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Who is she, really?
“Who is she?” I ask myself. She looks a little like my ex-wife, though she doesn’t act like her at all. I haven’t seen my ex-wife in several years, but I’m pretty sure I could still recognize her, so I don’t think it’s her. Maybe she is a stranger who has inexplicably taken a liking to me, an attractive face in the crowd. Maybe I remind her of someone. Maybe I am a totally random choice. My therapist tells me this is the most likely possibility, though I am not so sure.

Sometimes I think she isn’t even real. Why do I say that?

Even though I've never heard her speak, other than her whispered urgency when she says, “Bend me over,” or “Fuck me now,” I know what her normal speaking voice sounds like. I know what her voices sound like in real life, while talking on the phone to her sister, say, or speaking to her husband. But how do I know she is married? And how do I know she has a sister?

I've only seen flashes of her skin under her dress or from her blouse ripping suddenly open, yet I know exactly what every inch of skin looks like. I’m not just talking about her face or her breasts. I can visualize her hard, dark nipples, her slender neck, the butterfly of her shoulder blades. I know where her freckles are. I’ve seen her birthmarks. I’m obsessed with the vividly colored tattoos peeking out beneath her clothes, different every time I see her and in different places, as if they were alive: a dragon, a dove, fire, water, lightning. Most of her flesh I’ve caressed only through her clothes, and hurriedly, because when we fuck it’s always fast, and always public. Yet I know what she feels like naked, her heavy breasts, her slender waist and her tight ass, cupped in my grasping hands.

She whispers exactly those things I want to hear. She says, “I need you inside me.” She tells me, “Give me your cock.” She begs me, “Take me and fuck me hard.” It is as if she can see inside my mind. She knows what turns me on.

She is perfect, in every way in which I personally define perfection. She’s so perfect. Can someone so exactly mirroring my fantasies be real? She seems real and not real at the same time.

Let's back up and start from the beginning. I’ll tell you about my first time with her, the first of many. I was shopping in some generic department store at the mall, surrounded by fluorescent lights, sagging shelves of mid-priced merchandise, tired salesladies, smudged glass counters and all the other markers of a dying breed of commerce made obsolete by the bright clean screens of online shopping. I shop there because it's real, because I like the flaws. I like my flaws.

She has no flaws.

I didn't see her directly. I saw her from across the room, reflected in a full length mirror in the lingerie department, surrounded by row upon row of silk and lace and fishnet. She had short brown hair with dirty blonde streaks, blue eyes the color of the summer sky, full lips marked with an insolent pout. She was making direct eye contact with me through the conduit of the mirror. She was wearing a short black dress, her slim legs encased and caressed by hosiery, the single sexiest thing I can imagine a woman wearing. Can she be real if she is always wearing clothes from my deepest fantasies? I walked down the aisle toward the mirror reflection of this perfect woman. She was, predictably, gone by the time I got there.

I turned and searched and finally saw her in the rounded dish of the security mirror, hung in the corner of the ceiling. She was next to the door of the woman’s restroom, looking straight at me in the bright, mirrored glass. Then, she winked and turned so her ass was facing me and bent down to adjust her shoe. The tops of her thigh high stockings (of course she’s wearing thigh highs, I love thigh highs) were revealed beneath the edge of her dress, as was the barest hint of her ass cheeks, tiny panties pulled taut over them. It was as if she were performing just for me. I walked toward the bathrooms. She was gone.

A woman stepped out of the ladies room, and through the opening of the closing door I caught the barest glimpse of her through the bathroom mirror, looking straight at me with those lovely blue eyes. Her lips were pursed, the hint of a dirty smile on her face. No one was watching, so I slipped in through the still closing door.

There she was. She was no longer spied as a reflection across the room. This was her, in the flesh, real as life. Sitting on the sink counter, legs crossed and skirt hiked, she had positioned herself so I could see the bare flesh above the tops of her thigh highs. She was lightly caressing her breasts over the fabric of her thin dress, lips slightly open, tongue just barely peeking out from between them. The bathroom mirror was behind her. It showed her back, my astonished face, my hard cock clearly visible through my pants. I locked the door.

“You want to fuck me, don’t you?” Her hands moved from her breasts to her legs, uncrossing and tracing the length of them as she opened them up to me.

I started to answer, and she put a finger to her mesmerizing lips and said, “Shhh...” Then she cooed, so quietly I could barely even hear it, “Bend me over and give it to me now.” Her voice was like something from a dream, a whispered secret, a distant memory.

I kissed her hard, tongues and lips and teeth tangling and licking and biting, then roughly grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around and threw her over the counter. She planted her palms against the glass of the mirror and lifted her ass toward me. I took out my cock, pulled up her dress to expose her tight black panties and rubbed my cock against the crack of her ass through the thin black fabric. My ex-wife used to wear panties just like that.

She whispered, “Push my panties aside, baby. Fuck me with my panties on.”

I hooked a finger around her panties and pulled them aside to expose her pussy and slid my cock against her wetness. I slowly pushed the head of my cock between her pussy lips. She was so wet. I looked into the mirror to see her face framed between the splayed fingers of her hands. Eyes closed, mouth open, she was running her tongue along her soft lips as she arched her back and let out a low, sexy moan.

I pushed my cock all the way inside her, taking my time, letting her feel every inch. She pushed back against me, wanting it all. I held it deep inside her for an endless fraction of a moment, then I began to fuck her in short, fast strokes. She whimpered with every push, meeting every thrust with her hips. She began to lick the reflection of her face in the mirror as I fucked her, so that it looked like she was giving herself long wet kisses, tongue to tongue, while I fucked her. It was almost like a threesome, as if I was fucking two identical women. I had never seen anything so sexy in my life before. How could this be real if it is so perfect? I began to fuck her harder, giving her the entire length of my cock in rough, deep strokes.

I could feel my cum building up in my balls. The mirror was wet and smeared by her tongue and lips, and she pressed her lips against the mirror as her body writhed against me, kissing her reflection. I had to feel those lips on mine and so slung my arm around her neck and pulled her roughly up against me, without breaking the hard rhythm of our sex. She turned her head to me and her lips opened and her tongue snaked out. I took it between my lips, sucking on it. My legs began shaking and I thrust deep into her and let out torrents of cum, spasm after spasm as her pussy tightened around my cock. Our rough kiss softened and lingered and turned into something else, lips gently brushing against each other, slow and tender and wet.

I pulled out of her and she turned around, never breaking the kiss. Finally she pulled away, looking deeply into my eyes. I could see the reflection of my own face in the wet curve of her eye.

“Who are you?” I asked.

She put her finger to my lips to silence me. “Who are you?” she said, answering my question with her own. She laughed.

She readjusted her soaked panties, pulled her dress down and smoothed it. She ran her fingers through her hair, combing it roughly back into place. Then she turned and walked to the door, swaying her ass, teasing me with it. She unlocked the door and walked out of the room, seemingly out of my life until I saw her in the subway station several weeks later.

But that’s another story.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © 2018 Verbal P. Incandenza | Yeah, not my real name, but I still wrote this. Be cool. Please don't steal it.

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