“The Reader”

 

A short story of fantasy by

Donna M.

 

Time to get up and get moving, I say to myself.  I don’t want to be late.  I’ll feed and walk the dog, make breakfast, see the wife off to work, and write a few checks to pay bills.

Finally, all is done and I can go open the garage door.  It looks like it’ll be a sunny day, perfect for running.  That means a high probability she’ll jog by.  I get everything ready, trying to set things up so I can watch her yet look natural here, working on my car.  Relax, take deep breaths, I think, no need to be this nervous, though I am.

To me, she’s the epitome of mature beauty.  I find myself developing fantasy after fantasy around this woman.  It’s not as if my marriage isn’t a good one.  My wife and I still have great sex.  I guess I can’t really explain this obsession.  The mystery jogger one day ran by my house.  I don’t know if she was new to the neighborhood, or simply decided to alter her route.  She’s about five-foot-four, with light brown, or what some may call dirty-blond hair.  I think she’s in her forties.  She looks to have a fine pair on her chest, easily the most notable asset even ensconced within the sports bra and shirt.  That isn’t why I watch her.  It’s not about body parts; it’s about the whole of her.  Besides, every time I see her I feel she’s familiar to me, though I haven’t been able to pinpoint why.

Okay, the time is nearing.  Stay calm.  I don’t want to appear like a hungry dog if she sees me looking.

Here she comes!  God, does she look great today!  She must have felt the warmer weather deserved lighter attire, since she’s wearing shorts and a halter. All her womanly curves are there to be witnessed, and marveled at.  Okay, you idiot, let’s do something instead of just gaping at her as she runs by, and getting an erection.

I don’t do anything, of course.  Too chicken.  Maybe she’ll do two circuits today?  One can only wait, and hope.

When I see her coming down the street again, I think, stay calm.  Try not to think too much about it.  Be natural.  Eye contact first.

She looks at me!  She smiles, and waves!  My heart flutters.  My dick twitches.  The lug nut I just removed falls from my hand and rolls down the driveway.

Her eyes follow the lug nut’s path, and somehow they lose sight of her own path ahead; her running shoes catching a fault in the pavement and making her stumble.

I caused this.  I made her trip.  She’ll hate me for it now.  Then, Oh no, she’s hurt!  Her ankle!”  I run down my driveway to help her, the lug nut forgotten.  She’s sitting down, massaging an ankle that already shows signs of swelling.  Her knee is bleeding.  I feel like an idiot.

 “I’m sorry,” I apologize, as if the runaway lug nut actually made her fall.  “You need to get ice on that and elevate it before it swells more.”

She looks at me and says, “You don’t have to apologize.  It’s not your fault.  Stupid me should have been paying closer attention to the road.  I assume you have ice in your house.  Maybe we can put together an ice pack?”

She’s so close!  I’m going to touch her!  I hope I don’t get a new erection!  “We’ll get some ice.  Let me help you up and get you out of the street before a car comes.”  I help her stand, but the pain is so bad she begins to collapse, so I hold her, pick her up, and carry her into my house.

“I’m glad you’re a strong man, even though you couldn’t hold on to a little old lug nut.”

She’s smiling so I know she’s teasing me.  Does she like strong men?  I’m happy I can carry her with ease.  She has a scent that overcomes the smell of her perspiration.  That scent is intoxicating.  Hold it together!  I’m going to be alone with her, in my house!  Look at that smile, even while she’s in pain!  Stay focused; speak!

“We’ll get some ice on that ankle and get it elevated.  Then we’ll take care of that knee.” I finally manage to blurt out.  “Is there someone at home I should call?”

“Christ, no!  It’s not like I’m half dead or anything.  Let’s just take care of the ankle, okay?”

I set her down on my sofa, and then prop her injured ankle high atop several pillows.  “I’ll be right back with that ice.”  Come on knees, stop shaking.  I return with an ice bag, a glass of water and a couple of aspirins, but one look at her stops me in my tracks.  Her jogging shorts have ridden up, exposing thick but beautifully proportioned thighs.  I stare at her as if in a trance.  She’s staring at something else.

“Oh no,” she cries, almost in a whisper.

I turn to see what she’s looking at.  It’s my computer monitor.  I’d been reading the latest story by my favorite erotica author before I went out to the garage this morning.  This is embarrassing.  I glance at the pictures on the web site, and then look back at my neighbor.  The web photos do not show the author’s entire face, but I now know why she looked familiar.

“That’s you—You’re… ”

“No.  You’re wrong,” she blurts out before rising from my sofa and limping to the door.

I set down what I am carrying, and follow her.  She really thinks she’s going to jog home.  “At least let me drive you home.  You won’t make it on that ankle,” I say to her not-so-fast fleeing back.

I see the shoulders slump, as if in resignation.  “All right,” she says.

I help her to my car and drive her home on her directions.  During the drive, I tell her how much I love her stories, though not detailing how much they turn me on.  I promise that her secret is safe with me.  But oh what her secret will do to me now, knowing she’s so close. I help her into her house and fetch an ice bag for her, propping up her injured ankle as I had done at my place.

Later, after I return home and finally come down from the adrenaline rush, I send her an e-mail through her story site asking about her ankle and telling her how special it was to meet her.  She writes back a bit later asking me if I knew it was her all those times I checked her out from the garage.  She noticed!  I should have felt busted but I didn’t.

I tell her, “No, I watched you because you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

I wonder if she appreciated that.

About a week later, I see her jogging again and wave.  She stops and I invite her inside.  Asking about her ankle, I say “I figure the ice can go into a glass this time.”  She laughs at my joke and tells me the ankle is well and that today was her first day back jogging.  I fix a couple of drinks.

“You really think I’m beautiful?”

With that question, the dam broke.  She opens up about her marital woes and about her frustrations that led her to write erotica.  I tell her that for me, it was hard to understand how a woman who could write so eloquently about sex could ever be frustrated by it.

I say, “I always thought she…you…would be the perfect lover, and I always daydreamed about being that lucky man.”  I know I was blushing, yet she blushes an even deeper red.

“I’m not like that…she’s not me.” 

“I don’t think so.  Your stories are too emotional not to be you,” I tell her.  I tell her again how beautiful she is.  Then I surprise myself by saying, “Can I at least fulfill another daydream and kiss you?”

I can see she’s emotionally torn.  I don’t let her have a chance to think about it.  I sit closer and, with a hand at the nape of her neck, pull her to me and kiss her.  She takes a moment before kissing back.  My tongue explores her sweet tasting mouth before it meets hers head on.  Our tongue duel goes on seemingly forever.

Until this moment, I didn’t know if her on-line persona was a put-on.  They way she loosens up and falls into me, tells me otherwise.

As if in a dream, I can’t tell you how we got to the bedroom.  I remove her jogging clothes one item at a time until the most beautiful writer is naked before me.  While I strip, her thighs open perceptively as her eyes lock onto mine.  I worship at her altar.  I kiss and caress her magnificent breasts, and her nipples stiffen in response.  I work my way down, down, past her pretty “innie” to her pussy.  She is freshly shaven, and I find that a bonus.  Her clit is a prominent little appendage, spirited and engorged as I tease it with finger and tongue.  She’s sweeter than I could ever imagine.

To this point she is silent.  Then she quietly says, “Be gentle.  It’s been awhile.”

I can’t believe a woman like her would ever be neglected in bed.  I will not neglect her today.  I climb between her parted thighs and enter her, as gently as she commanded.  Like the once-in-a-lifetime I hope this isn’t, I make love to her.  Her body melts into mine.  Her legs wrap around me and urge me forward.  I’m not going to last long.  I hope she cums soon.  I try to think of other things to prolong the act, but having this beautiful woman under me and looking into my eyes brings me back to this heaven-on-earth.

“I can’t hold it much longer,” I whisper.

“A little bit more,” she whispers back.  “I’m…almost…there…”  We cum together, both of us voicing the bliss that otherwise can’t be voiced.

Pinch me, is this real?  I’m in bed with the woman of my dreams; we just made love!

We talk for a while, mostly about her writing.  I detail many of the parts of her stories I love the most.  She seems to enjoy my heartfelt comments.  She doesn’t ask about my wife.  I don’t think she wants to know.  Let’s keep this a mystery, she seems to be thinking.

She rises to leave but I pull her back to me.  I don’t need urging to get hard again.  She tells me her favorite position is doggie style.  I go slower this time, savoring the thrill of being inside her.  I hold onto her marvelous ass as I thrust.  It’s not until her third orgasm that I let loose, filling her deep.

She laughs at the leaking creampie. “Wow! That was quite a load for your second time,” she says.  I love her laugh as much as her stories. 

She showers, dresses and jogs off, but not until we kiss long and passionately at my door.  My wife knows something’s up when she gets home from work.  “You look like the cat that ate the canary,” she says jokingly.  Little does she know how delicious that “canary” was.  I can’t wait for her to jog by again.

The following morning I awake with the stiffest boner I’ve had in years.  It is so stiff I ache.  Man, that was quite a dream!   I look over at my sleeping wife.  No.  Jerking off to my favorite fantasy will be much better.  Off to the bathroom I go.

 

Donna M.

© 2011

 

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