A writer's fantasy

Once upon a time, there lived a writer. She loved to move her hands on the keyboard, with just a single lamp throwing light on her words. She imagined someone kissing her from behind, moving down from her body towards a slope.

Her hands kept moving on the keyboard and her mouth kept telling the story. He couldn't take it anymore and took her to his bed.

He was tall, trim and fit. His eyes were deep, nice mouth and a scraggly beard. He was an average kisser.

"Average kisser?" he stopped and asked, laughingly.

"Shut up. This is my story."

He agreed and continued kissing her, her chest, her arms. Because her neck was ticklish. Biting was out of the question too.

"Gel?" "I applied." "Liar."

He went in the river. It wasn't dry nor was it overflowing. It was just there, mild.

He was tall, trim, long hair, nice eyes. She couldn't continue anymore, her mouth got busy. She tried hard, to get the words out of her lips. But he wouldn't let her leave his mouth.

Slow, more slow, like the hands of a clock, tick tock, moving slowly, towards their destination. Listening to her, he went faster. She wanted more. He pushed in, hard, after stopping, and she loved his extra cell work.

He moved out like a snake, pulling all the way behind and up on his knees, admiring her open dress and naked bed. He touched her legs and her waist lightly, feet up, with his hands, as gently as possible with a calloused hand, so much was she thought he was real.

She closed her eyes, before he went away forever.