Disclaimer: This work is OF COURSE a completely fictional account... I would never advocate any of the actions taken in this story, nor would I ever pursue them myself. Enjoy!
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One of the hardest things for me to deal with in my relationship, after a year and a half of being together, is that I'm not the only one she thinks about when she's laying in bed at night. That sometimes, when she's alone, reaching down beneath the sheets to play between her legs, that it's not always me in her mind. Breathing so hard, trying to be quiet while the muscles tighten in her legs, arching her back to the waves of orgasm quaking her lower body and clenching her asshole tight with pleasure, biting her lip to keep from screaming someone else's name. I can hardly stand the reality, even when it could be a woman in her mind, and sometimes I know that it is. A woman, a celebrity, one of her friend's boyfriends... even someone she created from scratch in her mind. I don't like it. I want to be the only one she sees in her mind, the only one she wants, but the human brain just isn't wired that way. For anyone.
But as much as I don't like it, I've found the best way to deal with her fantasies is through my own, and that's where she comes in.
No, not my girlfriend.
A neighbor. A light-skinned Arabic woman in her mid 30's who lives down the street from my parents. A woman with four children, the oldest about three years younger than me, the youngest about six years younger than him. A woman with long, rich brown hair with subtle, exotic streaks of lighter brown and almost blonde, with a deep seductive gleam in her eyes that would push her body to it's absolute limit in the right hands. My hands.
And her body is what makes her so incredible, especially for a woman with four children. This woman must've gotten married at about nineteen, and started having kids right away, because for four kids, she barely looks thirty. She could pass for anything from twenty to forty, agelessly beautiful, with the perfect hour glass frame that's always capitalized by tight sexy sweaters and thin little shirts that look dipped on over perfect c cup breasts, round and perky just dying to be sucked.
Living in the suburbs just Northeast of Detroit, my neighborhood and high school had a large Arabic population, and let me tell you, every single Arabic girl I've ever seen has had (at least) a full C cup and a big, beautiful, ass well before the other girls started developing. It was amazing. After about thirteen years old, you wouldn't be able to tell them apart from a woman ten years older... their hair, makeup, and fashion sense is breath taking, every one of them is an absolute knock-out. But when it came to the beautiful hair, the gorgeous eyes, the striking facial features, and the trademark shape of those big round tits and that big jelly ass stretching out of the petite but curvaceous frame, nobody defined that rich Arabic beauty like my neighbor.
I wanted her from the time I was twelve years old, every guy in my neighborhood wanted her, and many a night was spent trying to figure out ways to see her naked through a window or seeing up her skirt. We thought of binoculars, telescopes, mirrors on the shoes, camera phones as we got older and the technology first came out, even to the possible extreme of breaking into her house and hiding, at the risk of being caught. It was all we could think about... but none of them ever followed through with our plans. There were other girls, high school became a whole new ball game of attractive women to drool over, but even now, after all these years, no one has ever been the trophy fuck of all time that she still is... and she's still one of my favorite fantasies.
But now the fantasy is different. The fantasy is different because I couldn't handle it anymore. I had been coming dangerously close to realizing this fantasy when I knew that I shouldn't, but she had spent the last ten years draining all the control that I had. All of my restraint was gone with a flash of her eyes, the sultry way she'd walk to get her mail, with her hips swinging pendulously back and forth on her waist, her boobs squeezed into a tight, thin little shirt that nearly burst at the seams. It was all I could take, even at the risks involved.
And the risks were all that had kept me from realizing my fantasy sooner. I knew them well and had gone over them in meticulous detail to try and change my mind before it was too late to turn back. First of all, I risked losing an amazing relationship, one that means everything to me, with all of my heart... and more than that, I risked going to prison, potentially ruining an innocent life, and God forbid her children ever found out... but it was like the part of me that is so drawn to her had been completely disconnected from all rationale. She was the ultimate temptress, and I was almost to the breaking point. I'd watched her for so long, wanted her for so long, and I didn't know that I could move on with my relationship and settle down for the rest of my life until I could say that I had had her and realized my fantasies which had all but taken over my life those last few months.
Part of me even believed that she wanted it, knew that she wanted it, that she too had been waiting for it, and that she knew exactly what she had done to my friends and I, the part that she had played in our fantasies, one that she wanted to realize just as much. I was sure she didn't care about her marriage. I was sure she wanted to be taken from it powerfully and with animal aggression holding her down and pounding her body from head to toe with every long, hard thrust. Her husband is a smaller man who seems very controlling and is always yelling, it's so hard to believe that a guy like him could have managed to land a woman like that... but inside, I knew it wasn't possible. I knew she either ran around on him all the time with other men, or she was waiting for the right man to run around with.
She was waiting for one of us, one of the young boys she's watched grow into men... someone with the energy and the stamina and the libido to keep up with her, the part of her that's been repressed by a husband who works all of the time, has let himself go, and was never able to satisfy her in the first place. He was her comfort, financially and emotionally, he gave her a house and children and supported her so she never had to work and made sure she is always taken care of... but there was still a part of her I knew that he could never take care of. A part of her he could never handle, never control, and never fulfill.
The part of her that would belong to me.
The funny thing was, there was nothing else about her that appealed to me. She was just a statue, a model, a challenge, a celebrity in my mind who was just outside of my grasp... but close enough to touch. She was my mountain to climb, my one chance to step outside of myself and be the complete opposite of who I was, even though I knew there was that part of me. I wouldn't have ever wanted a relationship with her, to whisk her away and elope and sip wine together in front of a fireplace. She could never be my soul mate or my lover the way that my girlfriend was. My girlfriend was truly my heart and my soul, my best friend, the one who I am intimate with, even though we'd maintained our virginity up to that time.
