Summary of this Story:
I sat in John’s office on Elmwood Drive in Scottsdale, staring into the camera’s red light as I recorded my Last Will and Testament. At 73, married to 23-year-old Miranda, I detailed bequests: fifty thousand dollars each to grandchildren on their twenty-first birthdays, debts cleared for my kids, five hundred thousand plus a world trip for Mama Sue, my devoted housekeeper and nurse. The balance went to Miranda, acknowledging our explicit deal, she’d enriched my final decade with her insatiable desires. Back home in our ranch house, Mama Sue changed my soiled Depends, catheterized me, and nursed from her breast. That night, Miranda straddled my face after her gangbang birthday party, her bruised ass from nineteen swats pressing down as I cleaned her, our twisted gratitude sealing the bond amid my frailty.
Here is your Story: The Will Etched in Gratitude and Desire
Tom Petty, Wrong Thing to Do
“Is the camera on?” I asked, though I could see the little red light staring back.
“It is,” John said. My lawyer for decades.
I took a deep breath. Cleared my throat. “My name is David Morgan.” I looked straight into the lens. Then I rattled off the details, Social Security number, legal address on Elmwood Drive in Scottsdale, date of birth.
The Will
“I am, as they say, of sound mind and body.” I read from my script. “I’ve provided a copy of a recent cognitive evaluation to Mr. Fredericks for the transcript. This recording constitutes my Last Will and Testament. Mr. Fredericks will prepare the formal document. This supports it against any contests.”
I smiled at the camera. “Let me add this. Once, driving across eastern Colorado, I heard Bruce Williams on late-night radio. He told a caller about inheritances: give your children enough to do something but not enough to do nothing.”
I paused for effect. Smiled again. “Sooooooo, to each grandchild, fifty thousand dollars. Indexed to inflation, so they get today’s equivalent on their twenty-first birthday. No reason they should pay for politicians’ stupidity.”
“For both children, pay off their debts. Mortgages, car loans, credit cards, whatever Mr. Fredericks finds. They start fresh.”
“For Mama Sue, Susan Aisha Washington, my cook, housekeeper, nanny lately, five hundred thousand dollars. Plus that world trip she’s wanted for twenty years, paid separate. Mama Sue, no more work. You’ve earned it.”
A dozen more bequests followed. Nephew gets the restored ’53 Chevy pickup. Another gets my guitars.
“Finally, my wife Miranda receives the balance.” I leaned back. Sipped water from the Aquafina bottle. Smiled. “For any attorney attacking this Will: I know a 23-year-old beauty didn’t fall for my 73-year-old ass. I’ve always known what she wanted. Happy to give it. She’s made my last decade better than I dreamed. This pays for services rendered. Mr. Fredericks says add this against claims of false pretenses.”
Deep breath, shaky after all the talking. “No false pretenses. I get our deal. Welcome it. Revel in it. Appreciate it more than house or money.”
I waved at John. Held my boardroom stare till the red light blinked out.
“Okay, John, anything else?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “I’ll write it up. Send Shirley for your signature. Have a witness ready.”
I laughed that old-man cackle. “Always someone around. Thanks, John.” To Miranda: “Let’s go home, Baby.”
She’d waited off-camera. Helped me stand. Fetched the walker. “Thank you, Daddy.” That smile. Hours in the mirror, I figured.
“You deserve it, Baby.” I took her kiss. Patted that perfect ass.
At home, a one-level ranch house on a big lot in an upscale Scottsdale neighborhood, Miranda walked me in. Mama Sue greeted us. Three hundred pounds of her, 60 years old, skin so dark no overseer ever touched the bloodline. She’d told me about her great-great-great-great-grandmother off a slaver ship in Mobile, Middle Passage survivor.
Miranda handed me off. Talked over me. “How’d he do?”
“Fine. Needs changing.”
Mama Sue giggled. Wrinkled her nose. “Sure does.”
“Okay, Daddy.” Miranda waited while I focused. Brain lagged the body again. “I’m late. Mama Sue’s got you. Home later.”
I smiled for her kiss. Took Mama Sue’s hand. She wheeled the walker to its spot by the door. “Come on, Master Dave.” Faux antebellum drawl. Silly. She had a Master’s in Geriatric Nursing, culinary school, read Hawking and Gibbon. Told her it was dumb a hundred times. Ivory smile every time. I liked it too.
Bedroom. She undressed me like a kid. Arthritic fingers would’ve fumbled the shirt buttons. She did it. Lifted me to the bed edge. Shoes, socks off. Stood me up. Zipped down slacks. Left me in Depends.
Hated them. Better than diapers.
“Okay, Master Dave.” Thumbs in the waistband. Peeled them down. “Hooooeeeee.” Scarlett’s house slave voice. “Messy boy.”
No embarrassment left. Just stupid. Faint shit smell got past my nose anyway. Old age sucks.
“Stay still. Mama Sue’ll clean you.” Pat on the head. Into the bathroom.
I stood there. Mess. Humiliation. She came back fast, two warm wet towels, one dry.
“Okay, Babyboy.” On her knees. Wiped ass, legs. First towel to the hamper, dead shot.
Next, thorough. Crack to the bottom. Balls. Dick. Stirred a bit. She giggled. Patted. “For Miss Miranda, Master Davey.”
“I know, Mama Sue.” Blush hit. “Can’t help it.”
She smiled. Finished dick, pubes. Stood. “I know, Babyboy.” Forehead kiss. “Need to pee?”
Prostate like a baseball. Stream never starts right. “Yes.”
“Let’s fix it.” Back with sealed pack, big cloth diaper. Old-school soft square, folded triangle on the sheet. Lifted my 110 pounds. Centered me.
Care and Comfort
“Okay, Babyboy.” She liked this. Tore the pack. Long elastic tube, rounded tip. Poured lube from the container. Dropped end in bedside trash.
“Okay, Honey.” Fingers on my dick. “Deep breath.”
Inhaled deep. Pressure as she slid it in. Bladder drained. Fingertips massaged low belly, above pubes. Emptied me full.
“Careful, Mama Sue. Might react.”
Giggle. “Don’t you wish, naughty boy.”
I laughed. Felt something.
“Okay, Babyboy.” Smiling. Pulled diaper corners, two below bellybutton, third between legs. Adjusted tube. Oversized safety pin.
“Don’t stick me.”
Deep throat chuckle. “Good boys don’t get stuck.”
She climbed on the bed. Repositioned us. Unbuttoned blouse. Nursing bra flap. Offered nipple.
Latched like a baby at a wet nurse. Warm sweet milk beat any wine. Suckled till I jerked awake from dozing.
She smiled. Fixed the flap. Off the bed, heavy but smooth. Lip kiss. Forehead. Tucked me in. Lights out. Gone.
Milk beat Ambien. Two minutes, asleep.
Fingertips woke me. Tickling arms, face, nipples, belly. Light sleeper now. Sex smell thick, her pheromones, semen, saliva, booze. Stir low, the one I craved.
“Tell me.” Eyes shut. Enjoying it.
“Ask nicely.” Lips at my ear. Warm puffs.
Smile in the dark. Our game, ten years married. She was 33. Nympho, real deal. Needs multiples to climax. Knew upfront. Love indulging. Love her waking me post-fuck. Closest I get at 83. Vicarious? Damn grateful.
“Please, Miranda. Tell me tonight.”
Giggle. Kiss. Crusty semen on her cheek, nose brushed it. Hair matted same.
“How many?”
“Birthday party.” Kisses between words. “Twenty-eight.”
She waited. “First?”
“Birthday spanking.” Giggle.
“Swats?”
“Nineteen. No jailbait.”
Soft laugh. “Then?”
“He spanked me. All got a swat.” Giggle. “Good? Check my ass for bruise tomorrow.”
I pulled details. Knees after spankings. Two in hands, one mouth. Cum on face, tits, her way.
“Make it?”
“No.” Frustrated voice. “Close.”
Next three hours. Vaginal, anal, oral. Six at once in waves: top one vaginally, behind same, anal third, hands fourth-fifth, mouth sixth.
“Lick him clean?” Big guy hurt her ass.
“Course.” Kissed my mouth. Lips that cleaned shit-dick.
“May I clean you?”
“Yes, Daddy.” Straddled reverse, knees pinning ribs-arms. Lowered pussy to face.
Kissed the leak first. Semen, her scent. Shook head No-style, buried deep.
This fixed us. She needs gangs for orgasm. Me? Tongue after talk does it.
Mouth filled, her squirt, their loads. Drank it.
Done, she relaxed. Turned. Kiss. Asleep like a kid.
“I love you.” Soft. Then me.
Dreams: young, virile. Us together. At 83, dreams do it. Mama Sue’s diaper crinkled once under me. Morning light hit the bedside clock at 7:15, its digital numbers glowing steady. Miranda snored soft against my shoulder, one leg thrown over the walker propped in the corner. I patted her thigh, felt the faint bruise from last night’s swats rising under my palm. John would call soon about the will papers. The Aquafina bottle sat half-empty on the nightstand, cap loose. Mama Sue’s footsteps shuffled down the hall toward the kitchen.
