The kid bagging her groceries was staring at her
tits—again. Sam absolutely adored the attention. She knew with utter certainty
that she could have the boy—What was he, maybe nineteen?—with little more
than a wink and a smile, not that she particularly wanted him. She just enjoyed
the power trip.
On her last birthday, her fiftieth, Sam abruptly decided to give up the battle
against aging. Until that point, she spent a great deal of time, money, and
energy fighting the inevitable—and still losing. So, several months ago, she
stopped coloring her hair and got a carefree cut, scaled way back on the makeup,
ditched the professional manicures, and eased into a much more casual wardrobe.
She found the metamorphosis surprisingly liberating. Rather than lessening the
attention received, Sam discovered—much to her delight—that everyone found her
natural appearance considerably more enticing.
Feeling good, as opposed to merely looking good, became Sam's new focus. With
the money saved, she invested in a home exercise center: treadmill, recumbent
cycle, weights, and ballet barre. She didn't have a weight problem, but she'd
been quite out of shape. The newly acquired fitness felt good—very, very, VERY
good. And, wonder of wonders, her butt climbed back up where it belonged,
instead of continuing its glacial slide toward her knees. With the time and
energy saved, she had sex; lots and lots of autoerotic sex. If masturbation was
a religion, Sam was its high priestess. She experimented with vibrators and Ben
Wa balls and stimulating creams and anal beads—most of which Richard provided
when manufacturers sent him samples—and all of which enhanced, rather than
sated, her incredible libido.