Every
morning he saw her on the Finchbottom Express, in the same seat, she was a
twenty something, a sweet young thing who smiled at him each day, occasionally
a “Hello” or “Hi” was exchanged but nothing more profound than that.
The carriage clicked and clacked as it rushed us towards the throng of
Abbottsford, the train wheels singing their staccato song and he looked at her
and instantly pictured her wearing a thong and she looked up from her book and
gave him a quizzical look.
“Can you read my thoughts?” he asked inside his head and promptly decided to
think about sports but that didn’t help in the slightest because he then saw
her playing beach volleyball.
She
was a twenty something, a sweet young thing, who looked at the ordinary thirty
something, quizzically.
“This is the affect you have on me” he thought “so you had better not read my
mind?”
Oh how he would like to brush the hair from her brow, and run his finger
through her soft brown curls, before he caressed the soft curves of her tender
flesh as he divests her of her intimate attire and then satisfy his every carnal
want and need, and at the ecstatic moment of their mutual satisfaction he sees
that a smile had replaced her quizzical look, briefly before her eyes return to
the pages of her book and he knew he would have those same thoughts the next
time they travelled together on the train.
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