A Fantasy

Let me walk you through a fantasy.
How do we begin? A phone call… from your boyfriend. For the purpose of this story, we will call him Lance.
You are at home in the living room when this call comes. He’s unable to leave school just yet; there’s too much to be done; it may be a while before he gets home.
You had expected this; the primary purpose of his call, however, is to ask if you’re busy. As it is, you aren’t. Why?
He explains that the deejay scheduled to play the club tonight is due to arrive soon and there’s no one to retrieve him. Lance had suggested you might be available.
You agree, because you have little to do. But you can’t have HIM in your car! It isn’t presentable, not for someone like him. You become flustered; you’d like to, but…
Lance interrupts you. He explains it had been discussed between he and Jakob already; if you’re willing, Jakob will pick you up, you can return him to his office, and use his car for chauffeuring purposes.
There is heat in your face as you agree, sounding calm with Lance, though you’re about to burst. You begin a flurry of female activity once the telephone is set down. You rush to change into tight jeans and a heavy
sweater. Brush your hair (is there time to curl it?), mascara, lip-gloss, perfume… How could your poor sweet Lance ever suspect your wicked thoughts of his friends?
When you finally pause after your hurried preparations, you sit and stare at the clock. A wave of anxiety washes over you; isn’t it always true you would be ready soon enough to ponder possibility?
Are you nervous to see Jakob, who makes your legs weak? Are you nervous to drive his expensive car so far, in such weather? Are you nervous because the guy you will retrieve is sexy, suave and sophisticated in his world-traveled charm?
How cruel to feel so rushed and then to have this much time to muse over fleeting little fantasies. The minutes tick by. Try not to think so much on it… just relax. These two men are just average guys; no need to suffer this trepidation.
But do average guys make your panties wet at the mere thought of them? Let alone make your heart stammer and your stomach swirl with butterflies when they look into you?
The phone rings, startling you. Jakob waits outside.
The weather is gloomy, chilled, and whispers of snow. Flakes begin to fall with the coming of night. You pull your coat close to you against Jack Frost, who seeks to invade you beneath your clothing…
His black shiny car sits in stark contrast to the white world. Smoke curls from the exhaust pipe. Your reflection stares back at you from the tinted glass of the window. With excited apprehension, you open the door and climb in.
As you descend to sit beside him, you first see his hand resting on his knee. A masculine hand, a ring, closely trimmed nails… Images flash through your head of that hand on your naked skin…
You say hello as you pull the door shut. You put your purse on the floor, trying to feel more situated. Does he see how nervous you are? It seems you look at everything but his face.
You look at his hands gripping the steering wheel as your eyes move to meet his. You can never escape looking at his hands, not while knowing how deft they are, how divine they have caressed you…
There was a good reason you were hesitant to look at him: he renders you powerless. He smiles at you, as though he reads your decadent thoughts… or is it that he thinks the same things? His smile is playful, warm, and full of invitation.
He thanks you for doing this; he asks: how much time do you have? He explains that it’s still early; there will be a few hours to kill before the deejay needs to be at the club. Will you take him to dinner if he’s hungry? Help him get situated at the hotel?
How could you deny him? He looks tired and worn; you wonder how long he’s been without sleep. You think of lying him down in a massive feather bed of drowning red blankets and massaging away his worry… You think of kissing the lobes of his ears, his closed eyelids; you think of tracing lines across his skin… You imagine his arms around you, pulling you tight to him, while he murmurs in your ear of your beauty and how he wants you. You imagine him covering you, you feel the heat of his body; you imagine his lips exploring you…
You are agreeing to dinner with a guy you hardly know before these thoughts have even finished their parade through your head. He hands you a fold of cash; he lingers to hold your hand before pulling away, which sends sparks through your arm. Your eyes meet again and in that instant you are sure his thoughts are just as dangerous and provocative as your own.
You’ve reached his office. He explains where to find certain buttons and knobs in the car; he provides you with a slip of paper with the flight information. You walk around the front of the car to where he waits beside the open driver’s door. There is tenderness in his face, and longing (longing!). He asks that you please be careful, not because he values the car, but because he doesn’t want anything to happen to you. He warns of black ice and high speed.
He seems so perfectly your height, standing here next to you. You feel his warmth without touching him. It’s a moment that aches for a kiss, but neither of you dare. Do you?
The moment is abandoned, left suspended in that intensity. You leave, seeing in the rearview mirror that he watches as you drive away.
When you arrive at the terminal, you’re not sure if you are to meet him at the gate or the curb. But what if, in parking, you missed him?
You hesitate, wondering, but in relief see him emerge from the behind the sliding doors where he’s been waiting. Does he know it isn’t Jakob who is retrieving him? Does he only recognize the car?
You stop, pop the trunk, and step out. His eyes light to see you. He says, “Jakob said it was a surprise, but he didn’t mention it would be such a pleasure.”
How charming. He puts his records and bag away, flashing a boyish smile. He looks at you over the hood of the car with inquisitive, mischievous eyes, before disappearing into the passenger’s side. A smile that seems to hide that he knows something more than you…
What name shall we give him? And do we call him by a name that evokes the image of a Superstar, or of a man? Let us call him Logan.
You are very comfortable; the air between you
is light and casual. Darkness has fallen. Snow swirls in a haphazard continuum, designing a tunnel of lightening speed down the highway you must drive through. You are slow in the treacherous conditions. The conversation is easy, easier than if you were able to look at him and see the way in which he watches you. You notice it occasionally, when you steal a glimpse to laugh at something he’s said or when the snow is light enough for your attention to wander just a little bit. He watches you with warm black eyes, eyes that ask silent questions, eyes that unravel your secrets without you having to say a word. His gaze is the sort that unnerves you: not in a troubled way, but in a heated way. If you were to play in his eyes too long, you might disappear…
There is a period of silence and you feel him studying your profile. He says, “You’re very beautiful.”
You feel a flush crawl across your face. “Thank you.”
“Do you feel beautiful?” he asks.
What an odd question. It seems to echo in your ears; the acid jazz seeping softly from the stereo seems to fade. Your face burns hotter. Is he leaning closer to you? You want to close your eyes for a minute, though you can’t; instead, it is hypnosis. His voice is succulent and mesmerizing, sensual and thoughtful as you try to concentrate on the road. Do you feel his breath nearer your ear?
He asks, perhaps because you haven’t answered, “Do you feel beautiful when your boyfriend looks at you? Touches you? Does he caress you in a way that makes you feel worshipped? Does he appreciate the perfection of your body, your hair, your skin?” His voice drifts away as you imagine such appreciation. His voice is like a warm velvet blanket, wrapping you in a decadent embrace.
It seems these are questions not meant to be answered, yet you whisper, “Sometimes…” all while thinking, “No…” In your head you entertain visions of Logan bestowing such affections, not Lance.
Nothing startles you; you aren’t made uneasy by his personal, probing questions. You take a perverse pleasure in it, almost; you feel naked beside this virtual stranger.
You arrive at the hotel. For the first time the entire ride, you turn to fully confront him. There is nothing but softness in his handsome face. It passes your mind what it might feel like to have such long lashes flutter against your cheek. He asks, “Will you join me for a drink, or some dinner?”
Reality seems to have slowed. Has time come to a complete standstill? Do you hear mindless chatter and faraway laughter as Logan leads you through the scattered tables, following the waiter to a cozy corner in the back? His hand holding yours is unnecessary, as it’s doubtful you will be lost along the way, but O, how it feels! So strong yet gentle, so possessive to instinctively reach for you before weaving a path to your seat…
He is the perfect seduction. The way he gazes at you, smiles in response to what you say, the way he is so interested in what you say.
You feel as though the rest of the world has disappeared and you and he are left alone. The intimacy of the situation, the small table, the low lights and soft murmurs, begins a sweet adrenaline coursing through your blood. It has become more difficult to relax: there is a gnawing guilt lurking at the back of your head. Guilt you wish to banish, because this is such an immaculate moment.
And is there a need to experience such guilt? There has been no definite contact. Nothing physical.
Is it because you want to? Do you want him to touch you in the same voice with which he speaks? Is he this way with every girl? Is he always so attentive, so inquisitive of others? Are you just imagining the intensity of this situation? Does your mind create it to be more than what it is? Or is it real?
How does he hear your thoughts? Does he hear your thoughts? Or does he just know what to say?
He leans toward you, in a voice as low and soft as the light, “Guilt is adrenaline. Channel it a different direction.”
The heat in your sex is immediate, swift to race its way through your body. Again you relax, but it’s an ease provided in knowing that this is deliberate; this isn’t in your head.
But the new anxiety is the adrenaline, which causes your heart to beat harder and your blood to move faster. You feel feverish, but goosebumps dot your flesh. You are faced with two questions: if this is true invitation, do you behave as an ethical, moral girlfriend and flee? Or do you realize there is no way of being caught? Do you feel guilt for doing nothing, or do you forget guilt in doing something?
You are drunk on desire… Time slips by without moving at all; you remember little of your conversation. All becomes a look, a feeling; he puts the tip of his finger in his glass of wine and traces your lips. He says, “You have the most perfect, heart-shaped
mouth…”
You are speechless. Are you dreaming? The sensation of his wet finger on your lips is heavenly; it is the most potent intoxication. You are drunk on him.
Everything moves like liquid; everything is softened or muted, as though you move inside a bubble alone with him while the rest of the world continues in the cold outside.
Yes, bubbles: bubbles that shimmer with rainbow reflections of purple and blue… bubbles that keep you suspended from the ground as you walk through streets of ice…
And where are you now? Standing under a nighttime sky of pink pastel clouds as the snow falls against your flushed cheeks. You see the white flakes settle on his long dark lashes as he looks into you. You feel no cold.
Is it late? Is there any time left? His finger is again drawing the heart of your mouth. In a movement too swift, his is against yours, passionate and burning. It seems the heat between you must melt the winter world around you. It is such tenderness, yet so firm, so purposeful.
It is vertiginous, drowning; you’re sinking through the snow, the mud, through the pavement, falling, falling… Everything else disappears.
His hand, just one hand, is in your hair, holding the back of your head, tilting it to his liking. His lips are moist, sensual; his kiss seems to explore your soul. He tastes like sugar or honey. You want more.
When he pulls away from you, he is careful, as though you might topple over or break. And you just might, as your head is spinning and you feel the most serene dizziness. When it fades you find yourself standing across from him, silent; you feel bitter. Again: you want more.
It is near ten in the evening when you walk through the lobby of his hotel. Neither of you has said a word. When was the last thing said, what was it, and who spoke it? It seems you’ve been enjoying deep discussion without saying anything at all.
You find yourself in the elevator beside him. Your mind is a mess of delirium more than confusion. You are displaced; this isn’t real. It’s a movie, a story, a dream.
Which means you aren’t really you. You are someone else, something else, something you could only be in this world…
As the elevator cascades upward, you press him to the wall, situating your knee between his legs and searching for that kiss…
He is so responsive; your inhibition is vanished. His arm curls around your waist, bringing you even closer entwined with him. You feel his hardness against your stomach; you feel frenzied.
In an instant you are in his room; the heat is stifling. There is urgency, but there is sensitivity. You are one and he is the other. You find yourself voracious and near starving; you think of nothing but having his body hot and naked beside yours. He thinks of nothing but pleasing you and absorbing what interaction with you he can have.
He slows you. He presses a finger against your mouth, indicating your silence. His eyes never leave yours as he leads you to stand before the mirror. He moves behind you, continuing his penetrating gaze over your shoulder at your reflection.
Are you trembling? Sometimes it seems easier in passion to hurry; sometimes it’s easier to avoid unease by rushing past possible imperfections. Your body is suddenly tense. Is it because you look at yourself?
From behind his arm crosses your chest, cupping your chin and turning your ear toward his mouth. He whispers, “Stop.”
The authority and conviction in his voice creates a stillness in you. How easy to allow him full control, to leave your mind free of worry while he manages the interaction…
Tension sags from your shoulders; if you decided to be limp, you know he would catch you. Again his voice is in your ear, “Good…”
Then what? He catches your eye again in the reflection, but only briefly before he begins his own excursion over your body. His arm still across your chest is possessive. You watch in quiet delight as he runs his fingers through your hair with his other hand, brushing it aside so he can lay necklace kisses around your throat.
You sweater is lifted from your head, messing your hair. He wraps both arms around you, crisscrossing your breasts. His head turns into your hair; he’s inhaling it, smothering his face in its softness and scent.
He is so intense: the way he seems lost in you, the way his hands travel along your skin, the way his breath shivers against the line of your neck as though he is nervous… but you know it’s really his body fighting patience.
You are mesmerized by the image in the glass as he slides downward, dips under your arm, and moves in front of your chest… all the while kissing a trail along his path. His hands and lips are exploring your breasts; it is instinct that you move your hands to his hair, drawing him closer before relaxing when the pleasure near overtakes you.
What a pretty picture in the mirror you are: he has sunk to his knees; his kisses move across your torso, your belly, around to your lower back. You are surprised to feel your reaction so strong as you do: like a Goddess,
worshipped by this man who renders you submissive with just a word, a touch, a kiss…
He slowly stands before you; you search his face for his wishes. He answers with a kiss that swallows you whole; he devours you from the inside out, hands searching the shape of your neck, the feel of your hair, the line of your face… You are helpless and weak to him.
In this kiss that causes the world to evaporate, he begins to press you backward. Your calves hit the bed; you bend at the knees and he lays you down, never leaving your lips. He covers you with his body. His kiss moves down your chin, the thin flesh of your throat; his tongue draws a line to your ear. Your lashes flutter; his breath is hot and humid in your ear. He says, “Close your eyes…” And immediately his kisses are on your closed lids, your brows; every place you’ve never thought to be kissed.
Now you are in a dark world behind shut eyes. The blackness mutates and becomes blue spinning spots before transposing to the most sensual, comfortable red. You are nothing but feeling and sensation. You think of little, except that this is amazing. You feel so free; you feel nothing but pleasure.
When did he undo the buttons of your pants? When did he slide them from your hips and over your thighs and to the floor? How electric can ones’ lips feel against the flesh of another? His are near your bellybutton, moving down over your panties, moving to the tops of your thighs. Situating himself between your thighs; kissing the thin flesh there…
Suddenly he is beside your ear again. You feel sexy so naked beneath his hard clothed body. One of his hands is in your hair, as if gripped for support, and the other is running over the length of your shape. He whispers, “I want you. Now. Here, like this. I want to taste all of you…” he pauses to lick the sensitive spot below your earlobe. “My pleasure is yours…”
Again he slides downward. He kisses your sex through the satin of your panties. You shiver in anticipation.
His hands hold firm to the tops of your thighs; he uses his tongue to gently push aside the concealing fabric. It falls back into place. He uses the same technique against the lower elastic. His tongue is teasing in his attempts to secure what he’s after. Even when the silk is pushed aside as he wants, it is more provocative because he lets it rest in the folds of your sex. His hungry tongue urges it aside momentarily, just to have it fall again where it becomes wet and slippery from your arousal. His hand creeps between the fabric and your sex. Actual contact, having his hand actually there, causes your body to convulse. Only for a moment. The colors behind your closed eyes swirl: scarlet, orange and purple…
Did he rip them from you, or did he just pull them off? Are they still there, but you can’t feel them because the wetness of his tongue is so distracting? Oh, so deliciously distracting… So much so that you can’t even conjure an image in your head of what he must look like, nestled so passive and fervent between your legs.
Your fingertips tingle first. In the warm red world behind your eyelids, you don’t attach feeling with any definite part of your body… it’s nothing but feeling in different areas of your body.
The tingling spreads. You feel it in the roots of your hair, your nipples, your toes. Your tummy begins swirling; the stinging electricity consumes your abdomen, your thighs, and finally your sex.
It becomes stronger; you’re moaning; your hands are in his hair. You feel detached and separated, spinning and flying through an erotic realm all your own. The air is heavy; everything is rich and sensual; everything is
pleasure.
The building climax to his feverish lapping explodes, shattering your world into dancing shards of crystalline laughter. All becomes white in that moment: silver and ivory where once all was ruby…
His pressure against your sex doesn’t lessen, but moves. The wet heat of his tongue extends across your inner thighs… slides up your belly. His hands are holding firm to your backside before one finds it way forward to probe you with an aching finger. He mouth continues to kiss a path to your breasts.
His patience is thinning; you feel it in the new aggression of his caresses. It seems there are hands all over your body. Is that his power? He pays attention to parts of your flesh you didn’t know existed.
His embrace around your waist is tight. His mouth is ravaging your nipples, your collarbone; he covers you as he moves upward. Suddenly his lips have found yours again; another hand in your hair again. His kiss is desperate; it feels he wants to get inside you.
The passionate kiss becomes an intense murmuring: against your mouth or your ear?
They all seem the same… “Please, let me have you…” Even in his aggression he is cautious and a gentleman, even in his obvious desire for you.
How do you find words to speak? How do you remember how to make your lips form words when it feels that the only language you know right now is that of kissing?
But there is a sound, almost foreign to you in your haven of bliss: your voice, hushed and female: “Oh, please…”
Your hands have found their way beneath the front of his shirt, pushing it upwards.
He pulls away from you. “Let me have my way…” he whispers. You feel he means that you are to have no pleasure with him; you are to give nothing. Part of you wants to reciprocate, but at the same time, you are weightless and unable to move, let alone do what you might in your fantasies. You never open your eyes that seem they will be shut forever…
It seems there is no time at all before he is again lying over you. His skin is soft; the outline of his shape is masculine and defined. Your hands are running in smooth trails along either side of his body. His chest feels so hard against the softness of yours; his body is so warm.
Having him naked lying with you creates new colors in the den of your head. Burgundy swirls with caramel like a sweet candy apple; his shadow behind closed eyes is dark and mysterious. It’s as though he were the invisible lover of your dreams…
You feel his hardness against your leg. Suddenly you are young again, feeling manhood for the first time. Your ebbing orgasm, coupled with flowing adrenaline, provides a strange mix of ethereal movement inside yourself. A nervousness, an anticipation… you are almost afraid you may wake. At this point, you’d prefer to sleep forever…
Your legs fall apart naturally. Yes, you feel as though you’ve never done this before. Your heart is thundering like the pounding hooves of horses, each beat glowing in your head.
His hands feel protective, one around your waist and one on the back of your neck. His lips hover above yours; you feel the trembling of his breath, his excitement…
He slips in easily: slow, deliberate… He releases a sound that’s almost a gentle moan. Your hands rest on his upper arm and lower back. When the penetration is complete, he quivers a long sigh and his mouth presses to yours. Ecstasy.
Your crimson universe of decadent delight becomes a whirlwind of cherry feathers and purple orchids. Softness, liquid movement, sweetness… Your rhythm together becomes music in your ears, in your head. It begins as a delicate woodwind instrument that sings like fairies about you. Behind it: drums. Caribbean drums, drums that beat hard and sexy like a lovestruck heart. You hear it; the colors begin to form images in fleeting flashes… of starry nights and beaches and bonfires. And then you are floating to those starry skies… Floating away, yet submerged.
His hands are all over you; his lips place ardent kisses anywhere he can. Your hips rise to meet him; there is music all around you. The energy between you becomes electricity, and soon you are tingling again…
The hands of time begin to move again. You are still. The music has faded and it has become silent but for your rapid breathing. The flames become smaller, finally lying in glowing embers. His weight on your body is warm comfort that he isn’t yet gone and that this was real. You can feel his heart beat against yours. His cheek is pressed to yours and you feel the great heat of his exertion. In your hair he whispers, “You are beautiful…”