After about 20 minutes my phone pinged, a single image told me they were finished. My wife lay on the bed, covered in sweat, her cheeks flushed, she looked spent, exhausted. She held one hand up towards the camera, hiding her face, clearly laughing about something. Between her slightly splayed legs I could see cum smeared across her pussy and a massive dark patch on the bedsheet beneath her ass. Watching them fuck was one of the most erotic things I had ever seen. Two strangers with a physical need for sex, giving and receiving from each other the sex their bodies required. It was almost a****listic. Like DNA or nature took over, knowing they had to breed with each other, some unseen spark igniting and resulting in spectacular sex. It was nearly 25 minutes later when the front door opened. She came in to the lounge and without a word took my hand and led me up the stairs. She undressed slowly, removing everything except her panties as I stripped. She lay on her back and lifted her. Suddenly, his phone rings. It was Ian. ‘Yeah, what’s up?’ ‘Rick, my man, we got her! We friggin’ got her!’ ‘What? The mother of all boredom?’ ‘No, you idiot, the Voice! Just when you left, this flat and boring girl comes in and sings some poetic stuff, and she sounds exactly -and I mean exactly- like her! Give her a cartoony redneck accent and she’s fucking Trixie Smiles!’ ‘You’re kidding. We got sent across the country looking for a one in a million shot and we fucking hit it?! Where is she?’ ‘Sleeping in the diner across the street. Sure glad we got this sleight of hand course…We have to get her to HQ, fast!’ ‘Coming right away, Ian-o! Rick O’Neill cannot believe his and his colleague’s luck. He was so convinced Candy Records’ already loony bosses had finally gone the useless kind of crazy, and yet, after just a few months of searching, they found someone who sounded exactly like the completely fake Internet starlet the ‘record label’ has created. Indeed, Candy Records had never.
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