Wednesday, 4 February 2009

Warning: only read this on a strong or empty stomach...

My secret fantasy involves Mel Gibson (Lethal Weapon era - think untamed curls and firm buttocks).

Imagine: a cabin in the wilderness, it's dark outside, a log crackles as it settles among the burning embers in the stone fireplace. Two naked bodies are curled across a milk-white sheepskin rug. The firelight flickers, shadows are smudged across the dips and curves of their shaded forms. Scented candles send wisps of vanilla into the warm air.

She slithers onto her back, drawing up her knees. Her heels dig into the smooth fur of the rug. She closes her eyes and moans, "Now. I can't wait..." He moves away. She hears him rustling through his jacket pocket, and then, the soft fall of his footsteps. He's close now; she feels his warm breath on her cheek. She slides towards him, turns her face. His lips on hers, hungry, urgent. She moans, but the sound is soft. "Please..." A rip splinters the silence as he tears opens the packet. She claws at the rug, throws back her head in anticipation. She slides her tongue across her full, open lips. "Oh God," she murmurs and she feels the touch of his soft fingers. He moves across her tense body. Suddenly, he's there - she feels the slight pressure between her lips, opens up, ready for him. He slides the piece of Galaxy into her open mouth and she sighs, delicious...

Well honestly, what did you think I was talking about?

No comments: