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Before leaving fifty-year-old Harriet Fletcher's home, "Greg, I haven't been completely honest with you. Come with me?"

She led me to her family room; a room I didn't see last night. "Notice anything?"

It was a typical room: couch, fireplace, recliner, TV. On the mantle was a picture of some guy. I didn't think anything of it. Harriet pointed to the picture. "Greg, that's my husband."

"You're a widow?"

"No, I'm married. He's been working on oil rigs in the Persian Gulf. He works eleven months a year and has a month's vacation. He left shortly after New Year's. He'll be home right after Thanksgiving."

"Um, I'm sure you realize that I've never been with a married woman."

"Greg, you haven't been with many women at all," she laughed. "I should have been more honest with you, but you paid more attention to my pussy last night and this morning than my husband did the entire time he was home."

"I don't understand that. I think you know what I think of your pussy. If you weren't married, I'd want to spend more time getting to know ...

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