The soft rush of rain on the roof wakes me from an instantly forgotten dream. I blush in the half-light of an overcast dawn as I find the sheet halfway down my thighs and my hand on my mound. A sigh softly escapes as the clock radio display softly tells me there are thirty minutes before it's time to get up. And that's when the runner comes to mind.
Every other day, weather permitting, the runner glides past the house in the cool morning air before the heat and humidity make her exercise unpleasant. I first saw her when I was out on my front porch, watering the hanging flower baskets. Now I try to time my morning gardening routine with her appearance. The day of the week is unpredictable but the time of day is precise.
That precision seems to be part of her personality. She is elegant, disciplined, focused on the road ahead. Tall, pretty and fit. Her long toned legs, slender arms and fingers pump gracefully with her golden ponytail bobbing along for the ride. Her breathing seems effortless and only the light rhythmic tapping of her running shoes on the pavement interrupts the morning bird songs.
My free hand gently cups my right breast as I hold on to my reverie, smiling at the details that pop into my head. Her grey, pink and white running shorts and top reflect her elegance. Feminine details and precise fit cover what it must and reveal what it can. Her backside is smooth, firm and steady. Her nipples show in the cool morning air. Her mound is delicately curved and subtly displayed when she moves.
My reverie is broken when the clock radio pops on. My slightly wet fingers move to my left and turn it off. The dark shadow of my husband's body stirs and he turns towards me. A soft good morning kiss and his hand rests on mine on my mound. He asks what's on my mind as he softly caresses my hand. I reply that it's just a fantasy I woke up with. He grins, leans down, kisses my hand and gets up. He understands.