My Wife Miranda

Good morning, Gentle Reader. My muse was very generous last night. I went to bed with the bare kernel of this story in my head and woke with it full-blown. All I have to do is write it down, and I want to be very careful as I do. This is, I think, a beautiful love story, but it's more than that. It's a story that needs to be told so that, just maybe, the next time you encounter a doddering old geezer you'll think twice before you just dismiss him (or her, I suppose) out of hand.

As I type, I am 78 years old. I was a 1968 draftee, accumulated a couple of college degrees after I separated from the Air Force, enjoyed a four-decade career as a professional planner with a brief career detour as the owner/operator of a small engine repair shop, and am now enjoying my retirement on the Gulf Coast. I am not as debilitated as the protagonist of the story that follows, but I have lost a step. Okay, I've lost several steps. I can run the pentatonic scales in all five positions, but my barre chords usually have a few thuds in them. I can still put a spark plug in myHusqvarnaleaf blower, but I'll never change the transmission in a '53 Chevy pickup truck in my garage using hand tools and a hydraulic jack again.

And no, I can't write a will with the kind of gifts that my alter ego does, but if I could, I think he's doing it right. So lean back, relax, and enjoy a gentle story about twilight years.

Here we go.

Miranda

Well, she was blonde and tall, she was twenty-three,

Born into the world to get the best of me.

And she never gave back half of what she stole,

She wanted my money, so I gave her my soul.

Tom Petty, Wrong Thing to Do

"Is the camera on?" I asked, although I could see the little red light looking back at me.

"It is," John, my lawyer for decades, said.

I took a deep breath and cleared my throat.

"My name is David Morgan," I said, looking directly into the camera. Then I rattled off the various identification details associated with such a document, my Social Security number, my legal address, and my date of birth.

"I am, as they say, of 'sound mind and body,'" I went on, reading from the script I had prepared, "and have provided a copy of a recent cognitive evaluation to Mr. Fredericks (referring to John) for inclusion in the transcript of this recording. This recording constitutes my Last Will and Testament, and Mr. Fredericks has been directed to prepare a formal document codifying this testament. This recording is intended to provide support should any contests of this Will be made."

I looked into the camera and smiled.

"Let me add this. Once, when I was still working, I heard Bruce Williams on a late-night radio program as I was driving across eastern Colorado, give some advice that seemed so important that I have considered it words to live by since. Talking to a caller on his call-in program one night, discussing what to do about leaving your children an inheritance, Williams said, this - - give your children enough to do something but not enough to do nothing."

I smiled into the lens for dramatic effect and then went on.

"Sooooooo, to each of my grandchildren I leave fifty thousand dollars. I am directing that the bequest be indexed to the inflation rate so that on the day they collect, they will receive their money in that day's dollars, equivalent to fifty thousand today. I can see no reason that my grandchildren should pay for the stupidity of politicians and have their inheritance diluted through inflation. This payment is to be made on their twenty-first birthday."

"For both of my children, I direct that their debts be paid. They will start the next phase of their lives debt-free. My estate is directed to pay off any outstanding mortgage, car loans, credit cards, or any other debt Mr. Fredericks identifies."

"For Mama Sue, that would be Susan Aisha Washington, my faithful cook, housekeeper, and lately nanny, I leave five hundred thousand dollars and the promise that the trip around the world she has talked about for two decades now will be fully paid for outside of that half million bucks. Mama Sue, I don't want you to ever have to work. You've done enough for this old man to deserve that."

I followed with a dozen more specific bequests. My nephew would get the restored 1953 Chevy pickup truck. Another nephew would get my guitars. Things like that.

"And finally, my wife Miranda is to receive the balance of my estate," I said.

I leaned back, smiled into the camera, took a drink of water, and finished.

"Now, this is for any attorney who attacks this Will. Make no mistake, any attorney who attacks this Will, I do not delude myself that a beautiful, 23-year-old woman fell in love with my 73-year-old ass. I've known all along what she wanted, and I am happy to give it to her. She has made the last decade of my life more pleasant than I ever imagined possible, and this Will simply marks my payment for services rendered. Mr. Fredericks said I should add this in case someone thought they might be able to break the Will by asserting that a beautiful woman had taken advantage of an old man under false pretenses."

I took a deep breath, a little shaky after all of this talking, and finished with a flourish.

"There are NO false pretenses here. I understand our relationship, I welcome it, I revel in it, and I appreciate it more than the house and money can ever express."

Finished, I waved at John and held my stare, the stare that had once controlled a boardroom, until the little red light blinked out.

"Okay, John, do you need anything else?" I asked.

"Nope," he said, grinning, "I'll get this all in writing and send Shirley over to the house for your signature. Make sure someone is home to witness for the Notary."

I laughed my old man's laugh and said, "There's ALWAYS someone around. Okay, thank you, John."

I turned to Miranda and said, "Let's go home, Baby."

Miranda, who had been waiting off camera, came, helped me stand, and then pulled the walker around so that I could get moving.

"Thank you, Daddy," she said, smiling that smile that always melted my heart, even as I wondered how many hours she had spent in front of a mirror perfecting it.

"You deserve it, Baby," I said, accepting her kiss and patting her on that beautiful ass.

At home, Miranda walked me into the house, a modest, well, relatively modest, ranch-style house on a big lot in an upscale neighborhood. It was all one level since my stair-climbing days were behind me. Inside, Mama Sue greeted us, three hundred pounds of 60-year-old black woman so dark-skinned that it was clear that no randy overseer had ever polluted her family's bloodline, even though she had told me of a great-great-great-great-grandmother unloading from a slaver in Mobile after surviving the Middle Passage.

I got that rush I always get as Miranda handed me off to Mama Sue, talking about me as if I wasn't there.

"How'd he do?" Mama Sue asked.

"Oh, he did fine, but I think he needs to be changed," Miranda replied.

Mama Sue giggled, wrinkled her nose, and said, "He sure does."

"Okay, Daddy," Miranda said, turning to me and waiting while I focused on her. I had one of those instants that seem to be hitting more and more often, hating the way my failing body took so damn long to answer the commands of my brain.

"I'm late, now," she said, "Mama Sue's got you. I'll be home later and take care of you."

I smiled, accepted her kiss, and then accepted Mama Sue's hand as she pushed the walker to its spot beside the door.

"You come on now, Master Dave," she said, slipping into thefauxantebellum accent she had adopted long ago. It was silly. I knew she had a Master's Degree in Geriatric Nursing, had been to culinary school, and casually read things like Stephen Hawking'sA Brief History of Timeor Edward Gibbons'The Rise and Fall. But no matter how many times I told her it was silly, she just smiled that ivory smile and kept it up.

Okay, and I kind of liked it too.

She walked me into the bedroom and began undressing me like a little boy.

The bad thing about getting old is that you lose control. Only five years ago, I would have argued with her, but now I knew my arthritic fingers would fail if I tried to undo the buttons of my shirt, and so I accepted it as she undid them and then worked the shirt off. She lifted me bodily to sit on the edge of the bed and then slipped my shoes and socks off.

She stood me, then, making me feel even more like a little boy, unzipped and pushed my slacks down, leaving me in those hatedDepends. Yes, I hated them even as I recognized that they were much better than the alternative, which would be diapers.

"Okay, now, Master Dave," she said, getting her thumbs hooked in the elastic waistband of theDependsand starting to work them down, "let's see how you did."

"HOOOOOEEEEEEE," she said in that way that made me think of one of Scarlett O'Hara's house slaves, "You did make a mess."

I no longer felt embarrassed, but I still felt kind of stupid as the smell of my shit managed to push past my failing olfactory system. Getting old is a bitch.

"Okay, Master Dave, you stay still now, don't try to move, and let Mama Sue get some towels to clean you up," she said, patting me on the head and heading into the bathroom.

I stood in my mess and my humiliation, watching as she disappeared into the other room, waiting for her to come back and clean me up. It seemed like minutes, but I know it was probably less than one before she returned with the two warm, wet towels and one dry towel she would use.

"Okay, Babyboy," she said, smiling as she got to her knees, "let's clean you up."

I could feel, even with my failing senses, the pleasant damp warmth of the towel as she wiped down my ass and legs before tossing that first towel into the oversized hamper with practiced accuracy. The next stage was almost sexual as she thoroughly cleaned where I had been dirty. She got to my asshole by washing the crack of my ass all the way to the bottom. As she did my balls and then my dick, I felt that stirring I sometimes felt.

She giggled, patted where I was no longer completely soft, and said softly, "Now, Master Davey, that's for Miss Miranda, you know that."

"I know, Mama Sue," I said, feeling a blush spread, "I can't help it."

She smiled, finished washing my dick and pubic hair, getting the last of my mess cleaned up, and stood.

"I know, Babyboy," she said and kissed me on the forehead.

"Do you need to pee?" she asked in that clinical way that took all of the sex out of it.

I inspected my body and found that there was pressure of a need to urinate.

"Yes," I said, embarrassed again, although this was hardly the first time she had taken care of that particular problem.

My prostate is about the size of a baseball these days, so to just start a stream is rarely successful anymore.

Mama Sue smiled and said, "Let's take care of that."

She disappeared again and returned with a sealed package and the big cloth diaper she would finish with.

She spread the diaper on the bed, an old-fashioned, very soft material, square that she folded into a triangle and laid on the sheet. Then she lifted me, showing her strength even with me down to about a hundred and ten pounds these days, and carefully centered me on the triangle of material.

"Okay, Babyboy," she said, smiling. I think she enjoyed this part. "Let's get you taken care of."

She tore open the paper and plastic envelope with a professional movement and pulled out the long elastic tube with its slightly rounded end. Then she tore the little plastic container that came with the kit and carefully poured the clear lubricant over the tip so that it ran down the tube. She carefully dropped the end of the tube into the trash can by the bed.

"Okay, Honey," she said, taking my dick in her fingers, "deep breath."

I inhaled a deep breath, like I was a swimmer getting ready to dive for a pearl, and then felt the pressure, welcoming ANY sensation down there, as she inserted the catheter. I felt the relief as my bladder started draining and then that special little intimate pressure as her fingertips gently massaged low in my belly, just above the pubic arch, helping me to empty completely.

"Be careful, Mama Sue," I said, "you might get a reaction."

She giggled and said, "Don't you wish, you naughty boy."

I laughed and just enjoyed being able to feel something.

"Okay, Babyboy," she said, smidling and pulling the two corners of the diaper so they met just below my belly button and then carefully pulled the third corner between my legs, pausing to adjust the catheter tube, before using an oversized safety pin to finish getting me ready to go to sleep.

"Don't you stick me now," I said, an old joke between us.

She chuckled, deep in her throat, and said, "As long as you're a good boy."

She crawled up onto the bed, moved us around until we were in position, unbuttoned her blouse, undid the flap of her nursing bra, and pulled me to her, lifting and offering her nipple. I latched on like a hungry baby with a wet nurse, which, I suppose, in many ways is exactly what I am. I suckled, her warm, sweet milk tasting like the finest wine to me, until I caught myself waking up that way you do when you've drifted off. She smiled, pulled the flap of the bra up, and crawled out of bed then, ponderous but oddly graceful.

She kissed me then, a soft kiss on the lips, and a second on my forehead before she tucked me in, turned out the light, and left.

Her milk was better than any chemical sleep aid, and I lay there relaxed for no more than a minute or two before I drifted off to sleep.

I woke to light fingertips tickling me, roaming freely and touching my arms and face and nipples and belly. At my age, I'm a very light sleeper, and waking was easy.

The smell of sex was heavy in the air, her pheromones mixed with semen and saliva and alcohol, and I felt the little bit of that stirring low in my belly I craved so much these days.

"Tell me," I said, my eyes still closed, enjoying the sensations she was giving me.

"Ask nicely," she whispered, her lips brushing my ears, each syllable a soft, warm puff.

I smiled in the dark. This was part of our, well, call it foreplay, I suppose, worked out over our ten years of marriage. My wife of ten years was thirty-three now, still barely more than one-third my age. More importantly to this narrative, though, she's a nymphomaniac. That's nymphomaniac in the literal meaning of the word. Sexual climax is difficult for her, and it takes multiple men to get her over the top. I knew this going in. I enjoy indulging it. And I love when she gets home and wakes me, giving me as close to a sexual encounter as I can know at my age. Sure, I'm living my sex life vicariously through my wife, but at 83, well, you take what you get, and you're damn grateful for it.

"Please, Miranda, please, Baby, tell me what you did tonight," I said.

She giggled and kissed me. I could feel the crusty, dried remains of semen on her cheek as my nose brushed. When I reached up to stroke her hair, it was matted and crusty in the same way.

"How many?" I asked, that little stir in my belly making me squirm a little.

"It was a birthday party," she said, kissing me between phrases, "There were twenty-eight of them."

She waited then, making me draw it out of her.

"What did you do first?" I asked, my eyes closed, picturing her surrounded by men.

"I gave the birthday boy his birthday spanking," she said, giggling.

"How many swats?" I asked, in my mind's eye picturing a young man over her knees.

"Nineteen," she said, giggling, "I don't mess with jailbait."

I laughed softly.

"And then?" I asked.

"Then he wanted to spank me," she said, "and then they all got a swat." She giggled, "If you're good, I'll let you check my ass for a bruise tomorrow."

I questioned her until I was satisfied I had a clear image of how her night had gone.

After the spankings, they had her on her knees, and she jacked them off, one in each hand and one in her mouth until they had all cum on her face and her tits, the way she enjoyed it so much.

"Did you make it?" I asked, the only question that really matters to a nymphomaniac.

"No," she said in that soft voice that signaled her frustration, "I thought I was going to, but I didn't quite."

Then she told me of the next three hours. Of being taken vaginally, anally, and orally. Of how she had serviced six at once in waves, her on top of one in her vagina, a second vaginally from behind, a third anally, a fourth and fifth in each hand, and the sixth in her mouth.

"Did you lick him clean?" I asked when she described how one of the guys had been big enough to hurt her when he took her anally.

"Of course I did," she said, kissing me on the mouth with lips that had cleaned a shit-stained dick earlier that night.

And then I asked the question that made it all worthwhile.

"May I clean you up?" I asked. She almost always said "Yes" to this, but not always.

"Yes, Daddy," she said and moved around, facing my feet now, her knees outside of my ribs and arms, pinning me to the bed, as she slowly lowered her beautiful pussy to my face.

I started, as I always do, by kissing where she was still leaking, tasting other men's semen and wallowing in that sweet mixture of her womanscent and their seed. As she slowly settled back, I moved my face back and forth as if I was emphasizing a "No" answer with a shake of my head, burying my face as deeply into her as I could.

And this was what made our wonderful marriage work.

It was difficult for her to achieve her orgasm, no matter how many men she had in a night. But with me, after the talk and then my tongue, she came easily and hard. My mouth filled with her nectar mixed with all of those men's semen, and I drank her satisfaction greedily.

When she was satisfied, she relaxed, moved around, kissed me once, and fell asleep with the casual ease of a baby.

"I love you," I said softly before I joined her.

In my dreams, I was young and verile and we came together.

And at my age, dreams are enough.