A Fantasy Once Fulfilled

Sometimes your fantasies don’t measure up to what really happens.

She had come to my house wearing a white blouse, the tails of which were tied together to act as a halter top. She was not tall by any means – but then again, neither am I. She had piercing brown eyes and long flowing dark hair. Or so she usually did before tonight. Tonight, her hair was braided in pigtails.

Her name was Emma, and at the time she was 28, though she was tonight attempting a much younger look. She was sucking on a lollipop as she skipped into the room, somehow swaying her hips through the skipping. She was wearing a blue-based plaid miniskirt. I suspected that she wore the matching blue panties only to assure herself that nothing would show inappropriately on her way over to see me.

Beyond the Garden

Every Monday and Thursday I drive an hour from my home to work in the garden of my wealthy employer, a handsome adman in his early thirties. For business-purposes I'll just call him Addison. Addison employed me sometime last spring when we met through a professor of one of my classes. I'm 21 and still in school and have a pretty tight schedule, which Addison offered to work around, while promising a pretty penny for my gardening skills.

Since then I've developed somewhat of an infatuation for Addison. Late at night when I'm showering for bed, or lying on the couch downing a glass of cheap red wine, my thoughts often drift to unrealistic fantasies of him having his way with me, hidden in his hydrangeas. My dreams, I know, will never be anything more than dreams, and not just because Addison is happily married. Still, I can't help blushing when I'm pruning his rose bushes and he walks past me, lightly touching my shoulder and thanking me for my "talents" with his garden. He's a very kind man, and very business. Addison rarely wears anything but crisp suits and never has more than a 5 o'clock shadow grazing his firm jaw, though always with a cigarette or, in the evenings, a cigar.