This is a work of fiction and does not relate to actual events. While some authentic geographical points may appear, any persons, buildings, events, companies or descriptions thereof are completely fictitious. The work incorporates issues such as proper birth control and STD prevention.

I've been writing a series of what some authors call "Flash Fiction." Short stores with a clear point. My stories tend to get complicated and long. Long and complicated enough readers don't receive them well.

"What the fuck is this?"

I'm glaring at my husband, Grant. He's grinning. Correction. He's leering at me. I can see his erection throbbing in his shorts. That is all he's wearing and his skin still glistens from a shower. He left his flip flops at the entrance door.

I've just returned from shopping for the kids' "Back to School" clothes and supplies on a hot Saturday in early August. He hustled out to help me bring in the bags and let me use the bathroom before he steered me into our game room.

Grouped together within a six-foot square area are clothed mannequins, dressed like they are at a football game. Heavy coats and pants. Scarfs wrapped around their necks. Beanies or balaclavas. Heavy boots. We live in a Chicago suburb where temperatures can drop below freezing from late November until late February.

He told me later, he collected them from friends and family without telling them the real reason why. He said he was going to play a prank on me. Hah. Hah. I'll take his actual scene any day.

Totally inappropriate for this hot August day. If I was clothed like that in this temperature, I'd be a puddle of sweat.

I'm tired. I'm sweaty. I'm grumpy. The crowds in the stores were brutal. I need to soak in a tub and drink wine.

The sun shone intensely when we walked from box store to box store. My two best friends, Casey and Helen, shopped with me. Our kids are all about the same age and like completely different clothing. Most of the enclosed malls are closed because vendors want larger stores without immediate competition.

"Kelly, the kids are at your parents for the night," Grant said. "While you get undressed, I'll top off your bubble bath and get you a glass of wine. I'll light the candles while I add more hot water to the tub.

"I'm in no hurry. If you want to sit in the recliner and let me rub your feed first, I'll be happy to do that."

I can't stay mad at Grant. Unlike most of the other husbands in their early to mid-30s, he never stops pleasing me. It's like he reads every column about the unexpressed needs of a woman and implements them.

He expects a lot out of me in other areas and doesn't cut me much slack. Not in a cruel way. He sets boundaries and expectations. That's okay because he does all the tiny things that makes me want to please him.

"Is this the fantasy where I'm standing at a football game in a large group of people and an unknown man comes up behind me? Might this not be better during the season? The Bear's training camp barely opened."

"I know. I got excited. I hurried to finish the lawn work this morning so I could set this up. I know it's not a real crowd, but I'm not sure you'd like that."

This all started three years ago not long after our seventh wedding anniversary. I work as an account manager for a national marketing company. Grant grinds coffee and distributes it through 123 outlets in the Chicago area. He is expanding weekly.

The greatest thing about his job is that can plan his schedule around our children's travel needs. I go to work and can stay as long as I need without worrying about William and Emma.

Some of my fellow workers have put pressure on me to sleep with them. Saying yes is a thought that never enters my mind. I get everything I want at home. If I don't, I tell him. Love and sex are not one-way streets.

He's looked at opening a coffee shop. But between the rents and the paperwork hassles, he figured out it wasn't worth it. In a good year, and most of them are good years, he makes 20 to 40 percent more than I do.

I came home in a mood on a Friday night like the one I'm in today. Another account manager was poaching my clients and cutting into my potential bonus.

Resting nonchalantly on my nightstand was a dog-earned paperback copy of My Secret Garden by Nancy Friday. He wasn't in the bedroom yet. When he came in, I held the book up to him.

"What is this? It says women's sexual fantasies."

"I was browsing earlier today at one of those outdoor kiosks that bookstores keep on the sidewalk. Spotted the book for five bucks. I paged through it. Too many stories and pages for me to read.

"Read it. Tell me what you think. Alone, I can't do all of them for you. But I'll give it my best shot."

I didn't read it until late Saturday night when I was alone in the bedroom. Grant wisely lets me escape the kids a few nights each week and go into the bedroom early.

They are eight and six and going through the phase where they want attention constantly. Oh, well, that will change in a few years. I'll be lamenting because they hate their mother. I did as a teenager. We get along great now that I'm experienced enough to understand the decisions my parents made,

I only read the underlined or marked stories first. I got damp on the first page. Within three stories, my hand was between my legs. Brought myself to two orgasms before he came to bed.

By the end of the tenth story, I was so wet I nearly came spontaneously. I raped him when he came to bed two hours later.

Thankfully, the kids weren't home. We could, and did, have sex all over the house.

Grabbed his cock, pushed him on the bed, sucked him until he almost came. Mounted him until he filled me with his cum. He fingered, licked, kissed and stroked me to three more orgasms before he fucked me like a stud.

We talked for hours afterwards. Went another round before we went to sleep. The next morning, he fucked me on the kitchen table. Later, he bent me over near the cupboards and filled me again. Before they came home, we used the sofa and the washing machine.

We set boundaries. Like no one else involved without prior consent. No pain. Spanking and light bondage if it is part of fantasy. I wanted to peg him once. He consented. I loved it. Have done it more often than I think he wants.

If nothing else, Grant has amazing stamina and can recover in 15-20 minutes unless he is exhausted when he starts. Even then, he can bring me to an orgasm with his fingers and tongue.

In case a person hasn't read the book, Nancy Friday collected over 400 pages of women's secret fantasies and published them in a book in 1973. Times were much different 50 years ago and the book opened a lot of people's eyes. It certainly did mine.

Even today, new readers are shocked at the vast number of women who fantasize. I did and still do. Share them with Grant if I can. Some are too raw and nasty that I can't tell anyone. Not as rare as one might think.

Oddly enough, the feminist movement didn't like her book. It didn't fit their idea of a "free woman."

As Ms. Friday said in the book, "women can cut deeper than a man with their criticism."

She quotes one woman in her book, "Thank God you wrote that book. I thought I was the only one."

I won't go into the whole issue in detail of women fantasizing and why. It's in her book and the five more she wrote until she died in 2017. In a nutshell, it goes like this.

It has to do with how women are much more emotional than men when it comes to sex. Especially about sex. Based on the stories in her book, the ones my friends tell me, and what I read in the popular press, most men don't have a clue. Some younger men are worse than older men because they think porn is the way to have sex. Hard, fast and loud.

No foreplay. No aftercare. Believe me, those two things are what women crave the most.

A man who understands a woman realizes getting a woman in the right mood for her to enjoy what is happening takes nearly all day. For a woman, sex is more emotional than physical.

A woman reacts like food in a slow cooker. Not like something in a microwave.

It starts with touches, comments, texts, sometimes like gifts like unexpected flowers delivered to her workplace. If he does, she'll respond in kind and the sex will be epic.

One day of ignoring her and cutting her down can reverberate for days. Even weeks.

As one author recently said, her body is not like a lake. It is a river. It's never the same twice in a row. (1)

Not that putting that much into it always works. Nor does following the same script each time. We like variety and excitement undergirded with security.

Not every day. That would be too much. Just enough to put up with the day-to-day boredom of life.

Grant delivered. Foot rub until most of the soreness went away. I miss the malls because they always had benches around for people to rest. The box stores consider a resting area a missed opportunity to sell items.

Bubble path at just the right temperature. My favorite Chardonnay. Enough to relax. Not too much. I want to participate. Drunk sex is horrid.

And get this. Other than checking on me or refiling my glass once, Grant stayed away. No leering. No "hurry up." No getting naked and joining me in the tub. (We've done that a few times. There is a trick to making love in a tub or a shower. It isn't as sexy as the books and movies portray. Water isn't a good lubricant.)

He even laid out my costume. A Green Bay Packers sweater I've never seen before. (That is a dig at me. I'm a Bears fan through and through. He grew up on a dairy farm in Central Wisconsin.) A short skirt like I wore as a high school cheerleader. Tights with a small hole in the crotch.

I flipped two middle fingers. After he laughed, he gave me a Bear's sweater instead.

I shivered as I entered the game room. "I turned the thermoset down to 60," he said.

"One question, sweetie. Will the people stand up if we get active."

"Yeah. I used a rack to put them on. Unless you push them hard, they won't fall over. They might move. They will fall if you do."

Instead of imitating John Unitas, the way the story in the book portrays, he used Caleb Williams as the player. He's gone back to pass and can't find a receiver open.

Vast holes exist in the line. He evades several tacklers behind the line.

He's through. (Grant turned on the surround sound system and our 72" screen TV and played an actual Caleb Williams run with all the crowd noises and announcer's voices.

It didn't take much for me to slip into the fantasy. I can feel him behind me, his erection pressed against my ass. He turns my hips to put me squarely against him.

"Let me take over and make you my slut," he growled in my ear. "I'm going to pound you until you can't stand."

It could be anyone. I know it's Grant. But it could be someone else too. I never looked. I can't. It would ruin the fantasy.

I'm jumping up and down, trying to stay on my toes because if I land too hard, the mannequins move too much. He puts a hand on my shoulder to balance himself as his fingers find the hole and rip it wider. The idea of getting taken by a faceless man creates goose bumps on my arms.

With guttural growls, he continues his narration. "That's a good girl. Your cunt is so hot."

His cock probes the hole and widens it. I'm moving up and down and letting his cock enter me in tiny nudges. The hand that is on my shoulder moves to my tits.

"Good girl. You are gripping my cock so hard I won't last long."

I'm not wearing a bra. My nipples are like rocks. He is stroking one before he pinches and twists the nipple between his fingers. My body is on fire all over.

I squeal. He laughs. "No mercy for my little slut."

The more I bounce and cheer, the deeper his cock goes. I'm going crazy as Caleb nears the goal line.

I can feel my insides churning in excitement. I'm screaming and bouncing enough the figures sway. Caleb lowers his shoulder and pushes a tackler out of the way.

My pussy explodes. I scream in celebration.

The man pulls out, leaving my juices and his cum running down my leg. He leaves. No comments other than a loud grunt.

I fall over from the intensity, and a few mannequins fall with me. In my delirium, I kiss one of them. "Thanks, buddy. We might try this again."

When I'm finally able to get up, I don't see Grant anywhere. When he returns, he's wearing sheepish grin,

"Sorry. I had to pee so badly I couldn't hold it any longer."

"Let's go to bed and make love slowly and for a long time. That was the appetizer," I said.

While we were walking to the bathroom to clean up, I turned to him. "I believed it wasn't you. Is that possible?"

"I'd tell you first. But, I guess, you'll never know for sure, will you."