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Gwen climbed the lush carpeted stairs to her bedroom with a smile spread across her lips. She was dizzy from her most recent encounter with a man she knew only from a distance, a man whose voice echoed in her mind when she closed her eyes at night. She knew he would never be hers but still she yearned for him in the dark. When she was alone in bed, her mind raced with thoughts of him. When she imagined their meetings, the mere way he spoke to her would drive her beyond rationalization, into the realms of primitive sexual desire. Because she knew she could never really have him, she relented to having him in her fantasies.

She reached the top of the landing and opened her bedroom door, her private sanctuary, where she could spend hours in a fantasy with her imaginary lover. There on her bed she pictured him waiting for her, dressed in tight jeans with his shirt and shoes off, his sculpted chest taunting her to touch. She couldn't wait to oblige.

She slipped off her shoes and lay upon her bed on her back. Closing her eyes she heard him call her name, in that sexy English accent of his, and she began to stroke her nipples through her thin satin shirt, coaxing them erect in her nimble fingers. She slid her free hand down her flat stomach imagining his hands touching her, caressing her down to her moist mound. Under the waist of her slacks her hand swept, pressing against her aching clitoris, over top of the red lace panties she secretly bought for him.

...

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