For the sweet southern bell who inspired this ...

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The heavy sigh left him as he leaned back to ponder the moment. The moment that was in front of him and around him at the same time; surrounding him with little opportunity to escape.

He was speechless. It hadn't occurred to him until she knew who he really was. "Wow, she's hot." It raced in his head and they were miles apart, but the spark was there. She was the "girl next door" kind of beautiful. The kind you hear about in Tom Petty songs and see in church service. But sexy as HELL under the radar.

They had traded email now and then and grew to find little pieces of snippets they enjoyed about the other. He wanted to meet her and hold her in his arms. Running his fingers in her hair and moving it from her cheek to behind her ear. He wanted to smell her and hear her breath. Her
chest heaving next to his and more. Much, much more.

He imagined how her daily routine worked. Up in the morning to some Norah Jones song like Sunrise. She skipped to the bathroom after gleefully kissing and making love to her handsome, strapping husband. Then a fresh coat of makeup and then dinner for her blossoming children who were more than grateful that she had not only made them bacon, eggs, toast and fresh-squeezed orange juice, but also that she was the first face they saw in the disgustingly bright and early morning.

Or then there was the real version of where the alarm went off and someone slapped W sumpin sumpin sumpin until there was silence. The dog barked, the old man growled, the kids whined ... these are a few of my favorite things.

"Ya, somewhere in the middle," he thought. And after dishes were put away and a few chores done, she played with her daughter and kissed her son goodbye at the bus stop. Maybe a phone call to a friend about this week's dinner for the shut in at church. Or a grande prix spin through the living room with the Hoover. But like millions of other people in the world.

Except for one thing ...

The routine could be broken occasionally with a trip to a website she found. No, no! Not a dirty one. Well, ya, kind of dirty, but not really porn dirty. More like Wisteria lane porn. You know, where people come home hacked off and eventually start laughing and wind up in bed. Real life stuff. Like you could really imagine this happening if this variable were x and that variable was y.

It didn't change often, but when it did she was there to read. It made things tingle and get a little southern-plantation warm. Kind of like when she wore a dress that had a petty coat and a slip and a girdle to an outside wedding in antebellum South Carolina.

The story reached out to her and enveloped her. Almost giving her a kiss in the process. And when it did she heard, "Move away from the light Carol Anne!"

And then a chuckle and a grin and then a quick trip to the bathroom to relieve her personal pleasure.

Now and then she left the occasional comment, "Wow! I've never read anything like that," or, "I'll finish this comment when I come back. That was good."

And occasionally she got the public reply, "Thanks for reading, I'm glad you enjoyed it."

If her curiosity were stronger she would have personally gone to meet the mystery-porn-Mark-Twain. But that wasn't her. She loved her husband and she loved her kids and that was that.

One day she decided to take the random-off-the-wall-chance the author might respond and send an email asking a few basic questions.

- How do you write like this?
- What do you do?
- What are you like?

And maybe the most intriguing ...

Are you a man or a woman?

What did it matter? If this was a man, she wouldn't care too much. If this was a woman, lesbianism was a definite possibility.

Not today, maybe another day. What she did want to answer was the "Real or Fake" poll on another blog. Yes, real or fake boobs. Today the answer was fake. Next week might be real. Or fake again or two real’s and a three week run of fakes.

Her comment got back a funny response, "So are you SURE they're fake?"

Ok, she played along.

"Fake, trust me, I'm a woman I know the equipment. FAKE!"

But her mind turned back to the other blog. She hoped the author wasn't some 14 year old girl.

"Ick ..."

Sixty-eight year old pervert.

"Blahhhh ..." (with matching finger-in-the-mouth universal symbol for gagging).

She peeked over out the window and saw her cute next door neighbor. "I wish it was him, just for the eye-candy sake of it," she thought.

She imagined seeing him scribbling some notes and then typing for a few minutes to take a sip of his Coke and then back to typing furiously for a brief second and then back again. She wanted the convenience of a summer afternoon romp. It was easy for her to plan.

She needed a baby monitor. That's it, and an excuse to knock on his door. She could put her daughter down for a nap, grab the monitor and bolt for a new experience.

Three knocks and a cocked head with a mischievous grin and a request to try the monitor in his house. "I think the electric plug might be bad, but I need to check it and I'm not sure if I have this right. Sorry if I'm interrupting."

"No, no problem at all. I know how tricky these things can be."

"Ohhh, thank you! I'm just not very good with electricity."

"I understand. Let's check it in the room closest to your house, that way we can hear what's going on."

"Sounds good."

With that he led her to his writing room. The one room she fantasized him in. It was accommodating enough for a desk and a small bed."

"I write in here. It's sort of an office, but then again, sometimes when the muse hits you, you kind of need to stay, thus the bed and the small fridge. I think I've spent maybe 4 days straight in here at a stretch."

"Wow, I didn't know it was so intense."

"It can be, but then again, most of the time it's just about an hour or 45 minutes and it's done. Really there's no rhyme or reason. There ... plugged in and it sounds like it's one of those afternoon game shows on."

"Yes, it's working. Thank you. So what kind of a project are you working on now?"

"Oh ... uhh ... I ... uhh ... (clearing throat) ... nothing much."

"No, really, what is it?"

"Well, umm erotica."

"Really?!?!"

"Ya ..."

"May I?"

"You want to read it?"

"Of course, a guy who writes erotica? Let's see how close you get to being accurate or at least arousing!"

And he chuckled with a slight reddish tint to his cheeks hoping not to be embarrassed.

As she began to read she could tell he was good, maybe too good for her own good.

"He raised her shirt up revealing the sweet sensitive breasts he had only dreamed of. She moaned as he pulled her close and let the warm, wet sensation of his tongue pour over every bit of her nipples. She quivered and her chest rose and fell quicker and she placed her hands in his hair and panted quickly, 'More!'"

And that was all it took as she, herself, turned and faced him with a look that could have appeared as either angry or deadly serious at best.

He started to say, "I'm sorry, if it offends you ..."

But he was quickly cut off with her raising her shirt to reveal her black bra clad breasts. She advanced on him like Napoleon's army until he bumped against the bed.

She unhooked the front of her bra to reveal the honey-sweet breasts she wanted him to caress and touch with the same passion and imagination that he wrote with. In a matter of moments the pile of clothes on the floor rivaled that of a short load of laundry and they found themselves in a kiss like a WWF death match.

Her tits brushed against his chest hair and found his hands moving slowly up and down the small of her back waiting for his stiffening cock to find purchase in his neighbor's warm wet vagina.

She held his head in her hands as he kissed the top of her breasts marveling at their perfection. She could feel the landing strip of her pubic hair rub against his cock and she couldn't help but take a quick breath and exhale quickly.

She laid him down on the bed and slowly ran her hands up and down his thighs. They fascinated her, intrigued her, beckoned her like a drug dealer lures hookers and junkies into his snare.

She gently touched his inner thigh and stroked the bottom of his balls with her other hand. The goosey flesh tightened as her pussy was now wet with excitement.

He closed and opened his eyes in a slow-motion type blink as he exhaled through his nose letting go the tension and a small piece of his soul.

He slowly rolled her over and knelt before her on the bed her arms grasping the short headboard. His tongue slowly went from her ass to her clit in one smooth motion, not unlike the motion a cat uses to clean the inner part of its leg.

"I want you to fuck me, but make me want it so bad I can't stand it," she gasped with a breathless desperation. All at once she wanted to hear rap and hip-hop in her head. The kind with savage middle-eastern rhythms and counter melodies that compete with staccato poetry. And she found his tongue again torturing her with sensual strokes.

The grind of her teeth nearly made the muscles in her jaw lock. She breathed again and felt close enough to cum when his fingers massaged her right nipple.

She quickly rolled him over and was on top of him grinding on the shaft of his cock. The pressure squeezed out a small amount of clear cum and he felt it drip to the lower part of his belly and gently reached up and continued to tease her nipples.

She slid forward and in one quick motion slid him inside. She quivered and exhaled as her cheeks flushed and his eyes closed slightly. He fought to keep them open to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

She rocked back and forth arching her back in a cat-and-camel motion and he felt her clit graze his pubic hair as her pussy clenched and grasped his cock.

She wanted it to last forever, but knew she was close and hoped it happened soon for him. Could she bring him to an orgasm? Could she have one with someone other than her husband? Did he think she was fat? She cleared her head by moving faster like the beat of a clubbing song.

Soon the friction was almost more than either could bear, but not enough to seal the deal.

She rocked and heard the squeak of the wood in the office bedroom. The post knocked against the wall and her "ooh's" and "mmm's" started. He let out a quick "ahhh" and they kept going.

He grasped her hips and moved her even faster against his waist. Her breasts bounced against her. Her hands immediately cradled her head as her hair shrouded her Elizabethan features. A wave of her hair covered her left closed eye and she felt his hands grip her tighter and moved her in rhythm to her motion.

His arms flexed as his biceps burned with lactic acid moving her faster and faster.

She was wet and she felt it lubricate his pubic hair. Her shaved under-pussy was lubricated and rubbed against his cock back to front gently touching his balls.

She threw her hands on his chest and came in a way that made the room flicker with red and green and white specks of light. He felt the pull and pulse of her pussy and shot into her deep and hard.

She collapsed on his chest ...

And the door open.

Her husband was home. He gave her a squinted brow look and asked, "What's going on?"

"Nothing, just daydreaming. I'm kind of ... I don't know ... uhhh… just hormones I guess."

"You look beautiful. I love you."

"I love you too!"

She left the kitchen and went back to her email and found a response from the author at the erotic site. The subject was simple, "Real or Fake?" The body had a short sentence.

"I have a secret."