Part I
When I moved to the country in my retirement, the garden out back was considerably small. I had no family left and in a short period of time afterwards I felt myself growing weaker by the day. Perhaps that what happens to people who have no one left to talk to, no one who calls to check how you are, even if it is just a nurse from a hospital. The physical side takes care of itself, but the mental side is the one that decides whether life has been worth it. But at 54 years of age I should not have been as close to death as I found myself.
The only redeeming feature of my bleak existence was the internet. Just like in a computer game, I had a set amount of gold to spend, but it wasn't gold that would accumulate. In effect, it was all that I had left. For some reason the state pension was not picked up and I couldnt be bothered to talk to automated voice messages that had previously denied that I was Stanley Thomas, despite providing them with the information they requested. Eventually I was too tired to argue. I had all but resigned myself to my fate.
Still, I was considerably excited about the prospect of what to spend in my final days, even though there was a cliched element of 'last meal' about it. It was almost a pleasure lying in a house with no one to bother you, or worry or annoy you. No, my kids had departed these shores long ago, somewhat alienated by my attitude towards them. Even as adults I spoke down to them, because I was a control freak at times. Wouldn't give it up for anything. I had so much power, it drove them away. I was happy for them. My reason for being stern was intentional; that they had outlived their stay in the nest.
My son, Peter said goodbye to his mother and left me a post it note. That was time I heard from him. As for my daughter, Penelope; she stayed a while longer. It wasn't all smooth sailing however. I recall the time she walked in on me by the laundry basket one day, and watched in stunned silence as I joyously rubbed her silk panties all over my face. I was so intoxicated by the smell of her cunt; it was like sniffing a fine wine. She just stood there, hands on hips, the apple of my eye, as I, her perverted father became fully aware of her presence. I was sat on the bathroom floor, as dizzy as hell. If I had found any more of her erotic wear I would have become drunk very quickly.
Suffice to say, Penelope still wanted to stay. She loved me so much, and in her eye I was her hero. We had a heart to heart and she told me to be more careful. After that, she would take her dirty panties or lingerie for a detour to my room for what she called 'processing' and let me be perverted in the privacy of my room, with her consent of course.
I must agree it was a fine arrangement. She had quite a collection and only left me the most erotic, skimpiest and tiniest underwear. Jesus, I could play with them for hours. Bits of cotton, polyester, satin, velvet or silk that had chaffed against her pussy and even, he imagined, got caught between her cunt. Little clefted panty rubbing against her inside her denim jeans or mini skirt. It was a realistic possibility, one that I relished the thought of.
My daughters tiny panties - Oh the sweet sweet smell! from the cunt of my little precious girl was exceedingly welcome and my nasal passages were in heaven. She was, of course a grown woman now but in the eyes of their parents, offspring will always be their child.
It wasn't until my wife passed away when everything changed, almost in the blink of an eye. We hadn't been intimate in years, and rarely spoke to me much near the end. I felt like an arse myself, thinking such terribly thoughts in her absence that spilled out like an oil tanker that had gotten too close to the rocks. Thoughts of a nature that were extreme to say the least. I dreamed of turning her over in her coffin and fucking her up the arse a lot. I even filmed it all somehow and then the dreams would get worse. There would be a passage where my son was visiting his mothers grave using Google Earth: Cemetary View and caught me fucking her corpse up the arse. It was quite demented. I was looking forward to just what else my uncontrollable imagination could cook up.
Unfortunately, Penelope was not coping as well, but I couldn't really see it, I just assumed thats all. Therefore, there was nothing particularly unfortunate about that, other than my own suffering.
She was a struggling artist, was Penelope, and I was... becoming more depraved by the hour. It was as if, my sadistic nature was always there, but my wifes presence had held it at bay all that time. Now I felt the spell was lifted. I felt unbound, and Penelope would feel the brunt of it all I suppose.
