I am so lonely. I need a nice gentleman to help me. I am an older widow. My husband, George, may he rest his soul, died an untimely death 20 years ago of heart failure. Ever since then I have been alone, never drinking from the wonderful pool of sexual intimacy since those dark days of grieving and despair. I sank into a dark depression after George’s death, wearing black, painting my face kabuki white, with bright red lipstick. I so loved George that I always wanted him with me although I knew he could never be with me ever again. I had kept Monsieur Rouge, my cat, and Monsieur Passer au Crible, my beloved Pomeranian, with me by having them freeze dried and stuffed, forever gazing out over the city their paws loved to travel. It became my decision to have George preserved, to be always smiling at me from the chair he so loved to sit in when we shared tea. We still share our tea today; it is wonderful to see him everyday, locked into a smile with that ever-pensive look that so attracted me to him when we first met atop the Eiffel Tower. Last summer, a rodent infiltrated my apartment. One night while refilling my glass with cognac, the rodent revealed himself to me. Now I see it as sign from George or a power greater then myself. The beast scurried out of the breadbasket, down the counter, jumped onto the railing leading out of the kitchen, and disappeared into the blackness of the living room. The next morning I investigated the living room to see if I could locate the point of entry. While searching by the front windows, I decided to give my beloved companion Monsieur Passer au Crible a caress. He felt soft, and his skin did not present the usual amount of resistance, I had grown so used to over the years. He felt hollow, and echoed when rapped upon by my wedding ring. I picked him up, and noticed his well-gnawed and tattered sphincter. It appeared that the beast had taken refuge in Monsieur Passer au Crible, gaining entrance by severing the strings that for 25 years had held his dehydrated sphincter shut, in an immortal puckered wink. I discovered that Monsieur Rouge had befallen the same fate. George, oh my sweet, could it be that like Goldie Locks testing the porridge, this best was looking for the perfect habitué? I rushed to George and carried him to the bedroom, as he did on our wedding night. The back of his pants showed the telltale signs of entry. But what is this, I could hear something moving about in George? I stripped George down to he nakedness and discovered that his penis and testicles had been either consumed by the beast or carried away and fashioned into a nest. I gave George’s stomach a push and felt something move under the pressure, muscular and strong, nerves alive. At that moment the beast came bounding out of George’s gaping groin with what appeared to be my beloveds penis betwixt he teeth, like a bull through the gates in Pamplona: scared, hungry, alone like me. He ran and leapt out the window onto a tree branch, and I have never seen him again, but the message was not lost on me. That night I found myself on my knees before my husband with a nail file, plucking the stuffing out of him through the hole in his groin. Like the men I was so fascinated with as a young woman who Escaped From Alcatraz by chipping the besotted concrete from around the ventilation grates, I worked hollowing out my George, disposing of the innards down the garbage disposal. I installed a zipper on the torso, quick release Velcro on the legs and arms, thimbles in the tips of his fingers, and attached snaps to the front and back flaps of skin on his head so that George can come back to me. I am looking for a gentle man who will be willing to wear this and have tea with me then carry me to the bedroom and make sweet love to me like Gorge did over 30 years ago on our wedding night. I have left the original tattered hole fashioned by the beast, so it will be your penis that enters me. I would also love to have you sit on the edge of the bed with a glass of cognac resting on your left knee and allow me to service you like I did George. Mixing - the smell of the cognac and the taste of you in my mouth will return me back to those few years I had with my beloved George. Afterwards I will bath you, make you a plate of bacon, tomatoes, and a side of half a head of lettuce with homemade buttermilk ranch dressing, just as I did for George. Please have some pity on a lovely older lady, and help he begin to rebuild her life and sanity? If this interests you, please send me your measurements so that I might determine a suitable fit.
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