26 Nov 00

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Meg Ryan's Fantasy vs. Mine

In When Harry Met Sally Billy Crystal makes fun of Meg Ryan because she's had essentially the same fantasy since she was twelve years old: a mysterious, faceless stranger rips her clothes off, and that's it. He asks her if it's always the same, and she says no. He asks what changes, and she replies - what she's wearing.

My fantasies are just a weensie bit more elaborate than that.

Warning! Explicit Adult Content! Click "Back" or "Ahead" If You Shouldn't See It!

The fantasy I was having this morning before getting up began with a single breathtaking act, as they sometimes do. I feel this thing that I need and I imagine that happening, then I add a little bit more, a little bit "before" and a little bit "after" and a little bit of scenery and a little plot, and I play it over and over, relishing it, as more components are added. Finally I have a finished product that I can feel in full detail, in its gaspable glory, and then I'm ready to get up and face reality.

A certain somebody (not faceless) is visiting me at work, and in giving him the grand tour, I escort him to my basement office workspace. In a moment of aloneness, I grab him by the hand and drag him into this little room at the very end of the basement, where all the furnace and ductwork are. Nobody ever goes here. It's dark and filled with the hum of the machines. Through the air intake, we can see into the rest of the workspace, and be vigilant.

I grab his head and kiss him so thoroughly, there isn't any telling what parts are mine and what parts his. My body fuses with his, all curves to creases, one leg beginning to wrap around him, my hands clutching and grasping, one set of fingers entangled in his hair, the other hand reaching to get hold of his ass. Gasping, I kiss his neck and under his jaw furiously, hungrily, and my hands find his, roving my body, and guide them, one to my back, and the other to my very round bottom, under the slowly rising, entwining leg, up the stocking, up the skirt, up to the bare flesh beyond.

I cling to him with a leg and two roving, groping hands, continuing to kiss the hell out of him mercilessly. I find his hand again, the one below me, and guide it closer into my warmth, into the softness, until I feel four fingertips find hot wetness. He knows where to go with this, and I gasp, and react more wildly, but silently.

There is no lock on the door. There is nothing to muffle the sound between this room and that one. We must be utterly noiseless.

His lips, his hands, his exploring fingers, make me crazy, and my hands work into his clothes, touching all the skin they can find. I break the kiss and look him intensely in the eye with so much animal desire, I hope it's plain. My hands wriggle deeper into his clothing, and find him hard and hot.

I massage the condom onto him.

The fingers of my other hand are into his hair again, and I pull his head to me and put my lips right on his ear, whispering so softly, I am not sure I am actually speaking what I'm trying to say. "I want to turn around, and bend over, and I want you to fuck me mercilessly. Will you?"

He pulls me off of him and turns me around, sliding up my skirt, clutching my ass above the tops of the stockings. He spoons my behind tightly into his lap, letting me feel this hard branch of him pressing against my soft flesh. My back bends, tilting my buttocks up, my behind all the rounder, the wetness more exposed. I writhe, and choke down a whimper. I look back at him and beg with my eyes.

This is the core event. This is the starting point for the whole fantasy. This is what I need right now. He plunges into me, and I stuff my hand into my mouth not to cry out.

My heart is thudding about inside me as I write.

I clench him tightly with all my inner muscles. I rock and thrust with him, compounding the joining. I brace myself solid and give him everything I can, every reverberation, every ounce of energy. I gasp breathlessly and struggle desperately not to make a sound. The energy builds and builds until I feel the tightening grasp of his whole body that tells me it's close, so close. With my inner muscles I grasp him as hard as I am able, tight, holding, and I feel it happen, the searing heat, the climactic shudder. All the energy and the heat pour into me with a flooding passionate rush, and makes me high.

This is where it ends, although I imagine there would be more if I bothered with it, where we lean against each other and the wall and catch our breaths, where we straighten ourselves up and kiss and hold each other tenderly. But I imagine tender holding and kissing all the time. All day long, in fact. I imagine the loving sweet things far more often than this, and far more quickly. I express these things to their intended, and I think he knows he's not just a sex object to me.

But the occasional elaborate fantasies...

*squirm* 

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