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By now you know my story: I'm a sixty year old widow whose husband was taken from her by someone driving under the influence of alcohol. Steve and lived a life of absolute love, and we allowed nothing to disrupt the complete dedication we had for each other. Our sex life was wonderful as well: hot, imaginative, and we were always open to new experiences. Steve fucked me in a bus station men's room once, and I did the same to him in the dressing room of a lady's dress shop. We were both professors at a local university and although our salaries allowed us to live comfortably, because Steve was also such a wise investor, our personal wealth allowed us to do just about whatever we wanted. After Steve's death, he continued to visit me through his voice. Now, I'm sure you believe I've lost my wits but whenever I'm in a situation that I'm unsure of, Steve's voice comes to me, guiding me, comforting me. Not once since the day we met many, many years ago has Steve let me down or given me bad advice. Even in death.

I took my husband's passing badly, as can be expected. I fell into a deep depression, I let myself go physically, and I reached a point where I simply did not care about anything. My appearance was slovenly, and I rarely visited either the hair salon or the doctor. But one morning close to six months after his death, as he had so often while he was alive, Steve came to me, his voice convincing me to rise out of the depression and to once more lead an enjoyable life. I exercised, ate better, and made sure my appearance was acceptable when I went out in public. I'm tall for a woman - I'm exactly six feet tall - and have ...

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