Tasha wrote, taking a chance. Not enough. The words were too easy for her to say. I didn't know anything about her. But then she asked, offered, shared...it became more real; we seemed to be getting passed the bullshit. I thought I knew where she was coming from. She would tell me anything, anything, except who she really was. Fine by me, I didn't want to know anyway. Just having a little fun. I already have a life, you know.

She asked me to write a story about her, as I saw it. The uncensored version. The confession. All of it. Hmm, what could I say? Some of her fantasies brought to life, hopefully, delicately placed in my story framework. Not entirely my thing, but I knew I had to do it after I listened to her. Perhaps that is the way with muses. The inspiration is a compulsion. I think that is what it was while it lasted, a compulsion, a brief obsession. I'd like to think I was in her head for a while, a flash of understanding, a slight connection. Maybe a hint of reality in it. It is the internet. Who really knows?

Her needs were burning within her, more extreme than my own. She challenged my darkside, tried to draw me out. Not usually a good place for me to go, but I went, curious myself what I might find there. A bit of darkness became more comfortable after a while. Everything was good until her fears got the better of her, and she ran away. Perhaps from fear in what she had released? I warned her. Foolish slut. One thing she could never talk about, always a hint of a game: she could not trust, not even herself. She had so much tough talk. A few lies. Maybe it all was a lie, just the talk. It is the internet. 'Tis OK. It was never supposed to be real. Maybe it never was, probably not.

I know her needy little bald cunt (she would think less of me if I used more polite terms) is still out there. The pixie I captured, a muse for a while, looking for a way to give her life meaning beyond just therapy. I know I left my mark on her too. Good. Do I still care? Maybe. Probably. Damn, it was really fun while it lasted. Yes, I cared for a brief while. A moth should always mind the flame. Sometimes the burn of the flames is real, even if it is only cyber flame obscured with network smoke.

The Tasha in this story is real, from the size 5 open-toed heels to the auburn hair, from the nipples that erect 13 millimeters to the tear drop panties, everything, down to her 25 millimeter areolas. Remember her the next time you see that woman intensely working on her laptop at the coffee shop. She might be juicing in her panties and hoping her erect nipples don't show. Just saying. I bet you'll never see what's written on her computer screen.

You know that woman at work who seems to keep a low profile, dresses conservatively, but never forgets her high heels? Did you know she always wears the tiniest tear drop panties? Well, she does. The jogger in the tiny shorts who never seems to notice you. Remember her? Did you know running makes her horny as hell, and it can play to her insecurities if you don't watch her ass? No wonder Tasha keeps in shape.

Maybe there are few women like Tasha, but maybe not. Probably not, but that's just it, you never know. Perhaps one of the women you know is not quite what she seems either? Look at that woman you are currently infatuated with and realize that you don't really know shit about what goes on in the erotic corner of that pretty little head of hers. In that corner, you could find a shameless slut with quite the fantasy life, a secret fantasy life, a rather kinky fantasy life, but this is the internet. You can hide here for a while. Be who you want to be. Maybe what you will find in your own coffee shop is much more real. I hope so.

I know at least one woman will be reading this with a rabbit vibrator humming away while she tries to forget the stress, the pain and the emotional scars which still haunt her. She'll try to fill those deep needs for while, get through another day. I wonder how many times she will come reading this story. I'll keep wondering. That's the way it is.

Yes, dear reader, I didn't write this story for you, but the deal was that I would share. A muse brings responsibility, even if she just flies by for a short time. Her gift is never something you own, and it is never for you alone. At least that's how I feel. The words are mine, but only some of the inspiration. Here it is, a story on a stage, to become what it will. One of the stories, I should say. You see, Tasha always wanted to be a spy, at least in her fantasies. Here is her chance to make it a little more real.