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She is not with me now. I have only held her once, a short hug in a park in fact, and that was some time ago. I remember it as if it were happening right now, but it isn’t. It is only a memory. I am alone. Everyone else has gone to sleep. In the quiet of the night, I have been exchanging messages with her, but she is not with me now. But I feel her. In my mind’s eye, in my mind, I still feel her and I can re-create every touch.But that was then. It was innocent, a moment of comfort between us. It was not intended to be anything more. I wondered whether it was anything more to her.I held her once and I felt her soft body up against mine. We had talked and that was so much more intimate than any embrace. We had talked and I studied every line, every curve, the gentle slope of a shoulder, the contrasts between her hair and her neck and her face. I had held her and savoured her scent. I had innocently kissed her cheek, and I had memorized the sweet taste of her skin. A friend’s skin.I held her once, and felt her heart beat against my body, and I felt my own heart beat, and I had memorized the rhythm of that percussion, and the rhythm of her breath. In my mind’s eye, I could still feel her. But she is not with me now. And it was not supposed to happen that way. I get up from the computer. I walk quietly to an empty room, close the door and turn on the lights. Behind the door is a full-length mirror. I am only half dressed now. It is late. I am standing in front of the mirror in a white t-shirt and paisley boxer shorts. I look tired. It is very late. Or very early. At this hour, it does not matter. I close my eyes, and imagine her hands lifting my t-shirt over my head, and as I do this, it is her hands which guide my hands, and my t-shirt is gone. I close my eyes, and imagine her kneeling in front of me, and imagine her hands lowering my boxer shorts, and lifting each leg slightly so that I can remove them, and as I do this, it is her hands which guide my hands, and my boxers are gone. I open my eyes. I am not alone. I see myself, standing naked before the mirror. And she is standing behind me. I cannot see her when I open my eyes, but I know she is there. Standing behind me, and looking at my reflection in the mirror. He is not with me now. He held me only once, and although he should not have held me, I did not stop him. I can still feel his hands wrapped around me, as he pulled me close against him, standing with me, his face resting on my shoulder, his breathing against my neck. It is like it is happening all over again, but it is only a memory. I am alone. The rest of the household is asleep, and I am alone, sitting in my chair. My comfort. Looking out the window at the dark night. Nobody to see. I am alone. I have been exchanging messages with him, and I tell him of my fantasies, and he is patient, and he listens, and he encourages me to have my fantasy. He writes to me and tries to titillate me. I think of a tall, as yet unseen stranger, but I cannot imagine his touch. It is still just fantasy. So I imagine what I do know, and I remember “his” touch. The unstopped embrace. I feel him and his body pressed against mine, an innocent touch yet infused with danger. An embrace in an open park. An embrace which comforted, but also stirred up many questions. I am alone, and I think of him turning me around, and tracing the outline of my lips with his finger. I close my eyes, and I imagine again his touch, and how I thought this should stop, but it didn’t. Innocent touch, but infused with something I could not identify. Innocent touch, with no intent to go beyond. But I picture that touch now, and it is not a finger tracing my lips, but it is a tongue, gently circling my mouth. It is my own tongue, swirling around, licking my own lips, the moistness a reminder of just how innocent his touch had been. And now I wonder, and try to imagine a touch not so innocent. I am standing alone, looking in the mirror. I see my shoulders, naked, and imagine her head resting on them. Sex hikayeleri I see my chest, my hair, and imagine her hands wrapped around me from behind, softly caressing my chest. I feel her body pressed against mine from behind, and the soft hair and her mound pressed against my buttocks, her breasts, her nipples, pressed against my back. Breasts I have never seen, and I try to picture them, but I can only imagine them and I must close my eyes. I am standing alone, and looking in the mirror, I see myself becoming hard, and rising, pointing upward from my brown hair. She is standing behind me, and looking in the mirror, seeing my reflection, and watching intently as it rises up, wondering if it could be any breasts, any woman making it rise, or if she alone is responsible. I whisper, “This is what you are doing to me,” and she giggles, still watching as it fills with blood and engorges and stands erect and unmoving unless I move. She watches, and I feel her nipples becoming engorged and pressing against me. I walk quietly into my bedroom and close the door and walk to the mirror. I am in a long-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants. I turn on the light now that my door is closed and look at myself in the mirror. I try to picture the tall, not yet seen stranger standing behind me, but I do not know what he looks like. So I picture “him” again – he will have to do, I say to myself, and I laugh, a girlish giggle. If only he knew, what would he think? His touch was so innocent, but now I remember just the touch, and not the intent. A touch is a touch. I close my eyes, and run my hands over my breasts on top of my shirt. They are soft and feminine and who wouldn’t want to touch them, I ask myself. I close my eyes, and it is his hands, holding them, caressing them and gently finding my nipples through the material and feeling them harden to his touch. I feel a rush of blood, a flush in my chest, and his hands are now cradling my breasts, kneading them in his hands, exploring their idiosyncrasies, as if he is memorizing me to draw a map of my body. I close my eyes, and my hands lift my shirt over my head, and I imagine his hands are guiding mine. I do the same with my sweatpants, and I open my eyes and see myself in bra and panties only in the mirror, and he is behind me, admiring me. He tells me that before he could only imagine how beautiful I was, how beautiful my body was, but now he could see, and he calls me “magnificent” – or perhaps he said “magical” – I am not really listening. I am looking at my own body in the mirror and admiring myself. Those extra pounds I used to see, the flaws I once looked so closely at, have melted away, and I admire myself as I feel my hands – his hands – reach behind me and undo the clasp on my bra. I feel my bra fall away, and my breasts are released and fall into waiting hands, and I feel my hands – his hands – cup my soft flesh and I feel the palms of his hands rubbing against my hard nipples. I close my eyes and again imagine it is my imaginary tall, tanned foreigner, and I try to imagine his voice. I am not sure what his accent is – I haven’t really thought of that before. So I hear “his” voice – he has lost his accent, I think. My foreigner has been in this country too long, and he sounds so familiar. I open my eyes and see my breasts. Beautiful and inviting. I close my eyes again, and feel my hands lowering my panties, and I step out of them, feeling him kneeling behind me and pulling them down for me. His face now behind my buttocks, he kisses me there – an innocent kiss, but a kiss there – there where it is no longer innocent. He lingers as if once again memorizing me. I feel another warm rush to the spot where his lips touched my skin, and I feel a moistness grow not far from where he kisses me. I am still alone, and I lie down on the extra bed in the room where I have been standing. I have turned out the lights, and I lie alone, naked on the bed, feeling my pulse in my erection, almost like a metronome, Sikiş hikayeleri swaying to a steady, unceasing rhythm. I lie down, and for the first time, I touch myself, holding my hardness in both hands, and in the darkness, I feel her hands reaching down and holding me, gently at first but then more firmly, running her hands up and down its length, as if memorizing it. It is both soft and velvet to her touch, but hard and unyielding, the continued pulse palpable to her touch. My hands – her hands – find the head, the tip, and gently touches it with her finger and feels the beginnings of arousal, a drop of moisture. She touches it and brings her finger to her own lips and tongue and the innocence is gone. Any hesitation is gone. She brings her hands back to my throbbing erection and she begins to stroke me, first one hand, and then the other, alternating as she makes me arch my back as the sensations unfold. Her hands are soft and small, but also strong and deliberate, and my arousal becomes stronger. What was simply hard before has now become harder than I thought possible, and I feel the continued strokes along my length drawing me in, making me close my eyes and simply yield to the moment. I wonder what he would think of all of this. My eyes are still closed. The line between fantasy and what is here and now is a very obscure line. She does not know my fantasy, but she has told me of hers. She has told me of a tall, tanned foreigner. A prince or a knight. She has confided in me and has let me in on some of the hidden thoughts. The compartments she carries with her. And I am in a compartment too. So why I am imagining her the way I am now?  My eyes are still closed, and my hands continue to satisfy myself. They are her hands again, and I feel myself intruding on her compartments, coming out of my compartment. I wonder what she would think of all this. He uses such tame words. Not like my tall, tanned foreigner. “He” talks about his erection and my breasts – my fantasy calls it his cock, and this stranger talks of my pussy and my tits with such casualness. He eats me and fingers me until I come, not until I climax or orgasm. “He” is playing it safe, and right now I don’t want safe. I want my stranger to take some chances. I want “him” to take some chances. He might enjoy it too. Part of me is thinking about how I am using him now – using him to fill in the blanks simply because my tall stranger is just that – a stranger. But he offered. He said to me that he would do anything, as my friend, to bring me whatever happiness he could. He said “anything”. I don’t think he would mind if I used him in my fantasy. And maybe I did like the way it felt when he held me, maybe just a little. I’m not a child, I’m not a saint. Why shouldn’t I enjoy it? Turn off part of the brain for a few minutes and just enjoy it. He did offer. he did say “anything.” My thoughts are travelling one direction, and my hands are moving in another, almost on their own. I am touching my pussy – yes, that’s what “he” is calling it now – and I can feel my fingers – his fingers – picking up my wetness. I slide my fingers – his fingers – along my pussy and I can feel myself getting lost in the sensations. It is hard for me to stand up straight now, a mix of the late-hour tiredness and me getting a little turned on.  Very turned on. “Are you getting horny, yet?” he asks, and I just moan and he knows I mean yes, I am. It is hard for me to stand up straight now, so I walk over to my bed, one hand still between my legs – his hand still between my legs – holding on to my pussy as I lie down on my back, looking up to the ceiling. My eyes are wide open, my fantasy doesn’t need them to be closed anymore. I know it is him now, and he will be my fantasy, as wrong as it might be. Now he will do what he has to and help me fulfill my fantasy. What’s the harm? He offered “anything”. He won’t even know. I am so damn wet now. He even notices this and says it to me. He is lying beside me and Erotik hikaye he has one hand on my pussy and one on my left tit. He is leaning on his side, and he is watching my body as he strokes me. I notice he is not naked yet, but he is wearing those boxers he told me about, with the soft drink logos on them. Funny thing to wear in “my” fantasy, I think. He is bare chested, and he is more defined than I thought he would be. Not a Greek god, but not spoiling my fantasy either. I’ll just close my eyes for a moment and picture the tall, tanned foreigner for a moment, while “his” hands continue to explore me. I don’t know. I’m not sure I feel right, thinking about her now. I have to be so damn careful, because of who she is. She is my friend. I have to be so damn careful, because of what she said. She wants a friend. Not a penis or a pair of hands. I’m not even sure what I should be calling everything – what will offend her. I can’t fuck her – that’s too graphic. And making love? She doesn’t love me. So what should I call it? Should I just use medical terms? I wonder if she would blush if I called it a cock? Would I blush? Does she have a pussy or a vagina? Labia or lips? Does she get horny or does she just get stimulated? We’ve never had that conversation, so I don’t know the answers. And I think about this as I continue to stroke my cock – there, I said “cock” even to myself – as I jack-off alone in the dark, picturing her hands doing it. Her hands are soft – I felt them once – and she knows what she is doing to me. It is hard for me to lie still as she changes her speed, her touch, and sometimes she reaches down and plays with my balls – I can’t see her saying testicles, but I wonder if she would do…no, this is my fantasy, and if I want to play with my balls, I’ll do it. Damn, she would freak if she could read my mind now! What the fuck am I doing? Ok, he offered, so I’m not going to think about it again. I’m not really “using” him. He’ll never know. He’s doing me a big favor, right? It’s clinical, almost. Our fantasies are somehow derived from reality, so I’m just channelling some tactile memories from an innocent time, and using them to make my fantasy seem more real. That’s all. It doesn’t mean I want him to do this to me. He’s just… He’s just very good at what he does. When he held me, even if it was only as a friend, he knew all the right spots. He knew how good it felt to have his hands around my waist, my tummy. He knew how good it felt when he traced my mouth with his finger. He’s good, I’ll give him that. But just as a friend.  He is still at it, fingering my pussy now and he has leaned forward and is kissing my tits. Both of them. Taking my nipples in his mouth, one at a time of course, and sucking gently and swirling his tongue around them, sucking and pulling me in to his mouth. Fuck! How does he know I liked that? Oh yeah, it’s my fantasy, of course he knows, because it’s really me – my hand playing with my tits, licking my fingers to make them wet and then using my wet fingers to pull on my nipples. I’ve seen some porn where women suck their own tits – got to have a certain kind of tit for that. Maybe I can… He is still at my tits and I love the attention he is giving them. Not rushing at all. Sucking and licking like he’s hungry, but not too aggressive, not like he’s trying too hard. He’s easy and yet he’s doing the work, he is initiating. He’s still in his boxers, but now I see a tent forming over his cock. He must be getting hard now. Damn it! Take off your boxers, will you? I want to see it. I want to see what kind of cock my tall, tanned foreigner has for me. Why should this stranger have all the fun. I like playing with toys too. Her hands feel so good on my cock. I am trying not to cum so fast. I want this to last. She is changing her position now, and she brings her mouth near my cock. I can feel her warm, damp breath on my head, and it almost tickles. It is so intense. I shudder, like a chill going through my whole body, as I feel her breathing on my cock and then I feel her tongue touch the tip. Holy fuck! What did I just say? I never use that term, and she…she would die if she heard me say that. She would die if she knew I was imagining her tongue on my cock. She is my friend.

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