Close your eyes. Bring the thoughts to breathing— a breath in, held, and then an exhale out. And reminisce:

I can’t be there, in his bed, wrapped in his arms. I can’t be there, so I close my eyes and just imagine it. Remember it, more correctly.

Indulge, a little bit, in the soft sins we commit to memory. After all, these are little more than waking dreams.

His hands wander farther south, loving every inch of me as he whispers sweet nothings into my ears. I’m melting into the moment, not wanting it to end. I feel like I’m turning into a woman [now], like I’ve been a little girl my entire life and didn’t even know it.

He’s dominant in the purest way. He doesn’t tie me up or force me on my back or make demands. He just takes what is his. He moves from behind me and move me to my back, slipping a finger in me. And then, I realize how crazily I want him, how wet I am, how close I am to orgasming already. He got me to that point before even touching my pussy, before even thinking about touching my pussy.

And for the rest of us? Well, a memory not ours can simply be a fantasy. A very good fantasy.