My fantasies are laced with many things: arsenic and broken dreams, wishes and cobwebs, cum and happy tears. They are my dearest longings and my most fantastical, embarrassing creations.
He fucks me with his giant cock and he plans a fun weekend for the three of us. We watch leaves break free from the tree tops and flutter to earth. We hold hands.
He asks me about my day then begs me to fuck his tight, little starfish. He cries with passion and I leave bright, red welts on the canvas of his body. We roll around inside each other then catch our breath in our corners, just out of arm’s reach.
I come home to flowers and an extra grand in my bank account just because he can and he knows I need it. I am safe, but challenged. He lusts after me night and day and teaches me how to make a soufflé while clad only in an apron.
He reads literature, erotica, and that nerdy boy stuff with swords and rings and quests. He thinks 50 Shades was utter bullshit and believes I’m brilliant.
He personifies chivalry and doesn’t think I’m greedy because I like gifts great and small. He loves Peyton and feels blessed to be in our orbit. Sometimes he even tells me he misses us both.
We watch Real Housewives together and he lets me blow him when he plays video games. He wants me around.
He is close with his amazing parents and plans regular trips home with me in tow. He fingers me on the plane under the blanket and sneaks me into the lavatory for some mile-high fucking. Sometimes we get away for a weekend just the two of us for no reason. He loves the adventure of travel.
I feel pampered and special. His attention energizes me to succeed. He is my biggest fan, my loudest cheerleader.
His hands never tire when he’s kneading my tight muscles, rubbing my thick thighs, and curvy calves. He is one step ahead of me in every way. Bored? Hungry? Tired? Cranky? Worried? He’s got a plan.
He opens both doors and his heart, but knows enough to keep some things private. He is a mysteriously open book, a cliff-hanger. I turn the page again and again.
He is globally conscious and recycles whenever possible — it’s the right thing to do. He’s a Big Brother to a little man. He likes to bake and fill my home with warm, delicious scents then frost my tits with his jizz, his hand a blur.
He is the star on the top of my tree, the binds on my wrist, the cock in my pussy, the hard, golden crust atop my crême bruleé. He is my everything, my friend, my fan, my safe and my passionate place.
He is a figment of my imagination — a lofty, ridiculous fantasy — but he is also part of every man I’ve ever known and hope to know. A patchwork man threaded together by my sappy heart and twisted mind, my vision of perfection.
Good thing he isn’t real.
I’d never live up to his hype.