"Do you ever think about playing someone else?" He asks it quietly, casually, as if the concept has just occurred to him. His fingers trail over my hip and then move lower, so that the very tips of his fingers graze my naked soft edges.

He bites hard into my bare shoulder, making me squirm, and then he croons the words again. "Do you, baby? Do you ever fantasize about making love to someone else?" He wants me to tell himhe thinks he wants to knowbut I know better.

Questions like that are loaded.

So of course, I just grin and half-shrug, and moan out the pleasure that I get from his touch. I dont give away my secrets so easily.

But yeah. Yeah I do. Doesnt everyone? I think about the handsome green-eyed man who sits at the counter at the one good cafe in town.

Im always there on a Sunday, and hes always there all by himself. Every Sunday morning at 8:30. All by himself with the paper. Hes older than me by far, silver-haired and well-worn in his jeans and his turquoise corduroy shirt. But hes good-looking in that tough cowboy sort of way, and hes strong and straight-backed, and I watch him drink his coffee and read the paper, and I think about him. I dress better than I need to on Sunday mornings at 8:30, putting a little extra effort into my outfit. I make an effort, and I think he notices. I think he knows Im dressing for him. When we walk into the cafe, he always looks my way, and I see him memorizing the way I look, as if storing up my image for later use. At least, I hope thats what hes doing. Sometimes, I imagine what I might say if we were to find each other all alone together. Maybe back by the payphones near the two tiny restrooms. I try to picture our conversation, try to hear it in my head. Could I tell him I have such a crush on him? No. No playing way. Not in a small town like this. So instead, I fantasize. I think about him sliding me a note that tells me where and when to meet him. Some place safe.

Some place close. I think about him taking off my carefully prepared outfit, my polished black boots, crisp jeans, white long-sleeved shirt. I close my eyes and feel his hands on me, stroking me, playing with my long blonde hair.

Then I think about the first kiss, and what it would feel like, and what it would mean. And after that first kiss, I think about him pushing on my shoulders, forcing me down to my knees, and watching me as I undo his fly and free his length. I think about him grabbing my hair and pulling me forward, hard, so that I just barely have time to open my mouth before his length slams down my throat. I think about sucking him hard, sucking to the very root of his length, deep-throating him to show him how much I want him, how much I want to give him pleasure with my mouth. And I do.

I want to make him come, want to swallow every drop of him down. I think about him taking his length out of my mouth, jacking it in his hand while I watch jealously. I think about him rubbing his length against my cheeks, slapping my face with it, before sliding that length back down my ready throat. "Do you ever think about playing someone else?" Yeah. Oh, god, yeah. I think about the roughness of his skin against the softness of mine. I think about the way he watches me when I enter the cafe, the way he carefully gazes at me over the top of his paper, never smiling, yet fully acknowledging that he knows what I knowwe both think about each other. Fantasize, I should say.

Because I can see it in his eyes. I can see that he thinks about me when he comes, and this is what makes me dress a little better, and walk a little straighter. The thought of him jerking off to an image of me is what makes me touch myself late at night. That image blends to an action-picture of him playing my mouth, of him using me. I can see this so clearly: Id be naked hed be clothed, his jeans split open at the front, his hands so tight on me, gripping me, holding me. I can feel his length slipping back and forth between my lips, thrusting hard and forcefully into my mouth, and I know somehow that it would be good. Sex like that with him would be everything I think it would.

Hard and quick, so that we could breathe again. Fast and furious with a vicious yet delicious climax, his hands on my shoulders leaving marks on me, bruising me with the intensity of his caress.

Its my number-one fantasy, sucking off this stranger. My favorite bedtime tale that I tell myself again and again.

I change the location.

I change the position. But the story is always the same.

Me on my knees for a man whose name I dont know, letting him take his pleasure from me.

I make myself come every time to these thoughts, my body squirming, my hips rising, and in my head I see myself going up to him and saying a slightly altered version of the query my lover asks me: "Do you ever think about playing me?" But I dont have to do that.

I know that his answer would be, "yeah."