I dreamt about you last nite. My most vivid recollection is the way the oil glistened on your light brown skin in the candlelight. You slipped off the massage table and pulled on, first, your shorts, and then a white tee, which immediately clung to your skin, soaking up oil. When you turned towards me, my eyes riveted on your swollen nipples. Where else would they go? I'm am hypnotized by them and in a clinging t-shirt, they command me.

Of course, when you commanded, "Excuse me?", I snapped out of it and raised my eyes to yours, which were, predictably, filled with consternation. Oops. The unspoken berating you gave me with your flashing eyes made me frown and turn away.

"If you hadn't just rocked my world..." you started, but never finished. Still, there was no mistaking the quiet lust present in your voice.

I grinned in spite of myself. Playing your body was like playing a fine instrument–a Stradivarius, even. My hands, warm and slick with oil, gently caressing your curves, played in small, gentle circles, to pluck nerve-filled strings like a master.

But what stokes my fires is when your body undulates beneath me. You move like a sinewy cat, rolling and rising, stretching and warm to my touch. I gaze at every inch as it surges in ebb and flow. What began as a sincerely intended massage became worship.

You are my Goddess. I am humbled by your beauty and ecstatic to be the one to bring you satisfaction. I live for it.


Then I woke up. Wet. Wet and alone.

*sigh*