I'm Sabrina, a goddess in heels, a sexy tease and a gold digger for profession. I've got a body that makes men beg and a sex drive that could outrun a stampede. You, on the other hand, were old enough to be my grandpa, but you had the cash and a penthouse with a view that made my heart flutter. You had a heart condition, a little tick-tock time bomb that kept us all on our toes, but you didn't let it get in the way of our unorthodox arrangement. You knew what you were getting into, or at least you thought you did.

Our setup was simple: I'd bring the young, the hungry, and the well-endowed to our love nest, and you'd watch from the sidelines, stroking your tiny, shriveled dick while I rode them like a cowgirl in heat. It was a win-win. You got the thrill of watching without the strain of performance, and I got the pleasure of fresh meat and the sweet taste of your cold, hard cash. But that night, something changed. You insisted on being part of the show, and not just as the sad, drooling audience. You had this wild look in your eye, like a dying man grasping for one last thrill before the curtain call. I couldn't deny you that, could I?

Tom, my personal black stallion, was more than eager to play along. He knew the score – a fat wallet in exchange for a night of me and his monster cock. We started off slow, me straddling your face, letting you feel my wetness, taste my desire.

"This is it, sugar daddy," I whispered, grinding my hips down onto your mouth. "Your last taste of life's sweetest nectar. Drink me in, remember me as your little whore with the insatiable pussy." Your eyes were glazed, but you nodded, your tongue eagerly licking my folds as Tom hovered behind me, his massive cock jutting out like a flagpole at full mast. I felt a twinge of something – pity, perhaps? But it was quickly washed away by the greed in your eyes.

As I rocked against your face, I couldn't help but feel like a goddess, like I held the very essence of life and death in my grasp. Your breathing grew ragged, your heart beating a frantic tango in your chest. You were living on borrowed time, and I was about to cash in the loan. I leaned in closer, my breasts bouncing just out of your reach. "You're going to die with my scent all over you," I murmured. "And when you're cold in that coffin, you'll have the memory of my pussy to keep you company. I will even stuff one of my soiled panties with Tom's cum into your mouth as a gift for your afterlife."

Tom's hands were rough on my hips, guiding me onto his thick, throbbing shaft. I felt a thrill of power, knowing that you were watching, knowing that this was the end for you. As he pushed into me, I threw my head back and let out a guttural moan that echoed through the penthouse. You looked up, your eyes wide, your mouth a perfect 'O' as your tongue lapped at my clit. It was like watching a man drowning in a sea of pleasure, desperate for one last breath, and I was the one holding the lifeline.

Your breaths grew more shallow, your face flushed a deep, unhealthy red as Tom picked up the pace. I could feel your eyes on us, watching every inch of your wealth disappear into my tight, wet warmth. And then, as I came, screaming out Tom's name, you had your last and only handsfree orgasm, looked happy with your face covered in our juices.

We got up and went to the shower. We came back, finding you lifeless with my panties in your hands pressed to your nose. Your heart had finally given out, unable to handle the sheer depravity and excitement of watching me get fucked by another man.

I dressed for the ceremony with a sense of satisfaction, sliding into the tightest black dress I owned. The kind that hugged my curves like a second skin and screamed 'mourning' in the most seductive way possible. I picked out your favorite pair of heels, the ones you liked to see me in when I'd let you worship my feet. They clicked against the marble floor of the penthouse, echoing through the silent halls. I couldn't help but smile as I thought of how you'd never get to see me in them again, never get to smell the leather or feel them pressing down on your face.

The funeral was a blur of sad faces and meaningless condolences. I played the grieving widow so well, I almost believed it myself. But as the casket was lowered into the ground, I couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement bubbling up inside me. It was time to move on, to find a new client, your successor. And who better than your best friend, the one who had always had a twinkle in his eye when he talked to me? The one who had always been so generous with his compliments, so eager to please.

Back at the penthouse, I couldn't help but feel a little giddy. I had received the pickled shrimp dick you had so thoughtfully left me in your will, a twisted memento of our time together. The jar was a peculiar shade of amber, with your sad, shrunken member floating in a murky brine.

I placed it on the shelf next to the others – a macabre collection of my previous husbands. I had shown you the lineup countless times, always with a smirk, with the remark that you'd soon be joining them and you always come so hard when I'd make you christen a new pair of heels or boots with your pathetic little thingy in front of them.

You suffered so nicely then - and in eternity.