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There exists a man, a delightfully masculine creature with a boyish grin and a wonderful sense of play about him. A real man's man if you will. I'm rarely afforded the opportunity to touch him, to run the tips of my fingers across the coarse dark hair that covers his strong forearms. I'm oft denied the pleasure and passion of his kisses, remembering them instead in the dreams of my days and the haunt of my nights.

I remember fucking him well, though it's been some time, not by choice, but the realities of life exist. The taste of him, the touch of him, the smell of this man, my love, the memories come back to me time and again.

Yet, despite the distance, I feel his presence, his essence every day. His voice makes me weak-kneed and tongue-tied. His words distract me, leave me dripping, squirming and on the verge of coming. Late afternoon teasing phone calls at my desk are the guiltiest of pleasures. I listen to him recount the desire to have me alone, backed up against the wall, large and masculine hands wandering, exploring the naughty panties beneath my hiked up skirt. Swallow hard, appear collected and say little to give us away. The constraints of just listening and the inability to respond with anything other than a hard swallow and nipples stiffening beneath my clothes make me ache with want and heady frustration. His gentle brand of seduction makes me close my eyes, toss my head back and sigh with pleasure. And oh the dreams: they leave me tangled in the bed sheets, breathless and reaching for him in the darkest hour of my night. The morning after taste of frustration and futility cloying to the palate, as he's not really mine to have.

I've laid in bed with him, sweat dripping from our bodies exhausted from making love, felt him running down the inside of my thighs. I've closed my eyes and imagined him towering over me, fitting his hips to mine and sliding deep inside my well oiled pussy. I've fallen in love, over and over again, with the sound of his orgasm. That husky throaty, nearly primeval groan in my ear as he leans in close all tensed up, one last thrust deep inside my soul and unleashes a torrent of heat into me. For a moment nothing exists outside the two of us. I love that I inspire in him, what he commands of me. I've cum for him, upon his demand, with three fingers buried deep inside me, the sound of his voice and the power of his words drenching my mind in a kind of mental orgasm.

This man and I? We've met in the middle of an even playing field. Bent our heads together in silent prayer for one another, felt the energy flow from one to another. I'd like to think I know what makes him tick. I'd like to think I know what he's thinking sometimes even before he knows. Perhaps that's just feminine arrogance speaking out of turn, but I do know what gets his attention and what gets him off. He can play my body like a finely tuned instrument and he knows my mind as if it were his own, because I've bravely stretched out both, gloriously naked, before him like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.

I share my secrets with this man. My hopes, dreams, fears, he hears them all. There is nothing I couldn't tell him. I excitedly hear his innermost thoughts too. Each and every day this man, who has become as much a part of my existence as my right arm, is there for me in some form. He stokes my mind, my ego, my soul as much as he gently, teasingly strokes my flesh. I am his for the taking. This much he knows is true.

This man I rarely have the pleasure of touching is the most skilled lover I've ever had. The back of his hand briefly slid up the slope of my stomach has left me all aflutter. The tips of his fingers running down the side of my cheek have been my undoing on more than one occasion. He's held my hips and slid his hard cock into me from behind the way he knows I like it. I've closed my eyes, ducked my head, arched my back and screamed out his name as I've felt him touch the very heart of me. He's held me tight as I fall and I've hungrily tasted all he has to give. He's whispered to me in that low and slow drawl, "give it to me baby" and I have. It's the voice that gets me off just closing my eyes and concentrating on each syllable, every delightful image he spins for me.

Yes... there is indeed a man who's voice and words leaving me dripping, aching, wanting for more.