didn't want to. I let him take the first step.
 
He looked at me with his killer smile and I felt something growing inside. I got up on my knees and I straddled him, holding his face in my hands. I looked straight into his misty, dark eyes, glittering with excitement. I slowly went down to sit on his lap. I could feel his hard cock twitching against my panties-covered pussy.
 
"Is that a rabbit in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?" I whispered against his mouth.
 
"Pretty sure I don't have a rabbit!" he answered right before making love with my mouth with a passion I never experienced before.
 
"As much as I'd love to take you right here on the couch or on the floor, for our first time I prefer the bed," he said, holding me tight and standing up with my pussy still in contact with his cock, although through clothes.
 
We reached his bedroom, and I noticed a big king size bed. He put me down, pulled down the comforter and turned on a little lamp and breathlessly explained, "I want to see you. All of you."
 
I pulled off his shirt to unveil a hairless and muscular chest and abdomen. I couldn't avoid touching and kissing him there.
 
"Mm, I love the view," I said between kisses.
 
"Stop or it'll be over faster than you'd like," he said, pushing me away.
 
I unfastened his jeans and slid my hand between jeans and briefs.
 
"I said stop, please. Helen, it's been... a long time. I'm afraid I won't last long enough. Please, let me take care of you," he said while pulling off my shirt and unveiling my braless big breasts and blue lace panties, "I love the view as well. Very much."
He bent down and with his tongue circled my nipple, first one, then the other.
 
I let my head fall back, sighing. The pleasure was immense. I felt my nipple filling his mouth and the sucking was so incredibly erotic. My knees got weak, and I had to hold on his broad shoulders to stand.
 
He then moved to the other nipple, leaving the first one wet and stiff.
 
After that he moved down leaving a wet path with his tongue. He squatted down and with his tongue traced a path along the hem of my panties.
 
He pulled down my panties and pushed his nose against my mound. Seriously? I always thought it was disgusting. Nobody ever liked my smell.
 
"You are so incredibly sexy, and your scent is so erotic," he said, breathless. 
 
I couldn't answer. I didn't have an answer, my brain was a mass of gelatin. His hands were stroking my butt underneath the panties.
 
"Peter? I'm about to fall on the floor," I said, sighing.
 
Still stroking my butt, he gently pushed me toward the bed and helped me down, kissing me passionately. He pulled down his jeans and briefs to free a big and very hard cock, twitching happily. He lay down beside me, kissed me, stroked my breast and pinched my nipple. "Helen, you are so beautiful."

Then, kissing, licking, and sucking my nipple, he moved the hand down to my belly, to my mound to brush my hair. With his hand he pulled my legs apart and his finger slid between my puffy lips. I could hear my wetness. His finger was going up and down from my clit to my entrance, just like I was imagining the night before. He stopped his finger at my entrance, circling it.
 
"Jeez, you're killing me," I moaned breathlessly.
 
He chuckled. A deep, husky chuckle, and said, "If I continue, I can't stop. If you want me to stop, you better say it now."
 
"You gotta be kidding me," I shouted, I think. I placed my hand on top of his and pushed his finger inside my pussy, moaning and pulling my hips toward his finger.
 
"I love you, Helen," he said just before kissing me.
 
At that point I was all gelatin inside, unable to think but only to feel and enjoy what was happening to me.
 
Suddenly I felt my body stiffening, and immediately after I started spasming, feeling a hot fluid sliding down between my butt's cheeks, rocking my hips to his hand, moaning.
 
When I recovered my breathing and my consciousness, I whispered, "So that's what it's like"
 
"What? What do you mean? You never had an orgasm before?" he asked puzzled, looking at me, his finger still inside my pussy.
 
"Well, I came. I thought I had orgasms. But... but this? This is another story. This... I want it more," I said, pulling him up, on top of me.
 
He was laughing and, still puzzled, said, "My love, this is just the beginning. You'll beg me to stop."
 
And I laughed with him. He didn't know what he was getting into! “Not gonna happen.”
 
He lowered his face to kiss me and whispered, "I'm sorry you never had a real orgasm, but I'm happy I'm the one to show you." With that said, I felt his cock touching the entrance of my pussy. I moved my hand down to touch it and I wrapped it in my hand. It felt warm, smooth, and big. I squeezed gently and stroked.

"Girl, you better stop this," he said, sighing and moving my hand away.
 
I felt a little pressure right at my entrance and suddenly he exclaimed, "Christ! You distracted me! I don't have a condom. And if I had, it would be long expired. Do you have one?"
 
"We don't need it, I'm taking the pill and I'm safe. Go ahead," I said, almost begging, longing his cock inside my pussy.
 
Kissing me, he gently but firmly, pushed his cock, stretching my pussy.
 
I pulled up my knees allowing a deeper penetration. Instinctively I pushed my hips toward him, and I exhaled, "Ah, amazing." That earned me another kiss and another push.
 
Together we found a rhythm that satisfied us both. At least for a few minutes.
 
"Helen?" he whispered breathlessly.
 
"Yes?" I said, while moving my hands on his butt's cheeks, squeezing, and pushing him closer against me.
 
"I'm almost there. I'm sorry, maybe next time I'll last longer, but now I really can't," he said, struggling to hold back.
 
"Oh, yes. Please go!" I begged, rocking my hips up and quickening our rhythm.
 
I liked his scent, touching his sweaty skin, looking at his expression in the throes of an orgasm. I felt him thrusting harder and deeper. I could feel his cock inside me in all its length and width, stretching me. I wanted that moment to last forever, but I knew I couldn't, and I let go.
 
My legs wrapped around his hips, my hands on his back, I suddenly got still for a few seconds, then I started shaking, gasping, and an amazing feeling of freedom, of entirety seeped in my soul leaving me worn-out, but happy like never before.
 
So, I finally had what my mother and Peter had?
 
We took a nap, had a quick dinner, accompanied with a good dose of kissing, and touching.
 
During the all-time, Peter filled me with love and sex and made me discover two or three levels of orgasm.
 
We fell asleep exhausted. I woke up in the middle of the night with Peter's face between my legs while he was eating my pussy.
 
"Oh jeez. I'm gonna die." That was fantastic. When he pushed his tongue inside my pussy, I thought I could see angels smiling at me. With his hands he was holding my puffy lips open and with his thumb he was stroking my clit. I came hard, in his mouth. Then I felt a warm liquid dripping down between my cheeks. It was a mix of my juices and his saliva. It was so erotic that I came again.
 
With Peter, I discovered new levels of intimacy, of love, of acceptance. I discovered the difference between erotism and sex. I became addicted to him.
 
I stole my mother’s love and I made it mine. What she wasn’t brave enough to do was to live their love in its wholeness. I was probably braver because after a few weeks, I moved to Peter’s ranch, despite his son's initial complaints because he couldn't accept that his father's girlfriend was younger than him. But then he spent a weekend with us, he got to know me better and, on Sunday night, just before going back to his ranch with La Bella, he had to admit that we were right for each other, “Thank you for loving him and to take care of him,” Ryan said, hugging me.

Sometimes I still feel my mother beside me. I don’t know if she’s angry because I took Peter from her, or if she’s happy because I took Peter from her.

“You didn’t steal anything from anybody, you took what is yours. The day I saw you at the funeral, I knew I was already yours. I just gave you the time to realize that yourself,” Peter said to me at the end of that weekend together.

Tomorrow we are going to celebrate our twentieth anniversary and Ryan and his family are coming to celebrate with us. We love to have our big family around. I am sixty and I already am a great grandma.

And this story will be tucked in my own box. I have nobody to give my box to; maybe Lizzie, Ryan’s youngest daughter who is now thirty-five.