This story, as many others on this site, has taken a life of its own and is over 30K words. That being said, I will submit it in chapters. Also, it starts a bit slow as I want you to get the feel of what our protagonist is going through. I promise it will get faster as you read. I hope you enjoy it enough to rate it.
I self-edit, along with MS Word and the free version of Grammarly. All errors are mine.
Larry Wilkins sat on his worn-out sofa, a slouch that spoke volumes about where he was in life. The muted television flickered with images of a world that felt distant and undesirable. His fingers traced the rim of an empty beer can, its metallic coldness a stark contrast to the warmth of her touch.
His unkempt hair hung over his face like a curtain of grief, the greasy strands clinging to his forehead in defiance of gravity. Grime clung to his skin as if it had become part of him, a second skin he couldn't shed no matter how hard he scrubbed, not that, that was a priority for Larry. Clothes hung loosely on his gaunt frame, testament to the weight he'd lost since she left him... no, not left, she was taken away from him.
Inside him, there was a void, a wound so deep it threatened to suck him into oblivion. It was a gnawing pain that refused to subside, an ever-present reminder of what he'd lost. And yet, amidst all this sorrow, there was a glimmer of hope. A hope he could go on living. Oh how many times he had contemplated suicide. A way to escape and be with her again. But he was scared. Not of death, but what if he messed it up? What if instead of dying, he went on living, but as less than he was now? He just could not bring himself to do it. So he hoped for something or someone to help him find his way.
He remembered her laughter, the way it tinkled like wind chimes on a lazy summer afternoon. He could still feel the warmth of her body pressed against his, the softness of her lips as they whispered promises into his ear. There were nights when they'd made love with such ferocity that he feared they might shatter each other. Those were the nights he missed the most.
The silence in the house was deafening, broken only by the occasional creak of settling wood or the distant hum of traffic. It was a silence, so thick you could almost taste it, a bitter reminder of the emptiness that consumed him.
His cock hardened at the memory of her, a betrayal of his body's desires. Tears welled up in his eyes as he remembered the last time they'd been together. She'd been so beautiful then, dressed in nothing but his cut-off old t-shirt and panties, her breasts peeking out from beneath the fabric. He'd taken her right there on the couch, their bodies moving in sync as they sought release from the haunting specter of mortality.
But now she was gone, and he was alone. Loneliness clawed at him, a demon that refused to be exorcised.
Larry's fingers traced the rim of an empty beer can, a small gesture that echoed through the silent house. His eyes, fixed on the muted television, but his mind was elsewhere. The room around him was a testament to his grief - piled trash, clothes hanging limply from doorknobs, and dust dancing in shafts of sunlight filtering through the blinds.
He glanced around, taking in all the clutter that had accumulated over time, each item a reminder of what he had lost. The air was thick with the stench of stale beer and unwashed laundry, creating an oppressive atmosphere that weighed heavily on his shoulders.
In his mind, fragmented thoughts of Erin surfaced like waves crashing against the shore. Her laughter rang out, clear as a bell, followed by her warm presence, enveloping him. Memories that both comforted and tormented him, leaving him feeling torn between longing and despair.
He knew one thing for sure: he would never forget her. Not even in death would she leave him. She was etched into every fiber of his being, a part of him forever.
And that knowledge gave him some solace amidst the pain. Even though she was gone, she lived on within him. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Larry's memories were a cruel paradox. They offered him solace in the form of Erin, but her absence was more pronounced in the wake of those recollections. He remembered the scent of her perfume, a tantalizing mix of jasmine and rose, that hung heavy in the air, a phantom lingering long after she had gone.
It was a Friday night, and he could still recall the way she had looked at him before a date, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she glanced up from beneath lowered lashes. Her hair was wet from the shower, rivulets of water cascading over her shoulders, soaking into her t-shirt. She had been taking her time, enjoying the warmth of the steamy bathroom while he paced impatiently outside.
The restaurant they were headed to was posh, and she wanted to look her best. He watched as she applied her makeup with practiced ease, painting on the layers that transformed her from beautiful to stunning. A touch of blush here, a stroke of mascara there, until she was done.
She emerged looking ethereal, dressed in a little black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. The neckline plunged low, revealing a generous amount of cleavage, accentuating her firm tits, and since she was not wearing a bra, her eraser size nipples were on display under the dress. Larry couldn't help but stare. The dress was so short, that when he noticed there was no panty line, he was able to reach under the hem at her upper thigh and without causing but maybe one wrinkle, found her uncovered wet slit. He loved how confident she looked, how she carried herself with an unmistakable grace that drew attention wherever she went.
That night, they dined on exquisite cuisine, sipped fine wine, and laughed together, their hands entwined across the table. It was a perfect evening, one that seemed to stretch on forever, each moment precious and cherished.
On the ride home, she reclined her seat, pulled her dress up around her waist, and let him finger her to two orgasms while he drove. The first had been at a red light with a brown delivery van next to them. The driver looked down at her, and she looked up at him while she came. Her ass coming off the seat, her head and feet holding her up. Larry’s fingers sawing in and out of her the whole time. When she collapsed back onto the seat, she reached into her dress and pulled out her right tit, bending her head, licking her nipple. The entire time she watched the driver of the van as he shifted to adjust his cock.
But the best part was yet to come.
Back home, they fucked on the couch, their passions unleashed by the magic of the night. She was on top, straddling him, her tits pulled out of the top of her dress, the bottom bunched around her waist. He could feel her heat, her desire, as she rode him, her movements growing more frantic with each passing second. He reached down and rubbed her clit and she went off like a firecracker. He then stood up, while still buried deep in her pussy, walked behind the couch and stood her up. He turned her around, pushed her torso over the back of the couch and entered her pussy with one shove. Slamming home time after time, making her ass bounce with each thrust. Soon he was shooting inside of her, each pulse sending another wave of seed into her.
He pulled out and she spun around, she dropped to her knees and took his soiled cock in her mouth to clean him. His eyes were locked onto hers from above, and he saw the same fire burning within them. This connection, this raw emotion, was what he missed the most. It was what made their lovemaking so special, so intense, so worth remembering.
And then there were the times when Erin took control, when she turned the tables and made him her plaything. He remembered a night about a year before her death, she had surprised him with a strap-on, teasing him with it before finally fucking him in the ass. She tied him to the bed, lying on his back, his feet were tied to his hands, ass in the air. She lubed his ass crack and her hand, slowly moving it up and down and putting pressure on his asshole as she passed over it.
Slowly, Erin inserted a finger, gently moving it in and out, then adding another when she felt him loosen. Finally, a third finger was added, and as he became accustomed to it, she started pumping him harder. She then added lube to the strap-on dildo and started pushing it into his body slowly. Once the head of the lifelike dildo was past his rectum, Erin started a slow in and out motion, each time she moved forward she would work just a little more of the fake cock into her husband.
Erin’s eyes would move from Larry’s when she pulled back, seeing how much she had sunk into him, and then when she pushed forward, she would look again into his eyes, seeing the lust and pleasure, waiting for a look of pain or discomfort. If she saw that look, she stopped, moved her hips so the dildo would move side to side, but not any deeper. She would then pull out and start the process all over again.
When she was buried all the way in her husbands ass, she pulled out completely, pumped more lube directly into his bowls, and then reinserted the cock. As she slid back into him she pumped more lube along it’s shaft to make sure he was wet enough to take a good fucking.
Her breasts moved in rhythm of her plunging deep into his ass with each stroke. Larry wanted to reach up and pull on her nipples, to give her some pleasure, but being hog-tied, he was helpless to do anything but lie there and take it. Then it happened, her fucking him was stimulating his prostate, and had reached a point he shot a wad of cum over his stomach and chest. After his climax, she removed the dildo and harness, pulling it down her slender legs. Erin untied his legs and started to lick up the cum on his body. What she did next surprised him.
Erin moved up, took his face in her hands to hold him while she kissed him and pushed the cum she had slurped up, into his mouth. He swallowed his cum for the first time that day. It would not be the last. It had been a new experience for him, but one he had enjoyed immensely. One, they repeated several times that last year.
In this moment, Larry felt more alone than ever before. The world around him seemed to have moved on, leaving him trapped in a prison of his own making.
*****
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the sleepy neighborhood. The Haliburton's driveway was empty, her parents still at their weekly card game. Cheyenne took the opportunity to slip away, desperate for distraction. Her friends all had family things to do, so she didn’t have anyone to hang out with. She decided to check on Larry. Cheyenne’s father had told her Larry had become a recluse after the funeral of Erin, and she did not know how bad it was since she had been away a college.
Dressed in her normal fashion of extremely short jean cutoffs, where from the front you could see half the pocket hanging down and from behind, you could glimpse her ass checks where the shorts were cut just along the seam of the hip pockets. On top, she wore a bikini top, a cup size too small. Her tit flesh was exposed below the cup as well as above it. This was not a look her parents liked, but they knew she was an adult, and bit their tongue rather than face the possibility of her not coming home for holidays or the summer. She looked into the mirror, ran a brush through her hair, slipped on a pair of sandals, and was out the door.
Cheyenne's knuckles stung with the sharpness of her knocks, a dull echo falling from the door to her ears—a stark contrast to the silence that swallowed her calls. The absence of Larry's voice, typically booming and gruff in greeting, sent a tremor of worry through her sun-kissed frame. She pressed her ear to the cool wood, straining for any hint of movement inside.
"Damn it, Larry," she muttered under her breath, her fingers curling into a fist at her side.
She paced the length of the porch, the rough planks creaking beneath her weight. Her eyes darted over the drab curtains, their edges fraying and drawn tight across the windows as if to hide the life—or lack thereof—within. Each step was a cadence of frustration. The house, once vibrant and welcoming, now seemed to sag under the weight of neglect, the lawn overgrown and wild like untamed thoughts.
"Something's not right," she whispered, her adventurous spirit igniting within her. The thought of Larry, isolated and possibly in need, clawed at her conscience. It was this compassion, coupled with her natural boldness, that propelled her feet toward the back of the house. Cheyenne had never been one to shy away from a challenge, and today would be no different.
The backyard was no less chaotic, the unchecked growth of weeds entwined with abandoned garden tools. A small window caught her attention; it was covered with dust but offered a glimpse into the shadowy interior. With a quick glance over her shoulder, ensuring the coast was clear, Cheyenne retrieved a rock from the yard. Her heart pounded against her ribs, each beat a drumroll to the decisive action she was about to take.
"Sorry, Larry," she murmured, the rock feeling oddly heavy in her hand—a testament to the gravity of her intentions. She threw the rock with the same precision she did a softball when she would throw a runner out at home from 2nd base, a small crack sounding through the air as the glass yielded to her resolve. It was done. The thrill of her transgression was momentary, replaced by the steadfast determination to find Larry and offer whatever help she could.
Cheyenne hoisted herself up to the window ledge with a fluid grace, her lean muscles contracting as she lifted her body through the narrow opening. She was acutely aware of each jagged shard that threatened her skin, but her movements were sure and practiced — a dance of necessity as much as it was of will. The adrenaline that surged through her veins was tinged with a thrill; it was an adventure, one that held higher stakes than any she had embarked upon before.
Once inside, the dimly lit room swallowed her figure. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the murky light that filtered through the grime-coated windows. What greeted her was a landscape of decay; the air was heavy with the scent of neglect, a pungent mixture of old food, musty fabrics, and something indefinably sour that made Cheyenne's nose wrinkle in distaste. Shadows clung to piles of beer cans and food delivery boxes. Stacks of dishes teetered precariously on countertops, and clothes lay strewn about like fallen leaves in autumn.
The squalor was like a physical blow to Cheyenne — a representation of Larry's inner turmoil. Though her shock reverberated through her, she pushed it aside, the compassion within her spurring her onward. She knew that beneath the chaos, there was a man who needed her help, at least she hoped he was still alive to need her help, and she was determined to cut through the despair that lay like a shroud over the once vibrant life within these walls.
Navigating the labyrinth of Larry's desolation, Cheyenne tiptoed with precision, avoiding the minefield of discarded pizza boxes and crumpled beer cans. Her gaze cut through the gloom, searching for any sign of the man who was once the neighborhood's anchor. The vibrant energy that usually surrounded her seemed out of place in this tomb of lost hope.
There he was, slumped on the sofa that had seen better days, its fabric frayed and stained. Larry's gaunt frame barely made a dent in the cushions. His hair, once neatly trimmed, now hung in greasy clumps around his face, obscuring the eyes that used to hold warmth and laughter. The sight of him, so far removed from the robust figure that used to play catch in the yard, clenched Cheyenne's heart in a vice of compassion.
"Hey, Larry," she called out, her voice a soft melody in stark contrast to the surrounding despair. The hesitancy in her approach was palpable; the air between them charged with her unspoken plea for connection. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his shoulder with the lightness of a feather.
"Can you hear me, Larry?" The words slipped from her lips, tender and laced with concern. She waited, her every sense heightened, for the slightest indication that he might emerge from the fog that enveloped him. Cheyenne understood that the true journey lay ahead — not just in awakening Larry from his stupor.
Larry stirred, turning his face, a low groan escaping his parched lips. Blearily, he squinted up at the radiance before him. Recognition dawned, albeit slowly, and he mumbled, "Cheyenne?"
Her name, the confirmation that he still retained some semblance of his former self, was like music to her ears. "I'm here, Larry," she sobbed, her voice carried the relief and heartbreak she felt. "I'm not going anywhere."
*****
A firm resolve settled over Cheyenne as she slipped an arm under Larry's shoulders. She coaxed his body to rise from the sofa with a surprising ease that belied her slender frame. The effort drew a soft grunt from him, a sound that was more air than voice, but it was enough to fuel her determination.
"Come on," she encouraged, the cadence of her words soft yet coaxing. "We’re just going to get you cleaned up."
She could feel the slump of his muscles, the way his body hinged on giving up, but she propped him up with a strength she didn't often have cause to use. His weight leaned heavily against her, but she adjusted, holding him in an awkward embrace that was part necessity, part comfort. With each shuffling step toward the bathroom, she felt the subtle shift of his reliance, a transfer of trust that was fragile but present.
Once inside the cramped confines of the dingy bathroom, the air seemed to tighten around them. The moment of undressing Larry was intimate in a way that made her heart thump erratically against her ribs. She reached for the hem of his soiled shirt, her fingers brushing against the rough terrain of his stomach. The fabric peeled away to reveal a gaunt frame, a shadow of the man he must've once been.
Her eyes couldn't help but drift lower as she lowered his pajama bottoms and boxer briefs, and she caught sight of his manhood. It was an unexpected revelation, large even in its flaccid state, and a heat flushed her cheeks at the primal thought that flashed through her mind. For an instant, her gaze lingered, desire sparking within her—a yearning to taste him, to feel that meaty cock pulse to life between her lips. Not with how dirty he is, she thought.
"Shit," she muttered under her breath, averting her eyes, the raw hunger in her eyes flickering out as quickly as it had ignited. This wasn't about her wants or needs; it was about helping a man clawing his way out of despair.
"Almost there," she murmured, trying to keep the atmosphere light despite the gravity of the situation. Her hands were steady, her mind forcibly anchored to the task at hand, even as her pulse continued to thrum with an echo of forbidden interest.
With Larry naked, Cheyenne turned her attention to herself. Her movements were methodical, almost ritualistic, as she stripped away her own barriers. She peeled off her bikini top, revealing her C cup breasts that were perky and cone shaped with a small lift, what some have described as ski slope titties, her nipples, surrounded by half-dollar size areola were adorned with little barbell piercings that glinted in the bathroom light. Each motion was deliberate, unashamedly shedding her clothing piece by piece.
Her shorts were next—unbuttoned and unzipped with a fluid motion, then tugged down over the curve of her hips. They fell to a pool around her ankles, and she stepped out of them, standing bare in front of Larry. No panties to hide behind, her bald pussy on display, small vaginal lips peeking out beneath a cute tattoo that boldly declared ‘free lunch’ just above them. It was a statement of her fearless spirit, a playful defiance against convention.
Cheyenne reached out, her fingers grazing the cold metal of the faucet before she turned it, coaxing a stream of water to life. Steam began to rise as she adjusted the temperature, testing it with a cautious hand until it felt just right—not too hot, not too cold, but soothingly warm.
"Okay, let's get you cleaned up," she said softly to Larry, who stood shakily beside her, his gaze unfocused.
"Alright, step in when you're ready," Cheyenne coaxed, gesturing to the cascading water as she turned back to Larry.
The sensation of the hot water hitting his skin was like a shock to Larry's system—a stark contrast to the layer of grime that had become his second skin. Cheyenne watched as droplets trickled down his body, each one seemingly taking with it a piece of the sorrow that clung to him. She reached for the soap, her hands working up a lather before they found their way to his chest.
"Let's wash it all away," she murmured, more to herself than to him. Her touch was gentle yet firm as she scrubbed, her fingers trailing paths of cleanliness across his torso. The dirt swirled down the drain, disappearing along with pieces of the darkness that enveloped him.
This wasn't just a physical cleansing—it was an act of care, of nurturing someone back to life. And in the steam-filled room, where the boundary between caretaker and desire blurred, Cheyenne focused on the warmth of the water and the man slowly coming back to the land of the living under her ministrations.
Larry's eyelids fluttered like the wings of a trapped moth, fighting against the heaviness that tethered him to oblivion. The steady stream of water cascading over his body began to chip away at the numbness, the touch of Cheyenne's hands drawing him toward consciousness. His mind, mired in grief, struggled to rise above the surface, but her persistent care, the soft glide of her fingers across his skin, sparked something dormant within him.
"Come on, Larry," she coaxed, her voice penetrating the fog that had settled in his brain. "Stay with me."
The murkiness in his gaze started to dissipate as he blinked, once, twice—each time the world becoming a fraction clearer. He saw her then, truly saw her; the determination etched into her features, the droplets of water clinging to her skin like morning dew on grass. She was a fierce presence, a lifeline thrown to him in the vast ocean of his despair.
She made one more pass over his body with the soap, starting at his head and working down his torso, turning him and repeating down to his back. Then she dropped to her knees and started washing his ass. The cheeks, and crack, but did not work long there before moving down his legs. Cheyenne turned him, this time starting with his legs and working up to his midsection. She had done this on the first pass, but he was still so out of it that Larry had not noticed. This time when she took his cock and balls into her small hands, he took notice! Before him was this beautiful woman, he had known since her family moved in and she was twelve years old. Now she was twenty one and the picture of perfection.
He was torn, seeing her like this, naked on her knees with his swelling cock in her hands, when she had grown up calling him Uncle Larry. Today, he recalled it was just Larry, there was a new familiarity between them, two adults, two people who had never been inappropriate, now were in one of the most intimate positions he could think of.
Cheyenne felt him start to grow and decided she needed to get out of the shower. With a final rinse, Cheyenne stepped back, allowing Larry a moment to simply be under the stream of water—alone yet not abandoned. She wrung the excess moisture from her hair, watching him for a second longer before turning away. Grabbing a towel, she patted herself dry, the fabric catching on the barbell piercings that adorned her nipples. Her movements were mechanical, yet there was a tenderness in her touch, a self-care that she now extended to this broken man.
She left Larry under the warm embrace of the shower, finding a plush robe that would serve to cocoon him once he decided to emerge. Still naked, her skin flushed from the heat, Cheyenne moved into the living room. It was time to bring order to the chaos that had settled there, much like the disorder that filled Larry's life.
Purposeful and unhurried, Cheyenne set about her task. She pried open windows not caring if anyone was to see her, inviting the crisp outside air to sweep through the stagnant atmosphere, replacing the scent of neglect with the promise of renewal. One by one, she gathered the empty bottles and remnants of forgotten meals and bagged them for disposal.
Her bare feet padded softly across the floor as she worked, bending to retrieve scattered papers, straightening cushions that had long ago lost their plumpness. Each movement was an assertion of life, a declaration that decay would not claim this space or the man who dwelled within it.
As she worked, her body told its own story—the curve of her spine, the flex of muscle beneath smooth skin, the small tattoo that peeked out just above where her thighs met, declaring in ink what her actions professed: an offer of sustenance, of hope, freely given.
Larry leaned against the doorframe, his fingers idly playing with the sash of the robe that enveloped his slowly warming body. He watched Cheyenne move about the room with a fluid grace. Now and then, a slant of sunlight caught her bare skin, accentuating the curves and hollows of her body with a glow. When she bent at the waist to move something or to put it in the bag, her tight ass and slit would be the focus of his attention and the sight stirred something in him—a confusing cocktail of gratitude for her unasked kindness and an undeniable pulse of arousal that he felt ill-equipped to handle.
Lost in the rhythm of her cleaning, Cheyenne didn't notice the shift in the bathroom's acoustics, the change in the cadence of splashing water that signaled Larry's return to the present. It wasn't until she turned, a bag of trash in hand, that she caught sight of him standing in the doorway, the robe loosely tied around his waist, his eyes no longer vacant but filled with a dawning awareness.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice rough like gravel, yet imbued with something new—a hint of strength returning.
Cheyenne nodded, her lips curving into a small, encouraging smile. "You're welcome, Larry." There was more work to do, more healing to foster, but in this moment, amidst the clutter she was clearing away, there was a glimpse of something else—a flicker of possibility in the aftermath of loss.
Cheyenne paused, a tangle of discarded clothes in her hands, and turned to Larry with a warmth in her eyes that radiated through the disheveled space. "How are you feeling, Larry?" she asked, her tone gentle but tinged with concern. She approached him, her movements unhurried, giving him time to adjust to her proximity.
"Better," he admitted, his throat dry, his words barely above a whisper. "Thanks to you." He tried to muster more, to express the depth of his appreciation, but words failed him, leaving only the tangible weight of silence between them.
She nodded, accepting his minimal response without pushing for more. A lock of wet hair clung to her cheek, and Larry's hand twitched with the unexpected urge to brush it away, to feel the slickness against his fingertips. But he held back, aware of boundaries not yet crossed and the fact that he was still very much a man in need of saving.
"Good," Cheyenne replied softly, a hint of relief in her voice. "Just making sure you're not feeling too overwhelmed or anything."
"Overwhelmed, yeah," Larry said, his eyes finally breaking away from the magnetism of her flesh to find solace in the less complicated pattern of the floor tiles. "But not in a bad way." His admission hung there, a bridge neither fully constructed nor entirely broken, a testament to the delicate dance of their burgeoning connection.
"Stay put," Cheyenne instructed, her playfulness peeking through despite the gravity of the situation. "I'll finish up here, and then we can figure out what comes next. Together."
"Okay," he responded, the single word laden with newfound hope, a subtle acknowledgment of the thread that tied his fate to the hands of the compassionate, fearless woman before him.
Cheyenne reached for Larry's hand, her touch gentle but insistent. She led him to the couch, their steps synchronized in an unspoken dance of new trust and fragile hope. They settled into the soft cushions, her skin still damp from the shower, a stark contrast to the rough fabric beneath them.
"Look at me, Larry," she said softly, the strength in her voice belying the tenderness in her eyes. He complied, his gaze lifting to meet hers, a tumultuous sea of blue that had weathered far too many storms, only pausing for a second or two when he looked at her tits.
"I'm worried about you," Cheyenne confessed, squeezing his hand with a reassuring pressure. "Not just because of the state I found you in, but because... because I know what it's like to lose someone. Erin was more than just your wife; she was a force of nature." Her words were a careful caress, soothing the jagged edges of his grief.
As silence enveloped them, Cheyenne stood up decisively, her nakedness unabashed in the light of day. "I'm going to come back tomorrow, Larry. And the day after that. As long as it takes." Her declaration was a vow, her resolve as clear as the determination shining in her eyes.
"Thank you," he managed to say, the words clumsy in his mouth but sincere in their intent.
"Thank me by getting better, by living again," she replied, her smile a promise of brighter days ahead.
Leaving him with that glimmer of hope, Cheyenne dressed quickly, her movements efficient yet graceful. She stepped out the door and into the world, leaving behind a trail of possibility that lingered in the air like the faintest perfume.
Larry watched her go, a mixture of gratitude and yearning filling the space she had vacated. The changes to come in his life seemed daunting, but for the first time in a long while, they also seemed possible.
*****
Cheyenne's confident steps echoed through the dim, cluttered living room as she entered Larry's home. Her presence, a refreshing contrast to the somber atmosphere, was like a ray of sunshine that had managed to find its way through the cracks in his bleak world. Clad in a pair of short shorts, she revealed slender, tanned legs that seemed to go on for miles. A tight, bikini-style top hugged her perky breasts, leaving little to the imagination. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back, brushing against her bare shoulders, adorned with a delicate pendant that caught the little light that managed to filter in.
With a determined expression etched on her beautiful face. Her eyes, filled with a steely resolve, scanned the room, taking in the piles of unopened mail, dirty dishes, and the thick layer of dust that coated every surface. Undeterred, she grabbed the nearest trash bag and got to work.
The sound of glass being cleared away from the broken window was the first sign of progress. Then, with each swipe of a rag and window cleaner, more and more of the grime that had accumulated over the year since Erin’s death was removed from the unbroken windows, allowing the long-trapped sunlight to stream in. The musty odor, which had become a permanent fixture in the room, began to dissipate as the fresh, crisp air rushed in. With every window she opened after cleaning it, the room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, as if it, too, had been yearning for this moment of renewal.
Larry, who had been following her every move, silently observed from across the room. The memories of his life with Erin flooded back, the laughter and love they once shared echoed off the now-bare walls. He didn't know whether to be grateful for the intrusion or resentful for the pain it caused him. Even with the thought of Erin, every time Cheyenne turned something about her caught his eyes, be it her legs, her breasts, the ass cheek that played peek-a-boo at the bottom of her shorts or the naval ring that sparkled against her tan skin when the sunlight hit it just right. Guilt on one hand, that he was betraying the memory of Erin, and arousal on the other as Cheyenne seemed to taunt him with her very presence.
Sensing his turmoil, Cheyenne turned to him and gave him a reassuring smile. "It's going to be okay, Larry. Trust me." Her voice, like a balm, soothed his fractured soul. He knew deep down she was right. This was what Erin would have wanted for him: to let go of the past and embrace the future, no matter how painful it might be.
Cheyenne's muscles rippled as she swept and danced, her bare arms pushing a broom back and forth against the worn wooden floorboards with a satisfying thwack. The motion made her tits sway gently in their cups of her bikini, her nipples visibly hard under the thin material. He couldn't help but watch as she bent to pick up a stray sock, her ponytail swinging playfully around her face.
Larry felt his cock twitch in his pants at the sight, aching to be freed from its confines and press against her back or slide between those toned thighs. But he remained silent, enjoying the show instead of disrupting it with his desires. The sound of her breathing grew heavier as she worked, each huff punctuating the air with intent and determination.
Finally, she stood up straight again and turned to face him with a satisfied smile on her face. "Almost done in here," she said before heading towards the laundry room for another load of laundry. Her shorts clung to her ass cheeks enticingly as she walked away.
"You know," Larry called out, "I think I can help you with that." His voice was rougher than he intended it to be, but didn't seem out of place in this new reality they were creating together.
Cheyenne turned around, one eyebrow raised in question as she wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Oh yeah?"
Larry moved and grabbed the basket of clothes from Cheyenne and went to the laundry room portion of the garage and put the load in the washer. ‘Damn dude, did you notice the tits on her? I bet you could slap them and they wouldn’t even bounce!’ Larry thought to himself.
The clutter dissipated, revealing the bones of the house that once thrummed with life and laughter. The absence of Erin's eclectic trinkets laid bare the reality of their loss, yet the openness Cheyenne ushered in suggested the possibility of a new story waiting to be written within these walls. Larry's heart raced, caught between the remnants of past love and the nascent desire simmering below the surface—a desire drawn out by the woman who now dusted the last shelf, her back arching as she reached up, giving Larry a glimpse of the delicate expanse of her lower back and even lower more of that delectable ass.
He shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of his body's betrayal. His mind chastised him for this lustful distraction when loyalty to Erin's memory should be his only companion in grief. But his flesh was honest in its yearning, responding viscerally to the vitality that Cheyenne radiated, a stark contrast to his numbness.
As she turned, unaware of the eyes upon her, the light caught the edges of her hair, turning them into a dark halo around her face. In that moment, she seemed less like an intruder and more like a beacon, guiding him toward a life where pleasure wasn't interred with the dead.
And Larry, despite himself, felt the pull, an echo of a time when desire wasn't shrouded in mourning—a time he thought was lost forever.
Cheyenne paused, her hands on her hips and a bead of sweat trickling down her temple. She turned to Larry, who stood awkwardly in the doorway, his eyes a blend of sorrow and something else—something that made her heart flutter with a strange mix of sympathy and excitement. A smile played upon her lips, warm and disarming.
"Looks like this house is finally starting to breathe again, don't you think?" she said, breaking the silence that had settled between them. Her voice was light, teasing even, as she gestured to the room around her. Sunlight spilled through the now-clear windows, casting a soft glow on the newly revealed hardwood floors.
Larry's response came as a small nod, his gaze lingering on her face. The mess that once overpowered the space seemed to recede with each passing day, replaced by order and cleanliness. And with every visit Cheyenne made, the transformation became more pronounced—the pile of discarded memories shrinking, the gleam of polished surfaces growing.
She moved from one room to the next, her energy unflagging. With each sweep of her arm, each swish of her mop, layers of dust and despair were washed away. The scent of lemon and pine mingled in the air, replacing the musty odors of neglect.
As days turned into weeks, the change in Larry's home was undeniable. The living room, once a mausoleum to past happiness, now invited life with open arms. Bookshelves were organized, personal items given new homes, and spaces cleared for new memories to form. The kitchen counters shone, free of clutter, while the appliances glistened like they were just unwrapped from their boxes.
The heavy curtains that had once shielded the interior from the world were pulled back, allowing daylight to dance across the surfaces. It was as if the house itself was waking up from a deep slumber, stretching its limbs, and taking a deep breath of fresh air.
And Larry, he too seemed to be subtly shifting. His shoulders were not quite so slumped, his eyes not as distant. There was a spark there, however faint, that hadn't been present before—a sign that maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to see beyond the grief that had held him captive. Cheyenne's presence, her laughter echoing down the hallways, brought a different kind of warmth to the cold spaces of his heart.
Yet, even amidst the burgeoning hope, the profound sense of loss remained—a silent shadow that trailed behind the light of progress. But for the first time in a long while, it seemed possible that the shadow might just be outshone.
Cheyenne entered the master bedroom, her shadow stretching across the threshold like an intrepid explorer taking her first steps into a long-forgotten temple. The air was thick with the memory of perfume and silence, but it was time to sweep away the cobwebs, both literal and metaphorical.
She approached the bed, its sheets a tangle of despair and sleepless nights. Her fingers traced the edge of the comforter, once vibrant but now dulled by dust and the passage of time. With a fluid motion, she stripped the fabric away, piling it with the rest of the laundry that needed her attention. The washer would be her ally today, churning and cleansing, as if it could wash away more than just stains.
In the midst of folding the last of the clean clothes, Cheyenne's gaze lingered on a sweater, Erin's unmistakable favorite. She held it up, the soft material still holding the shape of its former owner. This was more than a piece of clothing; it was a fragment of a life that had woven itself into the very fabric of this room.
With the laundry basket perched on her hip, Cheyenne found Larry, his eyes fixed on the frame of the door she had passed through minutes ago. His breath caught in his throat as he watched her, the curve of her back as she bent forward, the sway of her hips unconsciously seductive even in the act of carrying clothes.
"Erin had good taste," Cheyenne said, placing the folded sweater on top of the pile. "I bet you have stories about every piece here."
Larry's response came slowly, his voice a low rumble struggling against the tide of emotions. "Yeah, that was her color... reminded me of autumn leaves, just like her hair." His eyes met Cheyenne's, and for a moment, they shared the weight of Erin's absence.
"Would you like to keep some of these out?" Cheyenne asked gently, her hands pausing over Erin's belongings. "Maybe there are pieces that hold special memories for you?"
Larry's chest tightened, a silent battle raging within him. The thought of parting with any of Erin's things felt like betraying the past they had shared. But then, he caught sight of Cheyenne's compassionate eyes, her youth and energy a stark contrast to the stagnancy that surrounded him.
"Maybe," he conceded, the word barely above a whisper. His fingers twitched at his side, the beginnings of a longing rekindling deep within him—a yearning for more than just the touch of another person, but for the warmth of connection, the promise of healing.
"Let's start small," Cheyenne suggested, her voice soothing like the melody of a familiar song. "One step at a time, Larry. You're not alone in this."
A nod, almost imperceptible, was his reply. And as Cheyenne returned to her task, each fold and tuck of the fabric seemed like a tender caress, guiding him towards acceptance, towards a future where the shadows of grief might one day be lifted by the touch of new beginnings.
Cheyenne knelt beside the faded cardboard box, her fingers tracing the edges of a photo album, its cover worn by the years. Larry hovered in the doorway, his arms crossed against his chest, his gaze heavy with unspoken thoughts. He watched as she flipped through the pages, each snapshot a fragment of a life he once knew.
"Look at this one," Cheyenne murmured, tilting the album toward him. Her voice was a soft invitation, coaxing him closer to the past and, perhaps, toward closure. The photo captured Erin in mid-laughter, the memory so vivid that, for an instant, Larry could hear it echo in the empty room.
"Beautiful," he whispered, allowing himself a rare smile, one that reached the corners of his eyes.
With a gentle nudge, Cheyenne closed the album and slid it back into the box. "I can help you sort through these, keep what's dear, and find a place for the rest. You don't have to hold onto everything to cherish her memory."
Larry's throat constricted, the proposition threatening to unravel the carefully constructed walls around his heart. Yet, something within him stirred at her words—a dormant hope that maybe, just maybe, life held more than endless mourning.
"Okay," he finally agreed, his voice strained. He took a deep breath, tasting the newness of the idea. "But, I—I'd like to be involved."
"Of course." Cheyenne's response was a beam of sunlight cutting through the gloom. She stood, dusting off her hands against the back of her shorts, the fabric clinging to her curves in a way that drew Larry's attention away from his worries.
"Maybe some friends could help too?" she offered, the possibility hanging between them like an unspoken promise of renewal.
The thought of strangers handling Erin's possessions clenched Larry's gut, but the lingering pull of Cheyenne's presence, her sheer vitality, softened the edge of his apprehension. She represented change—intimidating, yes, but also intoxicating in its potential.
"Alright," he conceded, his heart pounding a rhythm of nerves and reluctant excitement. "But only people you trust."
"Trust me, Larry," she said, her bright eyes locking onto his with a conviction that made his pulse race for different reasons now. "We'll do this together."
And as the decision settled in the space between them, Larry felt the first thread of connection weave into the tapestry of his solitude, binding him to a future that dared to glimmer with hope.
*****
The click-clack of high heels on hardwood, the sound cutting through the silence like a siren's call. Cheyenne doesn't need to turn around to know that Auzia has arrived, her presence as bold and unapologetic as the red heels she favors. With each step, Auzia exudes confidence, her curves hugged by her jean shorts and t-shirt tied below her braless breasts, that leaves little to the imagination, a vivid contrast against the muted backdrop of Larry's home.
Behind her, Ashley slips in, a whirlwind of energy packed into her petite Asian frame. Her laughter dances through the air, light and carefree, the embodiment of her spirit. She flutters around the room, her vibrant outfit—a kaleidoscope of colors on white shorts that look like a painter splattered on, and her poke-a-dot bikini top—mirroring her vivacious nature, as she touches objects with gentle curiosity.
Latishia follows, her stride purposeful, the sway of her hips commanding attention. The top she wears plunges daringly, drawing the eye to her ample cleavage, and her tight jeans sculpt her slender legs. She surveys the space with keen eyes, an unspoken challenge in her gaze, ready to confront the emotional labyrinth ahead.
The house, once shrouded in the weight of loss, now buzzes with newfound life. Cheyenne watches her friends, their distinct energies melding into a force of change.
Together, they begin the delicate task of sorting through Erin's belongings. Auzia's fingers graze over the crafting equipment, her touch reverent as she packs away the tools of a pastime once cherished. Ashley hums softly, a comforting melody that fills the space as she carefully stacks women's magazines into boxes, the glossy covers reflecting the light pouring in from the open windows.
Latishia bends to examine a sewing machine, her body stretching in such a way that highlights every contour. She looks over her shoulder, catching Cheyenne's gaze, and there's a silent understanding between them—the acknowledgment of the bittersweet task at hand and the strength they draw from each other's presence.
As they work, the dynamic of the group is palpable. Their movements are synchronized, yet each woman's individuality shines through, creating a tapestry of unity. The camaraderie they share is a testament to their collective resilience, and as they clear away remnants of a life once lived, they also pave the way for new beginnings.
Cheyenne stands back for a moment, her heart swelling with gratitude for these women who stand beside her, their empathy wrapping around her like a warm embrace. The house may still hold the echoes of Erin, but now it also holds the promise of healing, and together, they're writing the first lines of a new chapter.
Each box packed with Erin’s belongings, memories even, was placed in a stack by the front door. Each box had been labeled with a permanent marker showing what was inside: clothes in one, magazines in another, and crafting supplies in yet another. These boxes would be moved after everyone had pizza and sodas at the end of the day, something Larry had told them he would order.
Cheyenne gathers all the photos of Erin, from the carefree beach shots showing her athletic body in a tiny bikini to the intimate portraits with Larry, and carefully places them in a box, save for a few. She chooses a breathtaking wall portrait of Erin, her green eyes dancing with mischief, and strategically places it in the living room. She then picks three 8x10 photos: one of Erin and Larry on their wedding day, another of them laughing over a homemade meal, and the third of Erin, topless with a pair of sheer panties on. She stood on a balcony somewhere with mountains in the background. Her back is to the world, her arms pulled back and resting on the railing thrusting her bare tits towards the camera. The photo was so clear, you could see the texture of her nipples that were hardened by either the temperature or the excitement of being exposed and possibly seen.
Larry knew why they were hard when he took the photo with his Canon DSLR camera. Larry had ordered room service and had dared Erin to answer the door dressed like that when it was delivered. Once they heard the knock, Larry rushed to the bathroom and turned on the shower, closing the door most of the way. Erin went and answered the door and asked the man to come into the room, and for him to set the meals on the table for her. She stood next to the table while this was done, and the young college-aged man almost dropped a plate off the table as his eyes freely roamed over her exposed body instead of what he was doing. Watching through the crack in the bathroom door, Larry walked out as Erin had followed the man into the main room. Larry watched as she put on a show for the food service worker.
Once the plates and drinks were on the table, Erin walked up to the worker, looked at Larry, and gave him a wink. She then said, “I don’t have any cash for a tip, but how about this instead?” She then grasped his face and pulled him down to her left tit and whispered “Suck it.”
After sucking on her left tit, Erin pulled him off and guided him to her right and let him suck it for a few moments. She then took his hand and guided it to her pussy and helped the young man work a couple of fingers up inside her. Her pussy was very wet with the thought of being a bad girl in front of her husband.
After a couple of minutes of being fingered. She removed the fingers in her, guided the hand to the man’s mouth where he immediately sucked her juices off. “That smell ought to last all night, so when you have a minute through the night, smell them and remember me. That’s the best I can do. She then ushered him out the door. He seemed in a trance, not even noticing Larry as he walked passed him.
“Fuck that was hot baby! Quick, go stand on the balcony, I have to get a photo of you, just as you are, and we will remember this moment forever!”
As Cheyenne places the last photo on the dresser, the one of Erin on the balcony, her heart aches anew, but there's also a deep-seated resolve to honor Erin's memory by living life to the fullest. In that moment, she made a silent vow—to celebrate life, and to never take a single moment for granted. She plans to have Larry do the same thing.
With the photos in place, Cheyenne looks around at the room that now breathed with a sense of renewal and hope. The air felt lighter, as if the weight of their grief had been lessened just a little bit. She knows the road ahead will still be paved with tears and memories, but for now, they've created a space where Larry can all begin to heal.
"Alright, girls," Cheyenne says, her voice both strong and cracking with emotion, "I know this has been an emotional rollercoaster, but I think we deserve a break. Who's up for a swim before we tackle the closet?"
A chorus of agreement fills the room, and as they filed out to the backyard, and over to Cheyenne’s house. They could afford an hour before Larry ordered the pizza, and while he was taking the boxes to storage, they would go to the closet, which they all knew would be too hard on Larry to be around.
*******
Though little sex in this chapter, I hope you enjoyed Larry’s life being brought back by his co-ed neighbor. There will be more in the next chapters!