Susan was thirty-two years old, much too young to be a widow, and especially a widow with steaming desires that were very hard to control. She was tall, slender and very lovely. Her hair was dark, almost a bronze color, and her eyes were unusually blue. Her face could grace the cover of any magazine, and her body was what boys and men dreamed of, waking up with a gushing cock in their hands. She knew she was beautiful, but she accepted it. She did not flaunt it, nor was she vain about it. Having two children had not left a mark on her, and she did not have to watch her diet or exercise to maintain her wet-dream body. It was a body to be shared, to enjoy, to take delight in, a body that loved to be touched, caressed, made love to. Susan was very receptive to touch, to sight. Her husband had shown her she had hidden hungers, and had opened her up until she had little, if any, inhibitions with him.
Yet they had been careful around Ginger and Toby.
Her and son had never caught them, never seen the wild, delicious things they did with each other.
She thought of them, walking slowly through the lemon grove. Toby, growing fast, was the oldest by a year. It amused Susan as she watched him try to imitate his father, to be the man his father was. He was an energetic boy, always working in the groves. He was not much help yet, but in a few more years he would be working the groves like a grown man. He was starting to gain muscles, his voice recently changing to a deeper tone, still shrill at times, then unexpectedly dropping into hoarseness.