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Can reality ever match fantasy
Can reality ever match fantasy As the seventh decade of his life turns northward, only fantasy memories seem to float across the mind as eyes close for a daily nap. Vanilla is the term his life has been connected with, heterosexual, married to the same women for over thirty years, missionary the most common physical connection, spice the same as dinner plain, meat and potatoes, what has been missed he ponders. With the sleep slowly wrapping him up like a cocoon, the fantasy of meeting a woman, their eyes blending as one, his reflection in her iris, his reflection in hers, the scent wafting up their nostrils, the thrill of the dance, all emotions dormant that float without restraint to surface in uneven breathing. He leans in, she meets him half way, tender lips join, she pushes her tongue against his lips, he opens his mouth, the sword fight for control, darting from one mouth to the other. Her hands on his shoulder blades pulling him closer, His chest feeling the hardness of her nipples boring in taking him to her level of excitement, The stomach a little large preventing the genitals from meshing together, a public gasp heard steps away, public exposure becomes the aphrodisiac. A Quick loud ding, mr. google says mail has arrived, the icetiger looks it is only 1227 and another fantasy never gets to find out who wins the sword battle, was it a woman who can dominate, was it the hidden mistress without her leather attire, or was the vanilla, changed to the flavour of submission or surrender to a new world full of tease, torment, and extended denial of release. |
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