You are, oh, so very hot. At least, in my mind. Though we haven’t met, yet, we have talked. Chatted. Emojies, hearts on text clouds, as a landmark of approval, and the way you have described yourself. Oh, are you good with words. I dream on your hair, dark blond curly hair. I dream on your eyes, grey, dark blue at times. I dream on a body that likes to keep fit but not to the extreme. I wonder if I could take you off your uniform one day, or you rather strip it all off yourself for me. I don’t need you to have a play room but I want you to be playful. While we listen to the beats we’ve shared, the ones that turn you on and my own. I am very aware I am smoothly crawling over to that sensitive phase, the one when my boiling point ignites. Not in search for danger, nor ‘out of this world’ adventure, diamonds in the raw live among the ordinary and that is quite extraordinary. My fantasies are shaping, taking forms, defining and detailing, even though I’m yet to know who’s behind the secret door. Who’s this Mr. Sir Lord of the Vikings turning my mind and body on. Your words, clever, your conversation, smooth, and your attention, sublime. It is within my nature to trust, for I know about this tiny little troll that lives deep inside within this magic nurturing forest that has grown within my heart, seating and patiently waiting, holding in the hand a crimson velvet rope, attached to a shinny golden bell that will ring into my head, shall the moment come in which I must wake up from the spell.

Sir Lord of the Vikings. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)

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