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As there is no honor among thieves, there is no reality for lovers. This is a fantasy. Even when your fingertips glide across my skin, we are not real. Your cock in my mouth is simply a dream come true. We live for this moment, this sensation, this encounter. Reality is your home, your wife, your kids, your job. I'm suspended from those ties. I am for you alone.

It is still fantasy when you're twisted up between my legs, with your hands in my hair, your tongue in my mouth and your dick in my cunt, I'm not your girl. I'm your lover. And being lovers is about fulfilling your deepest fantasy, answering the most urgent calls of your body. Doing all those things that haunt your dreams and send you to the bathroom alone again and again to spend your lust into nothing.

In our fantastic version of reality, you will say, "Mistress will you ..." and I will say, "Yes." You'll leave imprints of yourself on my skin, but after you're gone, they will fade. I'll burn images onto your brain that you can't share with anyone else but me, but after you leave me sore and exposed in bed, you might not experience them again for a long time.

Then our short reality will turn into simply fantasy again. You'll imagine the next time we're together. You'll relive all the intimate moments we shared. You'll dream about the taste of my skin, the smell of perfume in my hair. You'll smile longingly at girls that resemble me. But you won't have me to yourself -- for yourself -- for a while.