*That* night still felt like a dream to him. Two weeks later and he could still feel her. He could feel her breath on his neck, her soft skin and supple curves, her tight grasp on his swollen cock. He never had an encounter like that. Two weeks passed and he was still thinking of her when he masturbated. She had consumed his desires, and now all he could do was think of her. Think of *that night.*
…
He was young, single, and very mobile. He had a thick mop of dirty blonde hair which he kept neat and combed back. He was tall and lean, a result of many winters on his collegiate wrestling team. His chest sported a thick bush of hair which was black over his slightly tanned skin. College brought a course auburn beard to his face. His right arm was slowly being covered with tattoos. He often traveled for his work, and often fantasized of hooking up on the fly with a stranger. He had a girlfriend or two in college, with whom he had solid relationships and great sex with, but non the less were lacking. What he really needed, what he had fantasized about the longest, was an older woman. A woman with experience who knew what they wanted and took it when they saw it. A woman that we see through his façade and understand what to do with his fantasies. He had come close with an old professor, but out of mutual respect and professionalism it never went further than a few risky text messages. A mere sampling in the face of his unrelenting desire.