Eighty-five, alone; Lillian is cautious. Who's at her door? Pranksters, robbers, Mormons?
Frank would've been amused – intrepid Lillian afraid! She misses him; he'd loved her well, with his mouth when nothing else cooperated.
Lillian contemplates the neighboring old-timer, a widower. She imagines him here, wildflowers in hand. Would he be shocked to know she's wondered how his long white hair would feel if she held it as he spread her upon the crocheted bedspread, fucking her hard, making up for the lonely years?
Finally responding, she finds an empty doorstep.
'Maybe next time,' Lillian thinks, closing the door.
Originally appeared in Cream: The Best of The Erotica Readers And Writers Association - CLICK TO BUY NOW