This is unfinished. I started it months ago, and its been languishing for a while…I’ll probably never finish it, but I like it, and want to share it. So there you go.

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A fantasy. Me, a man, who’s identity isn’t important really, but sometimes to give him a face, it could be Wolverine, from the X-Men. (Shut up, we all have fantasy men, ok? I am allowed to sexually and kinktastically fantasize about whomever I want, and sometimes it happens to be the X-Men.) But honestly, the specifics of who aren’t really important. Sometimes I’m not quite sure the woman is me, but I figure, I’m the one thinking this all up, she must be. Anyway.

Somehow, I am very big, and he is very little – not physically, but somehow, I am big. I am in charge. He does what I want. Maybe I’m slightly taller, which would be rare for me – I am 5′4”, and I lust after taller men. But I feel big.

I’m standing, fully dressed – jeans, t-shirt, boots. It is hot, it is summer, and one of those taunting breezes, the ones that are so hot they don’t help at all, glides in from the open windows. He is on the floor, kneeling, in low slung jeans that cling to his ass. He doesn’t move, though I watch a bead of sweat wind its way down his shoulders. Beautiful shoulders, strong, defined, and held erect.  His is posture perfect, because I request it be so, and he stays that way on his own, no bondage accoutrement holding him in place. He stays that way because I want him to, because I like it, and because he wants to, for me. Only his eyes move, darting around the room, to me, to the curtains lazily fluttering in the breeze.

In my mind, he’s been that way for what feels like a long time – it could be a long time. He could have been that way for hours, while I read a book, or ten minutes, while I stood and watched. If it were me, my knees would be screaming at me, and I’d be fidgeting – I can’t stay still for long. And kneeling, as I’ve learned, is a bitch. But he’s there, kneeling.

It is uncomfortable, after a while, and I like that. Both that he is physically uncomfortable, and that he has put himself in that uncomfortable position for me. I enjoy when things like that are done for me, for my pleasure or entertainment.

I move closer to him, so I can touch. I love to touch people. I touch everyone I like. I even bite affectionately, but I’m working on reigning that one in. And I don’t touch people I don’t like. Often very pointedly. There’s much to be said for touch.

Anyway, I want to touch this fantasy man. Boy. It varies. Sometimes I find myself running my figures over a silky smooth back, gently palpating visible bones, ribs, their sacrum – I’ve had a fair share of partners with a visible sacrum. I find it very sexy, much the way I find visible ribs and a visible xyphoid process sexy. What can I say? I do love me a smooth scrawny boy.

Sometimes he’s hairier  than all holy fuck. Everywhere, thick luxurious body hair, pampered and silky and deep enough to dig my fingers into. I like that too – I find something very primally sexy about it. I like to play with body hair. I love the way strong hairy legs feel against my just shaven ones.

Hair is also a lovely tool in a man’s scent. I’m not sure how exactly, but I’m sure the hair traps sweat and pheremones, and some of my partners who’s smells I reacted strongly to were hairy, hairy men.

Tonight he’s hairy, and I’m enjoying feel of hair on my fingertips as I glide over his shoulders, one hand curving around his neck and throat, creeping up the side his face and into the hair on his head, the other resting on his shoulder.

I pet him, and he ever so slightly leans into my touch. I love petting boys. Thankfully, I meet many boys who like to be pet, so I get to do it often.

We stay like this for some time, getting more comfortable.

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Note: Oddly enough, I had lots of trouble writing up this particular fantasy image. Not because I didn’t know how, but because for a while I felt like it wasn’t ’sexy’ enough. Then I realized that, well, fuck what anyone else thinks, if I write it, and post it, and think its sexy, thats all that matters. I mean, its my own damn blog, after all. So. There it is.