I would have her in any form, too. Any incarnation. In any world or lifetime.
For her heart is the purest of any human that walks this earth.
Somehow, she’s mine.
Which is why I do not long for the ocean, apart from the occasional urge to take a long swim. My longing for her eclipses all else.
Restless to have her in my arms, I flip the off switch on my table saw and wipe the grease from my hands. I take off my filthy shirt, so I won’t transfer any dirt onto her sacred skin and I leave the work shed, striding across the field with purpose.
Toward my wife and children.
Darla looks up and I catch the heat that kindles in her expression when she sees me with no shirt on. Ah yes, my wife gets turned on when she sees me sweaty and fresh from work. How many times has she offered me her juicy little ass in my work shed, bending over with no panties and distracting me with her sexy, come-hither smile? Or sitting in my lap and whispering in my ear that her pussy is soaked for Daddy?
Make no mistake, as soon as she crooks that little finger at me, I’m thick as hell in my briefs, tearing at the obnoxious restraints attached to human clothing, such as zippers and buttons.
Yes, I own clothes now.
Do I enjoy wearing them?
Nope.
Meanwhile, I love my wife in clothes. In public, at least. Modest ones. Especially when we go into town and everyone marvels at her figure. Her smile. Her gentle mothering. How she moves through life with such grace. Unless I’m carrying her, that is, which I often do when we’re in town, so everyone is extra aware that she is my little human and no one else’s.
I have the urge to remind Darla of this now.
She is far too beautiful sitting on the windswept hill in her yellow sundress.
Her tits are plump and ripe looking in the neckline, her toes painted pink.
Cheeks stained with a blush that deepens the closer I get.
Ah, yes, that blush. It reminds me of the day we visited the doctor to determine my relative age. Thirty-three was his estimate. Meaning, I was fifteen years older than Darla when we met, since she was eighteen. I’ve since learned that relationships with such a hefty age difference are considered inappropriate. That she was far too young. But neither one of us pays that opinion any credence. We belong to each other, age be damned.
Again, I would like to remind my wife of this. Now.
My children run toward me when they notice my approach, each of them wrapping their arms around one of my legs. I bend down and scoop one into each arm, asking them about their day. Letting them tug my hair and lay noisy kisses into my neck. And I pay attention for as long as I can, but my God, I am distracted by their enticing mother. How she lays on her belly in the grass and watches us with a contented smile, the breeze blowing the hem of her dress up to show off those sweet, pliable ass cheeks.
Goddamn, I am the luckiest man alive.
“Son,” I say, gruffly. “Bring your sister to color at the kitchen table for a little while. Your mother and I need to discuss something in the work shed.”
My son loves to be in charge, so he hops down right away, taking his sister’s hand and ambling off toward the house.
That leaves me alone with my obsession, who has rolled over onto her back with a feline purr, stretching her arms up over her head. I stand above her and lose my breath due to her potency. Her appeal, which only triples by the day.
Goddess.
“Come to the work shed, my little human.”
“For what?” she asks, feigning curiosity.
As if she needs an explanation when I’m tenting my fucking jeans with a foot of turgid flesh. “You know for what. The only question is how.”
“Mmmm. I don’t know.” She lets her knees inch open, the rucked-up hem of her dress showing off a pair of damp white panties, the proof of her arousal causing a thick spurt to release against my fly. As I watch, she brings her right hand down, delving her fingers into the waistband of her panties, moaning as she fondles herself. “But I want to be licked first, please, Daddy.”
Oh, sweet mercy.
This girl is the ultimate fantasy come to life.
