She is not with me now. I have only held her once, a short hug in a park in fact, and that was some time ago. I remember it as if it were happening right now, but it isn't. It is only a memory.
I am alone. Everyone else has gone to sleep. In the quiet of the night, I have been exchanging messages with her, but she is not with me now. But I feel her. In my mind's eye, in my mind, I still feel her and I can re-create every touch.
But that was then. It was innocent, a moment of comfort between us. It was not intended to be anything more. I wondered whether it was anything more to her.
I held her once and I felt her soft body up against mine. We had talked and that was so much more intimate than any embrace. We had talked and I studied every line, every curve, the gentle slope of a shoulder, the contrasts between her hair and her neck and her face. I had held her and savoured her scent. I had innocently kissed her cheek, and I had memorized the sweet taste of her skin. A friend's skin.
I held her once, and felt her heart beat against my body, and I felt my own heart beat, and I had memorized the rhythm of that percussion, and the rhythm of her breath.
In my mind's eye, I could still feel her. But she is not with me now. And it was not supposed to happen that way.
I get up from the computer. I walk quietly to an empty room, close the door and turn on the lights. Behind the door is a full-length mirror. I am only half dressed now. It is late. I am standing in front of the mirror in a white t-shirt and paisley boxer shorts. I look tired. It is very late. Or very early. At this hour, it does not matter.
I close my eyes, and imagine her hands lifting my t-shirt over my head, and as I do this, it is her hands which guide my hands, and my t-shirt is gone.
I close my eyes, and imagine her kneeling in front of me, and imagine her hands lowering my boxer shorts, and lifting each leg slightly so that I can remove them, and as I do this, it is her hands which guide my hands, and my boxers are gone.
I open my eyes. I am not alone. I see myself, standing naked before the mirror. And she is standing behind me. I cannot see her when I open my eyes, but I know she is there. Standing behind me, and looking at my reflection in the mirror. He is not with me now. He held me only once, and although he should not have held me, I did not stop him. I can still feel his hands wrapped around me, as he pulled me close against him, standing with me, his face resting on my shoulder, his breathing against my neck. It is like it is happening all over again, but it is only a memory. I am alone. The rest of the household is asleep, and I am alone, sitting in my chair. My comfort. Looking out the window at the dark night. Nobody to see. I am alone. I have been exchanging messages with him, and I tell him of my fantasies, and he is patient, and he listens, and he encourages me to have my fantasy. He writes to me and tries to titillate me. I think of a tall, as yet unseen stranger, but I cannot imagine his touch. It is still just fantasy. So I imagine what I do know, and I remember "his" touch. The unstopped embrace. I feel him and his body pressed against mine, an innocent touch yet infused with danger. An embrace in an open park. An embrace which comforted, but also stirred up many questions. I am alone, and I think of him turning me around, and tracing the outline of my lips with his finger. I close my eyes, and I imagine again his touch, and how I thought this should stop, but it didn't. Innocent touch, but infused with something I could not identify. Innocent touch, with no intent to go beyond. But I picture that touch now, and it is not a finger tracing my lips, but it is a tongue, gently circling my mouth. It is my own tongue, swirling around, licking my own lips, the moistness a reminder of just how innocent his touch had been. And now I wonder, and try to imagine a touch not so innocent.
I am standing alone, looking in the mirror. I see my shoulders, naked, and imagine her head resting on them. I see my chest, my hair, and imagine her hands wrapped around me from behind, softly caressing my chest. I feel her body pressed against mine from behind, and the soft hair and her mound pressed against my buttocks, her breasts, her nipples, pressed against my back. Breasts I have never seen, and I try to picture them, but I can only imagine them and I must close my eyes.
I am standing alone, and looking in the mirror, I see myself becoming hard, and rising, pointing upward from my brown hair. She is standing behind me, and looking in the mirror, seeing my reflection, and watching intently as it rises up, wondering if it could be any breasts, any woman making it rise, or if she alone is responsible.
I whisper, "This is what you are doing to me," and she giggles, still watching as it fills with blood and engorges and stands erect and unmoving unless I move. She watches, and I feel her nipples becoming engorged and pressing against me. I walk quietly into my bedroom and close the door and walk to the mirror. I am in a long-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants. I turn on the light now that my door is closed and look at myself in the mirror. I try to picture the tall, not yet seen stranger standing behind me, but I do not know what he looks like. So I picture "him" again - he will have to do, I say to myself, and I laugh, a girlish giggle. If only he knew, what would he think? His touch was so innocent, but now I remember just the touch, and not the intent. A touch is a touch. I close my eyes, and run my hands over my breasts on top of my shirt. They are soft and feminine and who wouldn't want to touch them, I ask myself. I close my eyes, and it is his hands, holding them, caressing them and gently finding my nipples through the material and feeling them harden to his touch. I feel a rush of blood, a flush in my chest, and his hands are now cradling my breasts, kneading them in his hands, exploring their idiosyncrasies, as if he is memorizing me to draw a map of my body. I close my eyes, and my hands lift my shirt over my head, and I imagine his hands are guiding mine. I do the same with my sweatpants, and I open my eyes and see myself in bra and panties only in the mirror, and he is behind me, admiring me. He tells me that before he could only imagine how beautiful I was, how beautiful my body was, but now he could see, and he calls me "magnificent" - or perhaps he said "magical" - I am not really listening. I am looking at my own body in the mirror and admiring myself. Those extra pounds I used to see, the flaws I once looked so closely at, have melted away, and I admire myself as I feel my hands - his hands - reach behind me and undo the clasp on my bra. I feel my bra fall away, and my breasts are released and fall into waiting hands, and I feel my hands - his hands - cup my soft flesh and I feel the palms of his hands rubbing against my hard nipples. I close my eyes and again imagine it is my imaginary tall, tanned foreigner, and I try to imagine his voice. I am not sure what his accent is - I haven't really thought of that before. So I hear "his" voice - he has lost his accent, I think. My foreigner has been in this country too long, and he sounds so familiar. I open my eyes and see my breasts. Beautiful and inviting. I close my eyes again, and feel my hands lowering my panties, and I step out of them, feeling him kneeling behind me and pulling them down for me. His face now behind my buttocks, he kisses me there - an innocent kiss, but a kiss there - there where it is no longer innocent. He lingers as if once again memorizing me. I feel another warm rush to the spot where his lips touched my skin, and I feel a moistness grow not far from where he kisses me.
I am still alone, and I lie down on the extra bed in the room where I have been standing. I have turned out the lights, and I lie alone, naked on the bed, feeling my pulse in my erection, almost like a metronome, swaying to a steady, unceasing rhythm. I lie down, and for the first time, I touch myself, holding my hardness in both hands, and in the darkness, I feel her hands reaching down and holding me, gently at first but then more firmly, running her hands up and down its length, as if memorizing it. It is both soft and velvet to her touch, but hard and unyielding, the continued pulse palpable to her touch.
My hands - her hands - find the head, the tip, and gently touches it with her finger and feels the beginnings of arousal, a drop of moisture. She touches it and brings her finger to her own lips and tongue and the innocence is gone. Any hesitation is gone. She brings her hands back to my throbbing erection and she begins to stroke me, first one hand, and then the other, alternating as she makes me arch my back as the sensations unfold. Her hands are soft and small, but also strong and deliberate, and my arousal becomes stronger. What was simply hard before has now become harder than I thought possible, and I feel the continued strokes along my length drawing me in, making me close my eyes and simply yield to the moment. I wonder what he would think of all of this.
My eyes are still closed. The line between fantasy and what is here and now is a very obscure line. She does not know my fantasy, but she has told me of hers. She has told me of a tall, tanned foreigner. A prince or a knight. She has confided in me and has let me in on some of the hidden thoughts. The compartments she carries with her. And I am in a compartment too. So why I am imagining her the way I am now?
My eyes are still closed, and my hands continue to satisfy myself. They are her hands again, and I feel myself intruding on her compartments, coming out of my compartment.
I wonder what she would think of all this. He uses such tame words. Not like my tall, tanned foreigner. "He" talks about his erection and my breasts - my fantasy calls it his cock, and this stranger talks of my pussy and my tits with such casualness. He eats me and fingers me until I come, not until I climax or orgasm. "He" is playing it safe, and right now I don't want safe. I want my stranger to take some chances. I want "him" to take some chances. He might enjoy it too. Part of me is thinking about how I am using him now - using him to fill in the blanks simply because my tall stranger is just that - a stranger. But he offered. He said to me that he would do anything, as my friend, to bring me whatever happiness he could. He said "anything". I don't think he would mind if I used him in my fantasy. And maybe I did like the way it felt when he held me, maybe just a little. I'm not a child, I'm not a saint. Why shouldn't I enjoy it? Turn off part of the brain for a few minutes and just enjoy it. He did offer. he did say "anything." My thoughts are travelling one direction, and my hands are moving in another, almost on their own. I am touching my pussy - yes, that's what "he" is calling it now - and I can feel my fingers - his fingers - picking up my wetness. I slide my fingers - his fingers - along my pussy and I can feel myself getting lost in the sensations. It is hard for me to stand up straight now, a mix of the late-hour tiredness and me getting a little turned on. Very turned on. "Are you getting horny, yet?" he asks, and I just moan and he knows I mean yes, I am. It is hard for me to stand up straight now, so I walk over to my bed, one hand still between my legs - his hand still between my legs - holding on to my pussy as I lie down on my back, looking up to the ceiling. My eyes are wide open, my fantasy doesn't need them to be closed anymore. I know it is him now, and he will be my fantasy, as wrong as it might be. Now he will do what he has to and help me fulfill my fantasy. What's the harm? He offered "anything". He won't even know. I am so damn wet now. He even notices this and says it to me. He is lying beside me and he has one hand on my pussy and one on my left tit. He is leaning on his side, and he is watching my body as he strokes me. I notice he is not naked yet, but he is wearing those boxers he told me about, with the soft drink logos on them. Funny thing to wear in "my" fantasy, I think. He is bare chested, and he is more defined than I thought he would be. Not a Greek god, but not spoiling my fantasy either. I'll just close my eyes for a moment and picture the tall, tanned foreigner for a moment, while "his" hands continue to explore me.
I don't know. I'm not sure I feel right, thinking about her now. I have to be so damn careful, because of who she is. She is my friend. I have to be so damn careful, because of what she said. She wants a friend. Not a penis or a pair of hands. I'm not even sure what I should be calling everything - what will offend her. I can't fuck her - that's too graphic. And making love? She doesn't love me. So what should I call it? Should I just use medical terms? I wonder if she would blush if I called it a cock? Would I blush? Does she have a pussy or a vagina? Labia or lips? Does she get horny or does she just get stimulated?
We've never had that conversation, so I don't know the answers. And I think about this as I continue to stroke my cock - there, I said "cock" even to myself - as I jack-off alone in the dark, picturing her hands doing it.
Her hands are soft - I felt them once - and she knows what she is doing to me. It is hard for me to lie still as she changes her speed, her touch, and sometimes she reaches down and plays with my balls - I can't see her saying testicles, but I wonder if she would do...no, this is my fantasy, and if I want to play with my balls, I'll do it.
Damn, she would freak if she could read my mind now! What the fuck am I doing? Ok, he offered, so I'm not going to think about it again. I'm not really "using" him. He'll never know. He's doing me a big favor, right? It's clinical, almost. Our fantasies are somehow derived from reality, so I'm just channelling some tactile memories from an innocent time, and using them to make my fantasy seem more real. That's all. It doesn't mean I want him to do this to me. He's just... He's just very good at what he does. When he held me, even if it was only as a friend, he knew all the right spots. He knew how good it felt to have his hands around my waist, my tummy. He knew how good it felt when he traced my mouth with his finger. He's good, I'll give him that. But just as a friend. He is still at it, fingering my pussy now and he has leaned forward and is kissing my tits. Both of them. Taking my nipples in his mouth, one at a time of course, and sucking gently and swirling his tongue around them, sucking and pulling me in to his mouth. Fuck! How does he know I liked that? Oh yeah, it's my fantasy, of course he knows, because it's really me - my hand playing with my tits, licking my fingers to make them wet and then using my wet fingers to pull on my nipples. I've seen some porn where women suck their own tits - got to have a certain kind of tit for that. Maybe I can... He is still at my tits and I love the attention he is giving them. Not rushing at all. Sucking and licking like he's hungry, but not too aggressive, not like he's trying too hard. He's easy and yet he's doing the work, he is initiating. He's still in his boxers, but now I see a tent forming over his cock. He must be getting hard now. Damn it! Take off your boxers, will you? I want to see it. I want to see what kind of cock my tall, tanned foreigner has for me. Why should this stranger have all the fun. I like playing with toys too.
Her hands feel so good on my cock. I am trying not to cum so fast. I want this to last.
She is changing her position now, and she brings her mouth near my cock. I can feel her warm, damp breath on my head, and it almost tickles. It is so intense. I shudder, like a chill going through my whole body, as I feel her breathing on my cock and then I feel her tongue touch the tip. Holy fuck! What did I just say? I never use that term, and she...she would die if she heard me say that. She would die if she knew I was imagining her tongue on my cock.
She is my friend. She would understand, right? She's well-educated. She knows that men are more graphic in their fantasies. And she knows that men use experience in their fantasy. Hell, I've never talked to Reese Witherspoon and sure as heck never seen her in my bedroom, but I've seen her naked in a movie once, and she had nice breasts. Nice tits. So, what's the harm, if I jack off thinking about Reese's tits? Doesn't mean I would ever do it even if I had the chance. I'm just jacking off, right? So I'm sure she'd understand. I hope he understands. Well, he'll never know anyway, so why worry? Oh man, he is hitting all the right spots. He just kissed my tummy and now his head is moving down, and he is pressing his face into my bush. Bush - I think he's heard that term before - yeah - that's what I'll call it. He is caressing my whole bush with his nose, with his mouth - he is just foraging around down there and breathing on me, and I can just imagine when his mouth and tongue reach my pussy. His face is down where it should be. His mouth presses hard against my pussy - damn, it's only my hand, but I'm so into this now - and he is still, with his right hand, pinching my nipples and that is so wild the way it feels, like a direct connection between my tits and my pussy, skipping the brain completely. He still has his boxers on and I can see his cock is like a rock. I'm still waiting. No, I'm not going to wait. I'm going to reach down and just pull it out. I want to see my tall, tanned foreigner's cock right now. I like it. My hand is wrapped around his cock now and it is so soft and his skin is so sensuous, but it is hard and I want to play with it. I still like my toys. It is so weird, I wonder what it is like having one of these? Is it like being a tree with a branch that always gets in the way, like the branch hanging down at the end of my street that I keep hitting when I drive too close to the side of the road? Does he know it's there, like when he is going about the day and it's soft and in his pants? Does he get hard while he sits at lunch, next to his co-workers? Does he ever play with it himself? I wonder if he jacks off with his right or his left hand? Does he go fast or slow? Dry or lubed? I wonder what it looks like when he shoots his load out? Maybe he's just a spurter? I wonder if he feels the way I do when I cum? And how long before he gets hard again? It's so weird, I think. So different than me. I wonder?
Her lips are so wonderful. I've seen them. I touched them once with my hand. But they feel nice as they surround my cock's head and I then feel her close her mouth around it. Trapped! What a nice captivity. Her tongue swirling around my head, the warmth of her mouth surrounding me. It's just my hand - get over it!
I'm still jacking off, still alone, still lying on a bed in the dark. I wonder what she is really doing now? She must be asleep already. I wonder if she ever does this? I wonder? How does she do it? She doesn't strike me as the vibrator type, but I don't know. It's not something we've talked about. How do you bring up that topic anyway? She wants a friend, not a dildo salesman.
My hand is slowing down now, trying to match the motion of her mouth - what I imagine would be her mouth - on my cock. She is so beautiful, lying beside me and partly on top of me, her breasts now hanging down as she hunches over me and sucks me. Her breasts are touching me, and they are so inviting - I reach out and begin to caress them as she carries on with her blowjob. Oh, should I call it that? Is that what girls call it? Well, that's what it is, and it is my fantasy, so...
Oh, man. I'm loving this. I am. I am. It is so sensitive, the way her soft and gentle tongue is swirling my cock around in her mouth. She knows what she is doing. She is getting every spot. I am squirming. It is almost like torture, the way it is so sensitive. Like being tickled, feeling so good, but so intense. I can't believe what she is doing. My body can't hold still under her, and I have to stop caressing her breasts and concentrate, or else I might just pass out from the sensation. And I don't want to cum just yet. I like it. His cock. I can't believe how I can take such pleasure from his cock, and still take such pleasure from what he is doing to me. He is eating me like there is no tomorrow. His tongue keeps swirling around my clit, and then he takes it, or my pussy lips, into his mouth and practically inhales me into himself. I am getting so wet that his face must be drenched. Damn it, maybe he'll break off for a second and slide up and kiss me, and I can feel for myself how wet his face is. His hands have moved from my tits and he is using them to spread my pussy open, so he can lick inside me. Wow, he would freak if he heard me say that! This tall, tanned foreigner is making good progress. I'm not bored yet. I'm even giggling a little. I'm beginning to feel something happening. I'm so wet and I feel like I'm opening up. I practically want him to crawl inside me, the way he is going at my pussy. This tall, tanned foreigner has a tongue like an iguana, crawling around, slow and almost motionless at times, letting me savour my building pleasure, and then resuming, darting around, sometimes up and down, sometimes in circles, sometimes feeling a finger entering me as he continues to tongue my lips. How does he know that it feels so good? Did he read my instructions manual? I am still holding onto his cock and my fingers play with the head and tip, and then I've also been moving down and reaching for his balls. They are soft too, and I kind of like his hair too. I had imagined my tall, tanned foreigner as being shaved, but for some reason he has hair in my fantasy tonight. Go with the flow. It feels silky and also coarse, similar but not identical to mine. I wonder how it would feel if we pressed ourselves together. I open my eyes for a moment and remember where I am. In my own bed. Alone. My own hands fingering and playing with my own pussy. But he offered. Anything. So I close my eyes again, and it is so easy to carry on where I left off for that moment, as I remember what it felt like when "he" held me, and I imagine that it is my fantasy stranger holding me now, his mouth kissing my pussy and mixing my wetness with his mouth's wetness, his tongue entering me, his fingers entering, his cock just waiting, in my hand.
She is moving. Her mouth releases my cock and the cold night air in the room touches it and it brings me back to the moment. I am still alone, in the dark, and she is probably fast asleep, with no idea that I am imagining this whole night's adventure. No, it is not an adventure. That's just wrong. I'm just jacking off. I have to remind myself of where I am, and who she is. But she makes it hard ignore certain things, like her beauty, as I picture her again in my mind. But why not? Why not appreciate her for what she is? She is a beautiful woman. That's a fact. Not an opinion. Not a fantasy. She is who she is. She would understand.
She is moving, and she straddles me, sitting on my chest. I feel the wetness of her pussy, mingled in her hair, resting against my chest. I look up and see her breasts above me, and further above, her face, her hair worn loose tonight. She slides backward and raises herself above me, and with her hand touches me, and guides my cock. She guides me inside of her and all I feel is the warmth of her pussy, surrounding my cock, as she lowers herself onto me, and begins to move her hips, pulling me in deeper and then sliding out, but not completely.
I didn't intend for this to happen. This fantasy. But it feels good. She isn't making love to me. It feels like she is fucking me. She is using my cock as a toy tonight. She is making me feel such pleasure, and she is not being selfish at all, but now it feels like she is just riding me. Mounting my cock and plain, old fucking me. I didn't think she would be like that. But it is a fantasy, so it is happening.
My hand continues stroking my cock, but my hand and her pussy blur together into one. I have been dripping cum for a while now, and the slickness of it in my hand feels like her pussy. Why am I thinking this? She would absolutely die if she knew. She would never speak to me again if she knew. She's asleep and all nice and cozy in her bed, wrapped up in innocence, and here in my room, she is fucking me, riding me, and making me say things that I'm not sure if she would understand. Maybe she does call it a cock - maybe not - it's too late to stop and ask her now.
Fantasy. Keep thinking fantasy. It's not really her. Just because it's her face in my imagination, doesn't mean anything. She'd understand. Where is he from, my tall, tanned foreigner? Spain? Morocco? Israel? Is he tanned, or is he olive-complexioned? Is he married? Am I his secret love? Am I his true love? Has he lied to his family, his friends, his colleagues, just to come to me, just to meet me for coffee at Starbucks, and then to come here with me tonight? Did he fly across the ocean to see me tonight? He is a banker? A model? A athlete? A doctor, perhaps? His hands are so soft and talented, he must be a surgeon. Or a musician. Yes, he must be a musician, and later he will play for me, and I will dance for him. He is taking chances with me, my stranger. He is taking a chance I will let him carry on. He is taking a chance when he takes his face away from my open and wet pussy, and he slides his body onto mine. As he guides his cock inside me, I feel filled. I feel my pussy completely filled and part of me wants him to just stay there, not moving, so I can feel him inside of me, and make my own map of his cock, with my pussy. I want to feel what he feels like inside me. He is taking chances with me, but so am I. What if "he" could hear me now? Ok, I'm using him. I'm channeling. It's just imagination. It's fiction. Just words and images. I'm not really with "him" now. We talked. He agreed. Right? But that's when we are together. I am alone now, and it's not like I'll treat him any differently when we see each other again. I'm not really seeing his cock here. Or a tall, tanned foreigner either. That's my fantasy. And I'm just on my own now. He won't find out. I can't tell him. I'm not sure how he'd react. But he did offer, right? Anything. And I'll take him at his word. Like a friend. My hands are still caressing my own body. I move my hands along my chest, my tummy and down again to my pussy, imagining my stranger's body against mine. I remember "his" embrace just before he left. Not against my back, but holding me against him, my head next to his. Innocent. Two friends sharing the moment, knowing that they were not alone. I liked that. Even when I said it was wrong. Even when I knew it should stop. It felt good. He knew how to hold me. I think because he understands me, or at least sort of understands me. And he knew how to hold me, and when to let go. I think because he respects me. And it felt almost as good... My stranger is deep within me, and my body is carrying on from where it left off with his mouth on my pussy. He is moving within me, filling me, the motion of my skin against his, is making me lose perspective. I don't know what I am feeling exactly. I am excited, and it feels so good. And it feels good to see his expression, that he is enjoying it too. I guess I won't get to see how he shoots, whether he is a spurter - I think he's going to cum inside of me. And it looks like it will be soon, from what I see in his face. And then he looks down at me, and laughs, and says to me "You are so cute when you fuck..." Shit! Did he really say that? I didn't know my foreigner knew those words - maybe his English is better than I imagined. I do look cute, don't I? Of course I do, I know how to have fun. I'm not taking myself too seriously. Neither is he. He knows what he is doing, and he knew what to say, to bring me back from the edge. To lighten the moment. To make me last a few moments longer. But it is hard to hold on now. He is thrusting now, not as gently, and I feel his balls slapping at me each time he comes at me and enters me more deeply. I'm still so wet, he just slides in and out of me, so easily, so freely, and I hear the all-too unfamiliar sound, that squishing sound, down in my pussy, of wetness, and of motion and... My hands are working on my own pussy. I am going to cum. I try not to make too much noise, as I remember that I am not really alone, and I can't wake up the rest of the house. I am almost giggling at the thought of what noise I must be making, and I am giggling as I reach my peak, and I feel my pussy shaking. I am shaking. Oh, god, what a release. I can't believe it. I haven't cum like that for a long time. I am so shaking. So, so shaking. I feel both warm and cold. I am spent. My arms so tired from what my hands...what the foreigner's hands...were doing to me. I feel a big wet spot under my ass, from my pussy. I'm too tired to do anything about it. I'll just roll over a bit and sleep on the side of the bed, let the spot dry by morning. If he knew what I had done tonight, he'd be shocked. But I want to tell him. To share it with someone. He'd understand, maybe better than my girl friends. Or maybe he'd run away. Wondering why I had to tell him. It was just an innocent embrace. A hug. Maybe I was his teddy bear. Or he was mine. Should I tell him?
She is riding me. She is wet and I can feel her surrounding my cock with each move. Bouncing up and down on me. It feels different than her mouth. Intense, but different. So easy. So slick and yet so tight, engulfing me. I wonder what she must feel, with me penetrating her. I'm not just holding her, I am inside her. Separate, yet interlocked now. She must have to feel a sense of surrender to allow me inside of her. Yielding, allowing me to cross over into her own self. Her own space.
But it's the same for me. Surrender. Allowing myself to be surrounded. To be controlled. To be captured.
She looks wild as she moves above me, and I can't hold on to it much longer.
My hand keeps stroking, faster, rhythmically, tugging at my cock, trying to make it happen. I am getting tired, and I am afraid of the noise I might be making. The others around me, I am afraid to wake them. Afraid one might come walking through the door. Afraid they'll see me like this.
My hand quickens its pace. I feel it happening, the tightening of my muscles, the contractions, sending my cum out of me. All over my stomach and chest. A mess! What would she think if she saw me like this now? Pervert? Would she call me a name? Jacking off like that - who do you think you are?
Just a fantasy, right? She would understand. She hasn't judged me yet. She said she wouldn't.
I have to clean up. Quietly. Dispose of the evidence. I am spent. I cannot even lie there and enjoy the moments after, the times when I - when we might embrace again. When I might once again feel the warmth and the softness and the comfort, and when the innocence would return. When the moment of fury, or motion is over, and a moment of peace returns. I cannot even lie there and fall asleep to the thought of what we had just done.
What I had just done.
She is not with me now. I have only held her once, in fact, and that was some time ago. I remember it as if it were happening right now, but it isn't. It did not happen that way tonight. It is only a fantasy.
I am alone. Everyone else has gone to sleep. In the quiet of the night, there is still innocence. She could never know what had just happened. But she is not with me now.
But I feel her. In my mind's eye, in my mind, I still feel her and I can re-create every touch.
Before I return to my own bed, I go and look at myself in the mirror again. It is just me. Nobody standing behind me. I am dressed for bed again, and the fantasy seems so far away, so unreal.
I return to my own bed and lie awake, still alone as the rest of the world sleeps, looking at the ceiling, wondering when sleep will carry me away.
I want to tell her, but what words are there?
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