The Widows
"His father's will has one condition: to claim the inheritance, he must spend a week with each of his three widows. Satisfying them in ways his father never could."
The lawyer reads the will.
"To my son Nathan, I leave my entire estate—properties, investments, holdings—valued at approximately thirty-four million dollars."
I exhale. Dad was always rich. I just didn't know how rich.
"However," the lawyer continues, "there is a condition."
Of course there is.
"Nathan must spend one week with each of my three wives, in the order of our marriages. During these weeks, he must satisfy their needs—all of them—to their satisfaction. Only when all three wives confirm their approval will the inheritance be released."
I look across the table at my father's widows.
Three thick, beautiful women stare back at me.
Waiting.
My father was a collector.
Not of art or cars, but of wives. He married Sylvia when he was thirty, divorced when he was forty-five. Married Delilah at fifty, divorced at sixty. Married Rochelle at sixty-five, stayed until he died at seventy-two.
He loved large women. Each wife was bigger than the last.
And now they're all looking at me like I'm the inheritance they've been waiting for.
Week One: Sylvia
Sylvia was my first stepmother.
I was twelve when Dad married her, seventeen when they divorced. She's fifty-eight now, five-six, maybe two-thirty. Her hair is silver, her eyes are sharp, and she still moves like a woman who knows exactly what she wants.
Her apartment is elegant. Minimalist. She pours wine.
"Your father was terrible in bed," she says without preamble. "Did you know that?"
"I... didn't."
"He was generous in other ways. But physically?" She shakes her head. "A disappointment. From start to finish."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want you to know what I'm looking for." She sets down her glass. "I'm not interested in quick, selfish fumbling. I want to be worshipped. Can you do that?"
I meet her eyes.
"Yes."
"Prove it."
I spend seven days learning Sylvia's body.
She's demanding—specific about what she wants, when she wants it, how she wants it done. I eat her for hours. I fuck her in positions she chooses. I worship her breasts, her belly, her thighs.
"Better," she says on day three. "Much better than your father."
By day seven, she's satisfied.
"You'll do," she tells me. "I'll sign the papers."
"That's it?"
"That's it." She kisses my cheek. "Now go satisfy Delilah. She's... needier."
Week Two: Delilah
Delilah was wife number two.
I was twenty-three when they married, twenty-nine when they divorced. She's fifty-two now, five-four, easily two-fifty. Dark skin, full lips, and a body that could stop traffic.
Her house is warm. Colorful. She hugs me when I arrive.
"I've been looking forward to this," she says.
"You have?"
"Your father talked about you constantly. How handsome you were. How kind." She pulls back, looks at me. "He always said I'd like you more than him."
"Did he?"
"He was right." She takes my hand. "Come. Let me show you what I need."
Delilah is sensual.
Where Sylvia was demanding, Delilah is exploratory. She wants to kiss for hours. Wants me to massage every inch of her body. Wants slow, deep lovemaking that lasts until dawn.
"Your father was always in a hurry," she explains. "Always moving to the next thing. I need someone who stays."
I stay.
I stay inside her for hours. I stay between her thighs until my jaw aches. I stay in her bed, holding her, until she falls asleep in my arms.
"You're wonderful," she whispers on day six.
By day seven, she's more than satisfied.
"I'll sign anything," she tells me. "Just promise you'll visit."
"I will."
"Good." She kisses me deeply. "Now go to Rochelle. She needs you most of all."
Week Three: Rochelle
Rochelle was the last wife.
She's forty-nine—younger than me by five years—and she was with my father until the end. She's also the biggest: five-three, two-eighty, with curves that could swallow a man whole.
Her house is the one my father died in.
She opens the door in a nightgown.
"I've been waiting," she says. "Every day since the funeral."
"Waiting for what?"
"For someone to touch me." She pulls me inside. "He couldn't. At the end. He wanted to, but his body..." She trails off. "I've been alone for years. Even while he was alive."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." She leads me to the bedroom. "Make it up to me."
Rochelle is desperate.
Not in a sad way—in a hungry way. She's been starved for touch, for attention, for the feel of a man inside her. And now she's ravenous.
"Fuck—yes—more—"
I fuck her every day. Multiple times. In every room of the house my father died in, I make his youngest widow scream.
"He never made me feel like this," she gasps. "Never—God—"
By day four, she's crying with relief.
By day seven, she's in love.
"I'll sign the papers," she says. "But I want you to stay."
"Stay?"
"Here. With me." She wraps her arms around me. "I know it's crazy. I know I was married to your father. But I've never felt this way. Never."
I look at her. This woman my father couldn't satisfy. This woman who's been waiting for something more.
"I'll think about it."
She kisses me.
"That's all I ask."
The Inheritance
All three widows sign.
The money is mine. The properties. The investments. Everything my father built.
But I'm thinking about something else.
I call a meeting.
All three of them. Same lawyer's office.
"I have a proposal," I say.
They wait.
"You were all married to my father. You all deserved better than he gave you. And you all—" I pause. "—seem to want something he couldn't provide."
"What are you proposing?" Sylvia asks.
"I'm proposing we continue. Not for a week. Forever."
Silence.
"All three of us?" Delilah asks.
"All three. I'll take care of you. Worship you. Give you everything my father didn't."
"Together?" Rochelle whispers.
"However you want it. Separate. Together. Whatever makes you happy."
They look at each other.
Then Sylvia laughs.
"Your father would hate this."
"Probably."
"Good." She stands. Walks to my side. "I'm in."
Delilah joins her. "Me too."
Rochelle completes the circle. "Always."
After
I inherit more than money.
I inherit three women who needed more than my father could give. Who found it in his son. Who share me now, willingly, joyfully.
Sylvia gets Mondays and Thursdays.
Delilah gets Tuesdays and Fridays.
Rochelle gets Wednesdays and Saturdays.
Sundays are for all of us.
"Your father's biggest mistake," Sylvia says one night, "was thinking money was enough."
"What's enough?"
"This." Delilah curls against me. "Attention. Desire. Time."
"Love," Rochelle adds softly.
I hold them all.
"You have all of it."
They do.
And so do I.