Six Months to Live

A 46-year-old millionaire learns his heart will give out in less than a year. He decides to spend his remaining time doing what he loves best: screwing!

Part One

My name is Oliver Madison. Sadly, I am no longer alive. I’ve been gone for a long time, having died in 1973. Therefore, this story is being told to you from the mysterious Great Beyond.

I was 46 years old in August of 1972 when I visited my family doctor. I suspected the outcome of my physical exam was going to be less than optimal. The males in my family had a long history of heart problems. My paternal grandfather and great-grandfather both died of heart issues in their early sixties. My father didn’t even make it that far; he passed away at age 58. I knew I had what was charitably described as “a weak heart” in my early twenties. I had hoped to be a professional athlete as I was a pretty fair baseball and hockey player in my youth, but I tended to tire easily. For a while, I played tennis regularly, but I found that pastime to be even more physically taxing than playing hockey or baseball, so I gave up that sport, too. I took up golf on the recreational level only because I could ride in a cart to get from one hole to another.

Anyway, my doctor didn’t like the looks of me and sent me for a battery of tests at the local hospital. The experts on staff there confirmed I had a bad heart—which was no secret—but it was worse than I thought. My heart’s capacity to keep me alive was degenerating so rapidly that I didn’t have long to live. My doctor told me bluntly that I would be lucky if I were still around in a year. I knew from experience from friends and family members whose health was declining that such estimates were often overly optimistic. A more accurate guess could often be obtained by dividing the doctor’s statement in two. In other words, I really didn’t have a full year left to live. In all probability, it was likely closer to six months.

I accepted the grim news as best I could. I always figured I’d never live to be a centenarian, but I thought I’d at least make it halfway there. My doctor advised me to live my life to its fullest in the dwindling time I had left. I wholeheartedly agreed—no pun intended. To me, that primarily meant one thing: engaging in a surplus of fucking!

When I was a young boy, a lot of my male friends and classmates had no use for girls. I was the total reverse. I wasn’t an effeminate boy; I was quite the opposite. From about the age of seven I had a keen desire to physically explore every female I encountered—especially those ones who around my own age. One Saturday afternoon in June I somehow sweet-talked a second-grade classmate and neighbor of mine named Virginia Riggins to share a cool bath with me on a hot day. We had a marvelous time learning about the body parts of the opposite sex for about five minutes until we were accidentally discovered by my mother. She was horrified by what she had stumbled upon, but when she later told my father about it, he erupted with enthusiastic laughter. “How old is Oliver? He’s only seven, right?” Dad remarked. “Hey, he’s a true chip off the old block—but even I waited until I was about nine before I did something like that with a neighbor girl.”

Without trying to sound immodest, I was a fairly handsome kid who had no trouble attracting smitten female classmates to me, beginning with the aforementioned Virginia. I first had sexual intercourse—or something close to it—at the age of ten with the very easygoing and compliant Anita Summersby. When I discovered that I was physically able to ejaculate at the age of 12, I thought it was the greatest feeling a male could possibly have! Therefore, I wanted to do it as often as I could with any girl at all as a sex partner. I wasn’t choosy in the slightest. Within a year, I had a list of carnal triumphs numbering at least a dozen. I did have my favorite girls, though. Pretty Daphne Murphy was so appealing to me in the seventh grade that I twice came before I could get my pants off. That was highly embarrassing for me on both occasions. (At the very least, Daphne taught me the value of physical self-control.) Somehow, I didn’t become a teenage father and I never had a longtime relationship with any of the females I screwed. To me, they existed as sex objects, thus my interest in them was purely physical. I don’t apologize for not being a romantic, either. I concluded I was wired to have sex, and plenty of it. That was my life in a nutshell. It was that plain and simple.

Besides my carnal hobby, I did have a career as an independent businessman, and I did very well at it. I made a lot of money in the import and grocery business once the Second World War ended, becoming a millionaire before the age of 40. Thus, at the age of 46 and approaching the end of my life, I had the financial wherewithal to spend my fortune as I saw fit. I saw fit to go on a major fucking spree until I expired.

Using one of my old business contacts, I decided to reach out to someone I knew in Costa Rica. He was a tropical-fruit magnate named Ricardo Montanez, whom I had met in person only twice before, but I often spoke to him on the telephone to make one deal after another that benefitted both of us. Once was during a trip I made to San Jose, the capital city. I made an offhand remark that the Costa Rican women I had seen in passing were very appealing to me. He told me that I could be a very happy man in his country because prostitution was basically legal and relatively inexpensive. I made a mental note of Ricardo’s comment and never forgot it. Not long after my diagnosis, I surprised Ricardo by telephoning him, informing him about my bad medical report, and telling him how I intended to spend whatever time I had left.

“Ricardo, this might come as a surprise to you, but I’ve honestly given this a lot of thought. Based on what you told me a few years ago, I think I’d like to relocate to Costa Rica and fuck as many beautiful women in your country as I can while I still can!” I said rather bluntly. “Can you help me make arrangements to do that?”

For someone whom I had only met twice in person, Ricardo was extremely sympathetic and helpful. He insisted that I be his house guest at his mansion in San Jose. (Ricardo was a widower, so he said he’d appreciate my companionship.) Ricardo officially hired me as a special consultant, which meant I could stay in his country indefinitely. He also told me that he would make arrangements at a nearby brothel for me to have a nonstop supply of hookers to sample as often as I wanted to enjoy them. Furthermore, Ricardo absolutely refused any sort of payment or rent because he claimed my sizable business deals with him over the years had enabled him to live a life of luxury. What a great friend this wonderful man turned out to be! In return, I arranged to have a dozen cases of French champagne accompany me to Ricardo’s home as a spectacular thank-you gift because I knew he absolutely loved it.

I arrived in Costa Rica on September 2, 1972. It was a Saturday. Ricardo met me at the airport in his chauffeured limo and took me to my new—and presumably final—home. It was a spectacular place, and that was a modest assessment.

As soon as I got settled into my new lodgings, Ricardo served me a huge steak dinner. (To be more precise, his staff served me the meal.) It was a wonderful repast. Then he explained to me in perfect English that the brothel he had selected for me was located only about a mile from his home. When I said that was certainly within walking distance, Ricardo promptly shot down that idea. He told me I needed to save my energy for where it counted. His chauffeur would drive me there whenever I wanted a roll in the hay and pick me up whenever I wanted to come back to the mansion. I was told that there was "plenty of fine poontang" to enjoy there. That was an amusing term I had never heard before, and I told him so. I also said I was interested in beginning what I was calling "my carnal farewell tour" as soon as possible. Ricardo thought that term I had coined was very funny, and he praised me for having such a positive outlook on life, all things considered. Within ten minutes I was on my way to the cathouse—with Carlos tagging along for some horizontal fun, too!

"I've been a widower for more than three years now, " he explained. "I'm about a decade older than you are, Oliver, but I have the same male urges that you have. Sometimes I drop by the brothel for a quick fuck. Call me crazy, but I like screwing comely 20-year-olds—females who are quite a bit younger than I am and who are in their sexual prime."

"Oh, Ricardo! Yes, you are definitely a crazy man for wanting to bed young women!" I told him sarcastically. "Honestly, I've never heard of such a thing before!"

Ricardo laughed again and kindly said to me, "Oliver, you are going to be a fun friend to have around the house. I think we have a similar outlook on life's basic pleasures. There's nothing more basic and pleasurable than sex, of course!"

I couldn't agree more!

Part Two

When we arrived at the brothel, Ricardo, speaking Spanish, quickly took care of the arrangements with the manager who was on duty. Ricardo was obviously a familiar patron there. Adjacent to the lobby, there was an elevated area, something like a small stage, where about ten females sat on folding chairs waiting patiently. Some looked eager; others looked bored. They wore a wide array of clothing—most of it skimpy. Obviously, they were the girls who were available at the moment to be selected by the brothel’s customers to perform sexual services.

Ricardo and I both eyed one particular leggy beauty who wore a tag on her long black dress that said “#14”. I noticed that girl #15, who was sitting three chairs to her left, closely resembled her. I figured the two of them had to be sisters—perhaps even twins. I politely allowed Ricardo to have Girl #14. I was more than happy to bed the reasonable facsimile, who was clad in a tight yellow t-shirt that advertised a shoe company, off-white shorts, and sandals. I saw the manager speak to my girl briefly before sending her out to greet me. She nodded at him.

“I am Ruby. We go to Room #4 now for a nice fuck, mister, ” she said in passable English. Then Ruby surprisingly added, “I know you have a bad heart, so don’t have stress. We will enjoy a gentle fuck together, okay?”

She had obviously been informed about my weak spot and was trying to be as accommodating as possible. That didn’t bother me; in fact, I appreciated it. I promptly kissed Ruby on the cheek. That act of affection surprised her. Ruby probably wasn’t used to customers doing anything like that.

Room #4 had a large mattress on the floor covered by a light blue bedsheet. There were a few hooks on the wall for clothing; a large, padded chair that had seen better days; a sink with a half-empty bottle of liquid soap nearby; two rolls of paper towels; and not much else. It wasn’t the Ritz Hotel, but it wasn’t supposed to be. It served its purpose as an adequate venue for recreational fucking!

Ruby was probably an alias. In my estimation she was likely about 22 years old—certainly no older than 25. She had attractive, shimmering shoulder-length black hair, but that was secondary to her other features. Ruby unquestionably had a lovely figure with attributes that invited male fondling. The moment she removed her brassiere, I stood behind Ruby and placed my hands squarely on her firm, round tits. I squeezed them gently and played with her nipples. They became hard instantly—as solid as a key part of my anatomy had been from the moment that we entered Room #4 together.

I could have played with Ruby’s goodies all day, but I had to disrobe, too, of course. Ruby, who had shed her clothing completely, pleasantly surprised me by kneeling to give me a terrific blowjob as soon as I shed my trousers. She had obviously had great experience with this delightful sexual act. I complimented her efforts by stating one word: “Fantastic!”

Ruby’s blowjob got me fully prepared for intercourse, so I wasted no time in ramming her cute, shaved pussy in the traditional missionary position of intercourse. Heart trouble be damned! I aggressively drove my penis into her with all the physical effort I could muster. Her pussy became noticeably wetter, and I continued to ravage it. This was about as basic as sex could get. As Ruby moaned, I grunted. After about five minutes, I knew an orgasm was inevitable. I continued to relentlessly screw the lovely Ruby, however, not considering for a second about withdrawing my dick from her vagina. I deposited a very sizable load of goo into her hole which pleased me on a couple of levels. Above all, I was most happy that I hadn’t keeled over with a heart attack as I had quietly feared might happen. It was a great beginning to how I wanted to spend my final days.

Ruby seemed to like the outcome, too. She noted, “Ah, that was a good fuck, mister! You made me come, too. But you must be careful! Your heart is not strong.”

I thanked Ruby for her ongoing concern and said that I was feeling just fine despite my noteworthy exertions. I noticed my penis was not quite fully flaccid yet, so I returned it to its happy place—Ruby’s pussy—where I gently resumed my penetration of her with short, relaxing thrusts. Ruby got into the spirit by positioning herself atop me and sensually riding me. After about 10 minutes of this pleasurable experience, Ruby fell forward onto me—still impaled by my erection—and we exchanged kisses. This was highly irregular behavior from a sex professional, but I liked it! “Girlfriend treatment!” she succinctly explained. I attained a second, smaller ejaculation, and not long afterward I joined Ricardo in the lobby where he was waiting patiently for me. He was a happy man, too, having had also a marvelous time riding Girl #14.

Ricardo joked, “Well, I see you didn’t die from the strain and excitement of screwing such a young beauty, Oliver. Good for you. You lived to fuck another day!”

“Yeah...that day will be tomorrow!” I informed him.

Part Three

The next day I did return to the brothel, but by myself. Ricardo’s chauffeur gave me a ride there. That service would become a convenient part of my daily routine. This time at the brothel I asked for the youngest girl they had available in order to test my stamina further. (Okay, of course, I also wanted some teenage pussy to fuck!) The girl that came forward, #37, was purported to be 18 years old, but I had my doubts about that stat. She was not as attractive as Ruby, but she was definitely no slouch as a sex partner. I never did learn her name, but I did learn that her preference was to be fucked doggie-style. (I had asked her what she liked to do sexually, which is the exact opposite of what usually happens with prostitution!) I willingly accommodated her, figuring a happy hooker would be an especially excellent and compliant bedmate.

This time I was given Room #3. It was barely distinguishable from Room #4. My youthful hooker wasn’t quite as busty as Ruby. Either. However, she possessed a delightful set of firm, pokey breasts with very prominent nipples for me to suck on. They were visible long before she disrobed. They appealed to me greatly, so I helpfully assisted her remove her garments. Those tits were fun items to grope while I was drilling her from behind. It took me about 15 minutes to ejaculate. I figured I hadn’t quite recovered from my two orgasms with Ruby the day before, as my cum shot lacked the same volume and intensity as it had 24 hours earlier. Nevertheless, as was the case with my romps with Ruby, I made sure that every drop of my jism ended up inside my partner’s vagina. I quite liked this girl, so I kept her on the mattress with me for nearly an hour after coming just to enjoy her wonderful tits. That was long a trait of mine. I had always loved girls’ breasts—even the tiny ones I had first experienced before reaching puberty.

Hardly a day went by without my visiting the brothel for its horizontal delights. I was never disappointed, not even once. There was enough staff turnover that I never had the same hooker twice during the six months I resided in San Jose. My favorite girl was likely one named Emerald—again likely a working name only. She was probably in her early 30s, but she beat all the other employees of the brothel with her high level of sexual enthusiasm! If my experience with her was a typical one, Emerald really aimed to please her customers! She basically took charge of our intercourse—which I didn’t mind at all. She proceeded to give me the best blow job of my entire life. Then she rode me aggressively cowgirl-style until I launched a massive load into her vagina. The surplus cum oozed out of Emerald’s pussy and onto my groin. She merrily licked it off and swallowed it with a smile. She was a pro’s pro! “That was top-notch service!” I told her as we snuggled together on the mattress. Her English was poor, so I doubted that she understood my praiseful words. I made a point of telling the manager what a great time she had provided me.

Eventually, the inevitable happened. I had completed a fairly routine screw with Girl #19 one Sunday afternoon in March 1973. I never learned her name, which was typical of me. She was a supremely cute trollop: a petite, short-haired gal with slightly oversize tits, likely in her early twenties. She was an excellent fuck and a huge turn-on for me. I ejaculated fairly quickly inside her pussy, laid down beside her on the mattress, wrapped my arms around her, fondled her tits...and quietly expired. I had lived for just 6 months after I had wrongly been told by my physician that I had twice that long to live. That was about what I had expected, however.

I died having no direct living relatives. My parents were both deceased. I was an only child. I had some cousins I barely knew, but since they were basically strangers to me, I didn’t figure they had any right to my estate. It was still sizable—in excess of seven-figures. It had not depleted at all since my stay in San Jose was basically free, thanks to Ricardo’s amazing hospitality. In January, two months prior to my death, I made a point of revising my will for the first time in more than 20 years. The amended version stated that I wished to leave everything to a charity of Ricardo’s choice—with two exceptions. As I had been a very satisfied customer, I left $100,000 to be split evenly among the 193 hookers I had enjoyed at the brothel I had so often frequented. I had diligently kept track of all the girls’ numbers in a notebook for this purpose. I also left $10,000 to Ricardo’s chauffeur for services rendered.