The Support Group

I started volunteering six months ago.

After my wife left—took the kids, the house, half my retirement—I needed something. Structure. Purpose. A reason to leave my apartment.

The grief support group at St. Catherine's needed someone to set up chairs and make coffee.

I didn't expect to become the grief counselor.

I definitely didn't expect what happened next.

There are eleven regular members.

Widows, mostly. Some widowers. All dealing with loss, with loneliness, with the particular hell of coming home to an empty house.

Four of them started staying after meetings.

"Just to talk," Margaret said the first time. She's sixty-two, white-haired, with the body of a woman who stopped caring what society thought decades ago. Two-eighty if she's a pound.

"We like the coffee," Dorothy added. She's fifty-eight, brunette, quieter than Margaret but no less present. Maybe two-sixty.

"It's lonely at home," Carol agreed. She's fifty-four, the youngest, red-haired, with a figure that strains against every outfit. Two-fifty, probably.

"We need male energy," Francine finished. She's seventy, the oldest, white-haired like Margaret but sharper-eyed. Maybe two-seventy.

They needed someone to talk to.

I needed someone to listen.

It seemed harmless.

The first hint came three months in.

We were in the rec room after a meeting, chairs pushed aside, coffee cooling. Margaret was telling a story about her late husband—how he'd stopped touching her after his diagnosis, how she'd spent his final years without intimacy.

"Three years," she said. "Three years without being held. Without being wanted."

"Same here," Dorothy murmured. "Robert was sick for two. Before that, our marriage was already..."

"Cold?" Carol offered.

"Dead."

They all nodded. Francine caught my eye.

"What about you, Michael? You're divorced, not widowed. But you understand loneliness."

"I do."

"Then you understand what we need." She stood. Walked toward me. "What we've been coming here for."

"I thought you came for the coffee."

"We came for you."

They didn't ask.

Margaret took my hand. Dorothy took my other hand. Carol and Francine flanked me, bodies pressing close.

"Six months of watching you," Margaret said. "Six months of wanting. We've talked about it. All four of us. And we've agreed."

"Agreed to what?"

"To share." Francine's hand found my chest. "One man. Four women. No jealousy. No competition. Just... comfort."

"Ladies, I'm flattered, but—"

"But nothing." Carol started unbuttoning my shirt. "We're old enough to know what we want. We're lonely enough to take it. And you—"

"You're kind enough to give it," Dorothy finished.

They closed around me.

Four women. Nearly eleven hundred pounds combined.

All of them hungry.

All of them mine.

That first night was overwhelming.

They took turns—one on my mouth, one on my cock, two coaching from the sides. Then they switched. And switched again.

Margaret likes it slow, deep, with eye contact.

Dorothy likes it hard, fast, from behind.

Carol likes to ride, grinding, controlling the pace.

Francine likes to be worshipped—feet, legs, belly, breasts—before she lets me inside.

I learned all of this that first night.

By morning, I could barely walk.

The arrangement became formalized.

Every Wednesday after the support group meeting. Same rec room, doors locked, chairs pushed aside, a nest of blankets in the corner.

They bring food—home-cooked, excessive, nurturing.

I bring myself.

"Consider it therapy," Margaret said once. "For all of us."

"A mutual benefit society," Dorothy agreed.

"Grief management," Carol added.

"Fucking," Francine said bluntly. "We're fucking. Let's not pretend it's anything else."

We're fucking.

I'm not pretending.

Month Four

The dynamics have solidified.

Margaret is the leader. She decides the order, settles disputes, ensures everyone gets equal time.

Dorothy is the organizer. She tracks schedules, brings supplies, makes sure no one suspects.

Carol is the youngest and most demanding. She wants more than her share, pushes boundaries, tests limits.

Francine is the eldest and most experienced. She's done things with three husbands that the others can barely imagine. She teaches us.

And me?

I'm the center.

The reason they gather.

The axis around which four lonely widows have rebuilt something like joy.

They have rules.

Rule 1: No jealousy. If I spend more time with one woman in a session, the others don't complain. They know their turn will come.

Rule 2: No outside attachments. I don't date. I don't fuck anyone else. They're my only obligation.

Rule 3: Total discretion. The church doesn't know. The other group members don't know. This stays between us.

Rule 4: Unanimous consent. Any changes to the arrangement require all four to agree. No exceptions.

Rule 5: Enjoy it. Guilt is not permitted. We're not hurting anyone. We're healing each other.

Month Five

Carol breaks Rule 4.

She shows up at my apartment on a Saturday. Alone. Without permission.

"I need more," she says, pushing inside. "They don't understand. I haven't been touched in years. Wednesdays aren't enough."

"Carol, the rules—"

"Fuck the rules." She's already undressing. Two hundred and fifty pounds of desperate widow. "I need you. Now. Please."

I should send her away.

Instead, I take her to my bedroom.

When Margaret finds out, there will be consequences.

Right now, I don't care.

Margaret finds out.

"You broke the arrangement," she says at the next meeting. The others sit in judgment—Dorothy neutral, Francine angry, Carol defiant.

"It was my fault," Carol says. "I pushed him."

"And he let you." Margaret looks at me. "You let her have something we all share. That's not acceptable."

"What would be acceptable?"

"Punishment." Francine leans forward. "You've been selfish. Both of you. So now you pay."

The punishment is... creative.

They make Carol watch.

I fuck all three of them, one after another, while Carol sits bound to a chair. She can watch, but she can't touch. She can't participate. She can only see what she risked losing.

Margaret first. Then Dorothy. Then Francine. They take their time, drag it out, make sure Carol sees everything.

"This is what you almost gave up," Margaret says during. "The group. The sisterhood. The sharing."

Carol cries.

When it's finally her turn—hours later—she's so desperate that she comes before I'm fully inside her.

"I'm sorry," she gasps. "I'll never break the rules again."

"See that you don't." Margaret's voice is soft, but firm. "We've built something here. Something precious. It only works if we trust each other."

They forgive her.

They forgive me.

And the arrangement continues.

Month Six: Present Day

Wednesday night.

The meeting ends at eight. The other members leave by eight-thirty. By nine, the doors are locked, the blankets are spread, and I'm surrounded.

Four widows. Four different hungers. One purpose.

"Who goes first tonight?" I ask.

They look at each other. A silent negotiation. A decision.

"All of us," Margaret says. "Together. We want to try something new."

I lie down on the blankets.

They surround me.

And for the next three hours, I'm shared completely—hands and mouths and bodies, passing me between them, each taking what she needs.

I come four times.

They come more.

Afterward, we lie together.

Eleven hundred pounds of satisfied women, piled around me like I'm something precious.

"Thank you," Dorothy whispers.

"For what?"

"For being here. For seeing us." She strokes my chest. "Most people look right through us. Too old. Too big. Too sad."

"You look at us," Carol adds. "You want us. You have no idea what that means."

I think I'm starting to.

Grief brought us together.

Loneliness kept us close.

And something else—something I don't have words for—has transformed us into family.

Not the family society expects.

But the family we need.

Four widows.

One man.

And an arrangement that might just last forever.