“My condolences. If I can do anything, just ask. You have such a lovely home,” or variations thereof, were the prevailing, soothing comments. At least the funeral was an open-casket wake.

Widowed before I’d turned forty, the implications hadn’t yet sunk in. It wasn’t my fault; I shouldn’t have blamed myself, yet I felt terribly guilty. My husband had been out of state, attending a business convention with Stacy, and the rented car he’d been driving drifted left of center. The oncoming semi obliterated the vehicle, leaving no survivors. Rumors swelled, but even widowed, a good wife looks out for her belated husband. Their affair was buried along with them.

I submerged myself in the details, ensuring that everything was absolutely perfect. Robotically, I scrubbed and sanitized everything I could find. My house sparkled, the funeral home was pristine, and everything from the initial viewing to the wake had the Mary Anne touch and attention to detail that Mike would have appreciated. When it was all over, grief began.

My husband had been an executive, so, at the very least, his life insurance and retirement policies were mine. I had little need for money, but that didn’t quell my heart’s lamentations. However, the passage of time, much more brief than I’d suspected, salved my aching soul. Within months, I was some semblance of myself once again.

It was weeks before I could bear to clear out my late husband’s belongings; that was the moment that I finally began to feel closure. My slumbering libido, which had erupted like Mount Vesuvius, awakened from its hibernation, and my long-lost smile returned, bit by bit. Oddly, my clients, the Princess Conclave, were my stalwart friends and constant companions.

My pristine home became an open-door sorority of sorts, cam girl central. I welcomed the company and the distractions. Although melancholy, at least at first, I took great delight in seeing my girls grow from struggling, faceless performers into superstars. Susan went from living in a roach-infested dump to owning a luxurious condo; rather than relying on others for transportation, she paid cash for a decent car. Ginger also flourished, as did the other women.

Kat moved from her rented shanty to a beach-side home, constantly talking about the sexy “Cabana Boy” that sold beverages and other sundries. He used her garage to store his bicycle when he worked, and whether she’d successfully seduce him was a recurring topic of conversation. Kia blossomed. Her quasi-goth look and submissive demeanor made her a smashing success. 

They no longer needed me. The ad campaigns were well in hand, and their following generated so much buzz on social platforms that I never needed to do anything further. When I woke from my daze, I discovered that I’d created what very well might have been the most successful marketing campaign in the history of online adult entertainment.

Bobby and his friends, the members of Dangerous Cougar, also kept me occupied. Realizing that my lust for horny sex had waned, I became their den-mom of sorts. As fall drew near, they rented a run-down house a few cities away, so they could concentrate on their music while attending college. Still, every weekend, Dangerous Cougar and my quartet of sexy friends would converge on my immaculate home for dinner, music, and fun.

It wasn’t a better life than I’d previously had; it was also no worse. It was simply different. As it became my normal, Mike still held a special place in my heart, but the pain and emptiness subsided. I still talked to him, knowing how silly it was, but his influence and the connection we’d shared warmed my soul, and I sought to keep that alive. As the Halloween season drew near, I was fully back and found myself planning a massive Halloween party.

Unconsciously, my body and heart were telling me that I needed sex. When the leather-clad Kia, sporting a Dangerous Cougar band logo tattoo, said to me while sitting on her boyfriend, Tee-O’s lap, “You should throw a ‘spooktacular’ party and get your brains fucked out! Mike would have loved it.” I only disagreed in tone.

“Yeah,” Ginger coughed out, passing the hooka. “You had no qualms about fucking everything in sight when he was here. You know he would have wanted you to continue as you had. And, honestly, Mary, you need your cunt licked more than any woman on the planet.”

“I guess,” I conceded. My tone was wary, but my soul took flight. “Just no ghost costumes,” I added. “It’s too soon.”

“Excellent!” Susan shrieked. “We’ll invite all our friends and other cam girls and stream the entire affair. It will be awesome!”

“I can’t be on camera,” I corrected.

“Like, duh! You’ll be in costume. Nobody will ever know.”

Suddenly, although I didn’t let it show externally, I was my full self once more. I’d been growing more cheerful and full of life in imperceptible steps, but it felt like the dam had burst. Feelings of peace and purpose washed over me, freeing the parts of me that I’d locked away. 

“Hand me that pipe, please,” I smiled. “Everything needs to be exactly perfect. Mike would have expected that. We’ll bob for apples, decorate perfectly, and you boys will play, won’t you?”

“So long as we can dress up all killer, Missus M.”

“You boys should coordinate, Steve. How about the four horsemen?“

“Look who's back!” Allison exclaimed.

“I’ll tell fortunes,” Kat shouted. Her face was joyous, as if she’d seen the transformation wash over my countenance. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Halloween goal.” Susan stood, her huge boobs bouncing. “Get Mary Anne laid!”

“I’m good,” I declared. “I don’t need any sex.”

“Yes, you do!” eight voices shouted in unison.

Late that night, long after my guests had gone, I cleaned up the house and washed the mountain of dishes. I revived the hot tub and lounged, nude, in the hot, bubbling water. The hooka, a gift from my friends for our weekend gatherings, had eight flexible necks, a sort of weed octopus, but I was only utilizing one. A bottle of single malt, Mike’s favorite, also kept me company.

The stars twinkled in the midnight sky, and the moon’s crescent was a smile from above. Feeling serenity fill my core, I found myself positioned in my old, usual spot. The thrusting jet tickled my clit, and the other, higher ones, massaged my nipples.

I’ll need to go shopping for a costume, but nothing store-bought, I mentally mused. It will need to be sexy but not slutty, and it’s going to be perfect!

While I ruminated over possibilities, my newly freed mind envisioned the decor, my costume, and all the snacks I’d prepare. Pumpkin cupcakes, finger food—shaped into skeletal fingers—and witch-hat-shaped cakes would grace my cobweb-covered table, perfectly arranged. Perfectly placed mood lighting, with some blinking lights and other sundries, would permeate the streaming environment.

When I was figuring out how to acquire blood IV bags for drinks, preferably “Bloody Mary Annes,” I realized that my fingers had found their way to my clit. The fact that I was actually horny once more excited me beyond belief. 

“Fucking YES!" I screamed to the moon. 

Overcome with lust, my body erupting in passion so intense that I could feel my heart beat in my clit, I threw my head back, moaning, and my submerged hand spread my petals wide, letting the hard, pulsating stream of the Jacuzzi jet pummel my femininity. 

“Mike,” I addressed the ether in moaning sighs. “I know you’re gone, but I still have needs. You turned me into your slut; I hope you still enjoy watching from wherever you are. Watch this!"

I grabbed the whiskey bottle and took a gargantuan swig, letting the alcohol spill from my quivering lips and drip down my face and over my boobs. “I wish somebody was still here to lick it off my tits. You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Mike? Bobby! Get your sexy, young butt back over here and fuck my face.”

Inspired, I capped the bottle and shoved it beneath the water, teasing my aching pussy with it.

“Ummm… aaah… I need this.”

I shoved the narrow neck into my cunt, screaming, “Fuck, yes!”

Slowly, at first, then harder, faster, and deeper, I crammed the smooth glass into my dripping hole. My free hand alternated between stroking my clit and tugging on my nipples. 

“I’m a slut, a whore. I get off on being a whore! Oh, fuck, I’m going to cum. Oh, fuck; oh, fucking fuck!”

The buildup was hasty and intense, taking less than a minute. The cleansing power of raw sexuality set my spirit back on the correct trajectory. My loving husband had seen within me the raw, untamed wildcat that was Mary Jane. I’d denied myself, telling myself that it was for his sake, but his inability to keep his cock in his pants coaxed her back out. I’d keep his memory alive through words, deeds, and actions. He wanted me to be an uninhibited temptress on the prowl, and the intensity of my orgasm tore away my self-imposed hurdles.

Hungry for more, I climbed out of the hot tub and lay, spread-eagle, on the grass. Little bits of flotsam and dirt stuck to my wet body, and I reveled in it, feeling slutty, nasty, and dirty. I grabbed the bottle once more and poured the remnants of the liquor into my mouth, over my heaving tits, and saturated my steaming sex with it. My surrogate dildo plunged back inside my flowing cunt, and the shoulder of the bottle struck against my labia with my force.

“Aaah, aargh, unngh!” I panted with each thrust.

My back arched skyward, my swollen tits sticking up with nipples so hard that they hurt. Over and over, I chanted, each syllable sullied by the hard, vigorous thrust of the bottle into my dripping cunt.

“I’ll… be... a… slut… your… fucking… whore. I’m a slut; I’m a slut. Fuck, I’m cumming!”

Over and over, I fucked myself, grinding my mound against the cum-slicked bottle and shoving it into my molten sex. I fingered myself on my hands and knees, then got myself off once more on the Jacuzzi jets. I fellated the bottle, sucking my nectar off its girth. Then I showered, bringing myself off once more.

Finally, in a sated, stoned, and drunken fog, I slept. I’d felt lost and alone, but I was neither of those things. As I lay in bed, my fingers absentmindedly stroked my nipples and played in my neatly trimmed tuft of pubic hair. Still, the sexual bonfires my late husband had cultivated burned within me.

He’d wanted a hot and horny wife, and his wish had been granted. I was still a traditional wife; I’d be the woman he needed to honor him. I wasn’t so shallow as to pretend that I also didn’t love it; that was just a bonus. In the morning, I planned on going shopping. I knew exactly what I’d be wearing. Mike would have wanted me to live my life to its fullest, and that was exactly what I was going to do.

To be continued...