I'm almost 60. My wife died three years ago and now I live alone. Well, technically I live alone. But it's a rare weekend that I don't have a friend or two inviting themselves to stay. Keeping an eye on me, I guess. Or perhaps it's just because I live in central London.

Mostly my guests are people around my own age. Recently, however, I got a call from an old girlfriend to say that her daughter was going to be in London for a few days.

Emma (the old girlfriend) said that her daughter was going to be doing some course or other, and she wondered if it would be OK if she stayed at my place. I told her that would be fine. I also said that I was in the middle of a major project, so she'd have to pretty much look after herself. Emma said that wouldn't be a problem: Sally was 25 and quite used to looking after herself. It's funny how you lose track of the years. The last time I had seen Sally, she was still at school.

In due course Sally arrived, and I must say that, apart from being taller, she looked very much like her mother had at a similar age. She had the same green eyes, the same strawberry blonde hair – she even had a couple of her mother's endearing little mannerisms. It was uncanny.

What with Sally's course and my project, we were a bit like ships that passed in the night. Apart from sharing an early morning coffee, we didn't even get much of a chance to talk. But then, on the Friday, we both got home early and Sally suggested she take me out for a drink and something to eat. It sounded like a good idea to me and we ended up going to a pub and then to a little Italian place not far from the house.

Part way through dinner, Sally excused herself and went off to 'powder her nose'. As she walked away, she looked even more like her mother had looked a similar age. She had the same narrow waist, the same well-turned legs, and the same shapely arse that moved provocatively under her soft summer skirt.

I must confess that, just for a moment or two, I toyed with lustful thoughts. Or maybe it was more a case of toying with lustful memories. It can be difficult to tell as you get older. Nevertheless, thoughts or memories, mother or daughter, it was a very pleasant evening.

When we got back to my place, Sally said she wanted to send a couple of emails, so I left her to it and went to bed.

I must have gone to sleep almost straight away. Probably something to do with a couple of pints of Pedigree and half a bottle of red wine. But then, at some stage, I woke up to find Sally in bed with me.

'You're awake,' she said softly. 'Good. You can help me with this.' And she took my hand and placed it between her thighs. Obviously, Sally had had a bit of a head start. Her pussy was already deliciously warm and wet and slippery.

'Are you sure about this?' I asked.

She assured me that she was. So, like a good host (it was, after all, my bed), I got on with it.

Not only did Sally look like her mother had looked at a similar age, she even felt like her mother. She had the same wide mons Veneris, the same neatly trimmed, yet soft, stubble, and the same hooded clit. In the dark, it could have been her mother 30 years earlier.

For 15 or 20 minutes, I caressed her sweet groove and massaged her clit, occasionally thrusting one, two, and finally three, fingers into her fabulous fuck hole. And then she exploded. Shuddering. Laughing. Gasping. Just as her mother had done all those years before.

Then it was my turn. (Well, Sally insisted.) She took my cock in her hand and started to stretch it gently. Stretching and squeezing, and sliding her cunt-wet fingers slowly from bottom to top, over and over. It felt wonderful. Within three or four minutes, I too was about to explode.

'Not yet,' she said. 'I want you in my arse.' Again, it could have been her mother speaking. But, of course, it wasn't. It was definitely Sally.

She rolled over onto her side and thrust her arse in my direction. I reached down to prepare the way with some of her own slippery juices, but she had already taken care of that. She must have been lubing up with one hand while she was wanking me with the other. What a girl! So, all I had to do was line up and gently push. Slowly but surely, my cock slid in and I began to arse-fuck her. But not for long. After 15 or 20 strokes, I could hold off no more.

Soon after that, we both must have fallen asleep. I woke at some point in the night and Sally was still beside me. But in the morning, she was gone.

There was no mention of the previous evening's frivolities as we shared our morning coffee. But, as I helped her into the cab that would take her to the station, she turned to me, frowned slightly, and asked how I had slept.

'The second time, like a log,' I said. 'Why do you ask?'

'Well,' she said, 'I don't know if it was the rich food or what, but I had a very vivid dream in which I was being a very dirty girl. It was very good. Very good. Yes. In fact it was excellent.'

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