Looking For Stories, Finding Fiction

I had lunch with a beautiful man today. Years ago he got to second base with me, us on a couch, me in just a bra and jeans, freshly felt up and just about ready to let him unhook me. If he would have, he would have, if you know what I mean, but he didn't. I stopped him, him older, me married, inexperienced at fooling around, all the right reasons. He is beautiful though and it wasn't that long before he was with one more his own age. My mother. I wrote about it to some pretty good reviews but I was looking for what came next. Looking for another story, hence the lunch thing. As he kissed me goodbye, I realized looking for the story was the story itself.

What motivates a couple to go from casual conversation to locked in the missionary position is fascinating to me, even when I can't explain it myself. I have a lover, another beautiful man who is a true soul mate. Explaining exactly what knocked me off the fidelity wagon and into his arms isn't something I could define in one sentence or maybe even one article. Too many twists, too many turns, one catalyst and it happens. Looking at others is easier. Hell, at least their actions make sense.

Mine didn't really, at least to me, when I first knew I would take a lover. I'd been a virgin to my husband and spent years being the good wife. Stuff happens though, as I once mentioned in one of the stories I wrote. My husband humiliated me, made me a piece of ass, and drove me further away emotionally than I knew possible. The very next day I met somebody, knowing from that moment he was the man of my dreams. Discovering after a time that dreams come true. Me, spending an entire life being good and there I was, there I am, pleasing another man with all my love and even giving him my one last cherry. It didn't make sense, this reality that is me. For another, it was another matter.

It made sense with Mom when she had another man, she's a good looking woman. He is a cutie, even now. A sweet talking man who knows when to listen and when to make a girl feel pretty. I mis-figured one aspect, thinking he was scoring from where we met him, the tour guide. Come to find out, not true at all. Mom was the first one he bedded, it playing out pretty well the same way he could have had me. Friends first, the touch grows more intimate and two adults are ready to feel good. A blouse opens, a shirt comes off, a bra is unhooked, a breast mouthed and it begins. They end up in bed as lovers, in it for more than the sex. A good thing, even if I didn't get any story ideas from our lunch.

That's actually what I was hoping for, some great tale of conquest I could put into my own words. I even considered options, if he wasn't a holy terror on womanhood like I expected, would I feel temptation when I was with him? I didn't, I'm loyal to my other, but this is fiction. It just didn't work though, I couldn't see any plausible way he'd bed me after he'd done Mom. Nothing but a lunch. Not even an idea of what fiction might come next. Knowing whatever it will be, it's going to be real.

It was total reality my friend Wendy had sex with her brother. That Sue will drop her underpants for another man who got her pregnant any time, any place. Their reality, my trying to capture the feeling, not of the cock into them, but the mind. The emotions, the love, the lust, the anger, whatever. A piece of fact, a piece of feeling and the next thing that comes out is fiction. Me living it, whether I did or didn't, that's where I try to go every time I type out a word. Actually enjoying what I do, hoping others do too, and accepting the fact I might never write another story.

That is the reality of dealing with reality, that the well may run dry with the last word I type. That there will be no more adventures in my life to share, nothing that could be some insight into me, into any woman, that might entertain, amuse or do whatever it is we do on this site. That's what I was thinking on as I drove home from lunch, diverting my mind from the fact I really needed to see my lover. Honesty will kill me one of these days. I'd struck out prospecting for stories, maybe there was nothing left to write. Thank God there are answering machines.

The little red blinking light, the birth of perhaps another story. Wendy had a problem, she needed to talk. It's so nice to have a free afternoon and a willing ear, at least if a woman is out to write. If her friend is willing to tell. Over a glass of tea and a cigarette, perhaps one more category of Literotica came to life.

I heard the account and did see some of the aftereffects. Sitting there sipping a drink, I also had to consider Wendy, what I knew and what I could only imagine. She is an extremely well endowed woman, to the point of being described as huge when her shirt is off. She did lay with her brother, somewhat willingly, years ago. Twice she'd fallen off the fidelity wagon herself, the last time with a beautiful man who broke her heart. That was the one she thought had gotten her pregnant when she was still married to Bob. Somewhere in all of that was the rational of a story to come.

There would be details I would have to change to protect her, no doubt about that. I would have to try to be her, in my mind and my mind alone, to understand how Point A led to Points D, E and F, but it can be done. Most of all I would have to capture and then convey the motivation, what had let Wendy make that journey through the points and what feeling it had left her with. Then it would all make sense, maybe. For sure it will make a story worth trying to write.

As to what that story will be, the day two stallions took on a dear, dear friend and left her questioning her very soul, please do keep reading.....and enjoy.