Come over here with me, together we'll watch this vignette from Mrs. M.'s life. Don't be concerned if we don't want to be seen, well then she can't see us. After all this is imagination; right? I promise you won't be sorry. Mrs. M's life is going to become very, what shall I say, stimulated?

Okay, now there she is. Certainly lovely and excellent, don't you think? Good genes. Mrs. M's body is the body of a woman in the prime of her matronly years. She is probably 10 pounds heavier than when she was a high school senior; just enough to round out the curve of her inviting ass and tits. But Mrs. M's are not the massive udders of the grotesque things in porno pix. Outwardly an attractive picture of today's woman, she enjoys visiting friends. She exercises, although without fierce commitment, being most athletic in bed. She attends ladies group luncheons and hosts a couple of parties a year for Mr. M's office colleagues and others for family, neighborhood and club friends. Oh yes, and church too; does her Sunday services and a bit of volunteering for this and that.

But ... Do you know what "but" means? It means forget all that I just told you. Now I am going to tell you about what Mrs. M is inwardly, privately, intimately. Mrs. M has enhanced sex drive. It's plain what you're thinking, that she certainly doesn't look like a hottie. How does a woman who loves her sex look? Oh no my friend, you cannot tell how deep the river runs by gazing at the surface.

Mrs. M and her husband have no children so they are free to give each other their full attention at home. He does yeoman service selflessly seeking to keep her gratified; recognizing that it is not just all about his needs. Mind you Mrs. M is not an out of control nymphomaniac. But she urgently needs regular and thorough gratification which she means to have. And she is not above having her bits and pieces attended in non-penile ways. She welcomes hands, her own or others, fingers (again no discrimination), lips, tongues, and phallic surrogates with or without a partner as her needs arise. There's more, the photo sessions and all that; we'll come back to that another time.

Let's go to the next clip in our imaginary film library. Back a few days, ok here we are. That is the somewhat mysterious older couple that just leased the residence next door that has been vacant for a couple of months. Now pan around to the back, down the path to the secluded pergola. That's the man (husband?) of the couple. Yes, the M's live in a very nice neighborhood; large lots, deep setbacks, plenty of privacy. It is the sort of neighborhood one would expect to find doctors, attorneys and successful business men.

It is difficult to judge the new neighbor's age; strong features, large hands, thick black hair streaked with grey; prominent nose, wrinkles and intriguing but intimidating eyes. Something earthy about him, he is attractive to women although he would not be called handsome; much closer to the Charles Bronson end of the scale than, let's say, the Tab Hunter end. Arrived in a big black limo; thank you very much. So what, maybe he's in his sixties; seventies?

What is that he has now? Let's get closer. Ok I can see it now. It looks like a violin. Something a bit off about it; definitely a stringed instrument and there's a bow as well. But what do I know from anything about violins? He's adjusting the strings; I believe he's going to play. Kalodin (of course that's who it is) begins and the notes cascade off the strings. A slight breeze catches them and the sound passes through Mrs. M's open window. She is at her desk engaged in the most mundane of tasks, drawing up a grocery list. By habit her free hand is tucked between her thighs. It is mid-morning but she is still in her short pajamas.

This is not ordinary music. It is at once melodic and rhythmic but with visceral and sensual undertones. Music, as you would imagine, is not heard by everyone in the same way; so in a sense every piece of music is personal. Now what do you feel? Are you having a sensual reaction? No? That's because this music is special in a way only for certain women. These women, whether they know it or not, carry a DNA fragment that traces back for many, many generations. Mrs. M is one of those women.

Now that's interesting; do you see how the notes are gathering around her? The music has attracted her attention. Look, a note and another, and yet another caress her cheeks. What is she doing? Ah, okay; going to the French doors. The music is fetching her. Some of the notes have formed a bar sash that has slipped around her waist. Say, some of those naughty notes have made a chord and slipped over her bottom playing on her robust cheeks. She feels no impulse to push them away.

Mrs. M steps onto the balcony. Notes, visible to us voyeurs of the imagination, have encircled her and caress her. She seats herself on a chaise and reclines, knees drawn up and apart. Notes swirl around her gently touching and fondling her flushed cheeks; a chord lingers at her lips and they part. Her tongue licks out. Her behavior looks very much like she is hungrily French kissing an invisible lover. She grips the arms of the chaise.

Let's get closer. Some of the notes have lifted her teddy and are fondling both breasts and her nipples have grown quite erect. Each passing note causes warmth to wash down into her groin making her squirm. Her bowels feel watery and loose. Saliva rises in her mouth. Beads of perspiration form on her upper lip and beneath her breasts. Look at those nipples, as erect and stiff as a palace sentry. She move her hand to fondle one. She mutters a throaty "Ahhh" as her nipple radiates pleasure.

The music continues to seduce her relentlessly. Some of the notes have caressed and kissed her toes and continued up her legs, stroking the inside of her thighs. But they pass over her anxious pussy although she thrusts her crotch upward in an explicit but momentarily futile invitation. Instead the notes apply themselves to her belly. The soft flesh palpitates as though invisible hands and lips were fondling and kissing her tummy.

Mrs. M has never had such an eerie and intense experience. A small part of her thinks she should be alarmed but the pleasure overwhelms any fear. She has thrown her legs wide now. She makes sounds of carnal urgency in her throat, grunts and sighs and breathy whispers, "kiss me, kiss me, kiss me." We know where she wants those melodic kisses don't we?

Her pussy has not yet felt the notes directly. But it has been fully aroused by the cascade of pleasure coming from other parts of her body. Her outer labia are swollen and drawn back; her inner labial flutes protrude. The little man in the boat stands up twitching with anticipation. Mrs. M's enflamed sex secretes copious coital fluids. The juice leaks down her perineum and over her anus. A musky odor mingles with the music enveloping her.

The music changes; the notes take on a driving, aggressive intensity. Mrs. M is startled almost upright as the first of these warm thick notes plunges up the commodious leg of her short pajama pants. Then another and another sweep up the flesh of her inner thighs; now joined by others they gather in her crotch. She feels the warmth and pressure as though an unseen hand has gently but firmly begun to massage her pussy. A tongue-like feeling flicks her enflamed clit. There, another flick and again. Mrs. M thrusts her broad hips up in eager response and quite suddenly gasps as she is shot through with a quick soft orgasm.