If I were going to write a story about you, what would I say?
If I were going to tell someone how I dream of you, how would I tell it?
He lay on the hard bed in the dark room. He spat on his hand and fondled his cock.
You’ve got perfect tits. You’re tall, with chopped red hair. You’ve got wide, green eyes, and your arms have muscles that women aren’t supposed to have.
When you talk, your voice is this clear bell, nice and precise, with a hint of fire and a tinge of nastiness.
His cock started rising at the thought.
You love to fuck, don’t you? Hard to believe that such a beautiful woman loves to fuck so much – and fuck me! God, am I a lucky fucker or what?
Remember when we first met? It was in a dark room, just like this one. The hotel in Sacto, just a plain room, plain bed.
You came to the door, wearing a black shirt and dark jeans. You sighed, held me, kissed me. “Kevin, thank God!”
The first time, right? We’d never seen each other, right? Who would believe that?
His cock stood upright, steely and strong, up through the hole in his old cotton briefs. His fingers stroked the red knob. The saliva reflected the final rays of the sun from the window.
We sat on the bed. That was – what? – twenty-five days since you answered my ad, twenty-two since we first talked on the phone, eight since we decided to meet, four since I said I loved you.
Can you believe that?
