Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Title: The Lieutenant's Widow, Part 1
Summary: A young widowed mom wants to have a second child quickly, and
chooses a bereaved dad as her inseminator.  The inseminator's wife joins
the fun, too.  100% fiction, of course, and don't read if you are not of
legal age.
Codes: impreg, lesbian, threesome, MFF
   By A.Muller
   I'd always liked Christmas, but that was before the wreck that claimed
my daughter and son.  Jessica was a junior in college, and Tyler was just
starting his career after graduation.  They had come home for the holiday
and, on Christmas Eve afternoon at 2:26, a drunk driver with two DUI
convictions to his name and a bottle of vodka in his belly, had crossed the
center line and killed them both.  One horrible, awful "bam!" and two lives
were snuffed out before they had barely begun.  The drunk lived on for a
few days, and then he died, too.  It didn't make me feel any better.
   At age 56 I was suddenly childless, my wife, Deidre, was
post-menopausal, and we had been looking forward to traveling a bit now
that the kids were raised, not at starting another family.  And how the
hell could we?  Deidre couldn't have any more kids, and while we could try
to adopt, that could take years.  Sure, we could try to hire a surrogate,
but frankly, we were too damn old to be changing diapers and getting up in
the middle of the night with a screaming baby, and I sincerely doubted that
Deidre would be enthusiastic at the idea of quitting her job to raise some
other woman's child simply to give me another chance at genetic
immortality.
   I've always kept myself in pretty good shape, but I gotta admit, I'm a
middle-aged guy.  Sure, I jog, and I push myself away from the dinner table
before I'm tempted by seconds, but I'm not the sexiest guy alive, believe
me, and there's no way I could squeeze into my college jeans, even if I
still had them.  So I was more than flattered one Saturday morning when,
while out for a jog, a neighbor on the next block who couldn't have been
more than 22 or 23 waved cheerfully at me as she pushed a baby carriage out
her entranceway and onto the sideway.  I simply had to stop.
   "Hi!  I'm Steve.  Steve Alfson.  How old's your, uh, son?"
   "Rachel's 4 months old, and definitely a girl, Steve."
   Shit.  I'd put my mouth in gear before noticing the pink clothing on the
kid.  But hey, the baby carriage was blue!  The young woman didn't look
perturbed, though, and surprised the heck out of me when she put her hand
on mine, lightly, and smiled broadly.  "It's OK, Steve.  You're not the
first person to mistake Rachel for a boy.  I shouldn't have borrowed my
cousin's baby blue baby carriage.  And by the way, my name is Megan Kirpen,
and I'm glad to meet you."
   The conversation picked up after that.  I quickly learned that Megan was
a war widow and former college soccer player.  She'd married at age 21,
when she was two months pregnant and three weeks away from exiting college
with a degree in marketing.  Her brand-new ROTC husband, Michael, was
commissioned as a lieutenant and almost immediately found himself in
Afghanistan, where a renegade Afghan corporal turned his gun on a bunch of
Americans, killing Michael and a couple of other guys.
   I began to tell Megan how the drunk had killed my children when she
interrupted, "I heard about your troubles, Steve, from your
next-door-neighbor Mrs.  Hickson.  She and I got to talking yesterday, when
I was walking Rachel."
   Mrs.  Hickson was one of the neighborhood gossips, so I wasn't all that
surprised that she'd told Megan.  "Oh," I said.  "Well, my troubles are
nothing compared with yours.  If there's anything I can do for you, please
let me know."
   Megan looked at me, smiled, and said, to my utter surprise, "Actually,
Steve, I could use your help now, if you've got a few minutes.  Please come
inside with me, if you don't mind." She turned and headed back into her
house.  I couldn't help but notice as she walked into the house that she'd
nicely recovered her shape after childbirth.  I pegged her as 5-foot-5 or
-6, maybe 120 pounds, with B-cup breasts and perhaps natural blonde hair,
though I've learned never to assume that a blonde is really a blonde.
   "Steve, I've got a problem," she said as she picked up Rachel and rocked
her in her arms.  "You see, I'm bound and determined not to raise a spoiled
"only" child, and I want my children to be close enough in age to one
another so that they can really grow up together.  And yet, I'm not dating,
I don't have any immediate prospects, and I can't stand the idea of
artificial insemination.
   "I was wondering what to do when I heard about your children's tragic
deaths, and Mrs.  Hickson told me how you'd talked about how you'd like
another family but were too old  -- and, well, Steve, that got me thinking.
If I got pregnant now, today, Rachel would have a brother or sister only 13
months younger than she is." Again, Megan placed her hand on mine and,
looking straight into my eyes, she asked, "Are you interested, Steve?"
   Hell yeah I was interested, and the sudden bulge in my pants was ample
proof.  I gulped and smiled and barely croaked, "I'm absolutely interested,
but, uh --."
   "Steve, listen to me.  I'll find a new husband my own age eventually,
and we'll raise kids together.  I'm not asking you to support me -- I've
got Army life insurance that's more than enough for now, and I already do
some marketing work from home for a local ad agency -- and I'm not asking
you to raise my children, I'm only asking you to give me your love so that
Rachel can have a brother or sister nearly her own age.  How about it,
Steve?"
   A wise man would have said no, or if weak in the groin, at a minimum
discussed it with his lawyer.  If gutsy, that wise man would have attempted
a meaningful discussion with his wife, even though her shouting "Absolutely
not!" and slamming a few doors would be the likely outcome.  That's what a
wise man would have done.  But I had a fullbore erection.
   Suavely, I leaned forward to kiss her, and reached for her shoulders. 
She shook her head almost imperceptibly, and deflected my arms.  "This
isn't about romance, Steve," she said, "this is about sperm donation.  You
ejaculate and I get pregnant, and everyone's happy.  And you better be
quick about it, since you are supposedly jogging and your wife is probably
expecting you back home soon."
   With that, she leaned over, put Rachel in a playpen, walked into the
kitchen, kicked off her shoes, pulled down her jeans and panties, stepped
out of them, and leaned over the breakfast table.  "Fuck me, Steve.  Fuck
me!"
   I dropped my jogging shorts, admired a fancy "M" tattooed on her butt,
and reached for her vulva.  She was sopping wet already, and no sooner had
I touched her than she said, softly: "That feels great, Steve, but we don't
have time.  Just stick it in and fuck me."
   So I did.
   A young cunt, even one that's given birth a few months earlier, is a
heck of a lot tighter and wetter than my wife's 54-year-old much-fucked
tunnel.  My dick was in heaven as I entered her and began pumping.  I'd
like to say that I lasted for a long time, and that we both climaxed
together, but it was not to be.  "Go ahead, cum in me, cum in me.  Quick!
Do it!" she said, and she helped matters along considerably by repeatedly
clinching her cunt around my dick, and she began stroking, teasing,
tickling my left thigh with her hand.
   I hadn't had a fuck like that in years.  Soon I felt the familiar
swelling deep in my balls, and I climaxed, pumping shot after shot of spunk
into her cunt.  "Thank you, Steve.  Thank you!" she said, and kept clamping
her cunt tighter and tighter, or at least it seemed tighter as my dick
swelled and pulsed.
   Then it was over, and she pulled away from me and knelt down on the
floor, as if praying to Mecca with her head on the rug.  "I'm gonna stay
like this for a while, Steve, to make sure it doesn't leak out.  You better
get going.
   "Before you go, though, you'd better clean yourself up with that dishrag
by the sink, so you don't smell like sex when you get home."
   I pulled my jogging shorts up and knelt down to kiss her.  She still
wouldn't kiss, though, so I settled for rubbing and patting her ass few
times.
   "Steve, we need to fuck as much as possible over the next few days. 
It's now a bit before 9 a.m.  Can you come by in a few hours, say 1 or 2,
so we can do it again?"
   "I'll be over here," I replied.  I sure as shit wasn't going to pass up
another poke at her young cunt, and I figured that even at my age, I'd be
able to perform again in a few hours.
   "Great!  Oh, and Steve, you need to swing by this evening and tomorrow
morning, too.  Are you up for that much fucking?" Megan looked up from the
floor, where her head rested on the carpet, with a broad, sexy smile on her
face.  "Are you, Steve?  Can you fuck that much at your age?" She wiggled
her ass and giggled.
   She certainly was having fun teasing me, and unfortunately she was right
to have some doubts.  A guy in his 50s can do a lot of things, but
round-the-clock fucking might not be one of them.  "Uh, I'm not sure, but
I'll give it all I've got," I replied.
   "Do and your wife usually screw on Saturday nights, like a lot of
couples do?" Megan asked.
   "We do, actually," I said hesitantly.  I must have looked even more
worried that I felt, for Megan laughed.
   "That's OK, Steve.  You'll be fine.  Mommy-to-be has some helpers." She
directed me to one of the kitchen cabinets, where I found several bottles
of 50mg Mexican viagra.  "You should be fine "au naturel" for the first
fuck every morning, Steve, but go ahead and take one pill about an hour
before you come over here in the afternoons and evenings.  And Steve, be
sure to take two the hour before you try screwing your wife, or chances are
you'll have some explaining to do."
   I grabbed the bottles, wiped my dick with the dishrag and headed out the
door, not believing what had just happened.
   END of part 1 
  
The Lieutenant's Widow part 1