Not Her

Long blond hair cascaded over her shoulders like an advert for conditioner.
A touch of mascara and subtle shade of lipstick highlighted a smile that sang of a genuine love of life.
The scalloped hem of her orange floral blouse wafted, butterfly like, milimeters below her tits (which were, let’s be honest, substantial, mesmeric and magnificent) revealing the silken skin of perfectly toned, tanned abs.
Her white jeans were literally skin tight and almost sheer. There was no way she could be wearing anything underneath other than the tiniest white g-string.
Strappy high heals, with just a sprinkling of bling, gave her a hint of cat-walk strut as her long athletic legs carried her into the room.
She stooped next to my bed.
her: I’ve got to go to work.
Me: That’s not fair.
her: What isn’t?
Her tone simultaneously manage to question, humour, mock and appologise.
Me: This …
I gestured towards the vista before me, my hand describing every delicious inch from her head to her toes. She was pretty and smart and funny and strong and statuesque and so incredibly sexy and … for just that fantastical moment … She was mine. (Obviously I say that without any intended expression of patriarchy or ownership. As irrefutablly welcome as her presence was, she was not there on my bidding.) [Ed: Because, Dear Reader, these are the millstones of concern that AM’s wife has hung around his neck, and which may yet drag him to the bottom of the ocean.]
Whoever she was, she bent down to kiss me.
Her lips tasted sweet.
I reached out an dpulled her gently towards me.
My hand slid down to her beautiful arse and she half pulled away, Her eyebrow raised to scold me and her broad grin forgave me.
I couldn’t help myself.
My hand caressed her curves and slipped between her thighs. The warmth of her sex invited me to massage through her jeans. She enthusiastically bucked and ground down on my beckoning fingers as her juices soaked the thin fabric.

Unsurprisingly my erection was rock hard. For no reason I can identify it has been unusually hard over the last week or two, especially when I’ve woken up from sex dreams like this.
Gripping it hard, I pumped away for less than a minute, but my heart wasn’t in it. I rolled over, buried my face in the pillow and my dick in the mattress.

An entirely different, yet profoundly linked scenario invaded my imagination. A consciously generated rehearsal of a conversation slightly less unlikely to actually happen.
Sue (Our therapist): How often do you masturbate?
Me: Now that I’m sleeping on my own again, most days?
Sue: How do you feel about that?
(It’s her favourite question.)
Me: It helps start the day. I’m more relaxed, more productive.
Sue: What do you fantasize about when you masturbate?
Me: For years it’s varied between whoever my partner was at the time and … and … and just the sex. For the last year or so it’s been increasingly my Wife. More and more often, in the last few months, it’s been someone else – someone not real.

I deconstructed the seductress who had not walked into my room 5min earlier and who had revelled in being groped.
This morning she was almost everything my Wife isn’t.

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