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During World War II, James Rexham, because of his age, thirty-eight, was unwanted by the US Military.

Unless he was drafted, he would not have volunteered to go off to war. It wasn't that he was a pacificist, it's just that in the military, there were no women. James Rexham's interests were limited to pussy.

The Rexhams were not affected much by the Great Depression. In fact, he plied susceptible women with decent food, a warm bed and like all the Rexham men for centuries, his big cock and talented tongue.

During the war, everywhere in the country, there were widows, distraught mothers, and other females whose loved ones were killed, wounded or missing. James Rexham was in modern terms, a piece of shit. That, too, seemed to be a Rexham male trait.

There was the widow, Betty Colston. She was in her early fifties. Her husband was killed in the First World War, and now her son was somewhere in the Pacific. "Mrs. Colston, if there's anything I can do, just let me know."

"James, I could use the company of a man; someone I could talk to. I'm so worried about my son."

They sat on the couch in her parlor, and Betty Colston poured out her heart. She cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. She leaned against him; his arms encircled her.

"Thank you for listening." Betty reached up and kissed him. Their eyes met. The kisses continued; this time she used her tongue.

James Rexham pulled away. "Mrs. Colston, are you sure?"

"James, I'm positive. I haven't had any love and affection in decades." She kissed him again with her tongue and guided his hand to her breast.

It wasn't that James wasn't getting any; it's just that he just couldn't get enough nor could he say no.

Ten minutes later, "I don't want you to think I'm a tease. That wouldn't be fair." Betty took off her blouse and bra.

And they were back in a lip lock; their tongues busy. Her hand went to his crotch. "James, when my husband was alive, he told me that the things I did to him were incredible. I haven't felt incredible since then, I'd like to feel incredible again. Let me show you my bedroom."

In her bedroom, Betty Colston finished undressing and got under the blankets. "Thank you for doing this, James."

He joined her. "Betty, I'm curious, what did you do to your husband that was so incredible?"

"Let me show you." She threw back the covers and went down on him. "James, oh my, I didn't think . . ." her eyes got big as she stared at his already hard cock. "I've never seen one so big. Not that I've seen any but my husband's."

Over the next few months Mrs. Betty Colston, made every effort to satisfy James Rexham. He praised her skill, "Betty, you are indeed incredible."

"Thank you, James," she said, as she wiped her mouth. She didn't just satisfy him with her mouth. "James, I'm a lady; I was raised to be a lady, but, and please forgive my language, fuck me."

It wasn't just Mrs. Colston. "Margie, I was so sorry to hear about your brother. I hope they find him. If there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to call me." He left his business card.

There were a number of those "margies." Sometimes, it was a brother or a boyfriend or a husband, who was killed, wounded or missing. Invariably they were gorgeous, young women, in their early twenties, usually blonde, and always vulnerable Since he called on three or four women

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