A fantasy unfolding, following on from the Rider

My fox, your eyes squint open as the morning sun pours brilliantly in through the windows, the curtains were drawn, but their material far too thin to offer much protection.

You stretch and yawn, and as you do so you realize how free of any tension you now feel. How on earth could roughing it alone in this old vintage camper van provide such restoration for life’s aches and pains, you wonder?

Gradually moving, beneath the faux fur throw, a mischief dawns, knowing that you’re naked, innocently guilty as you glance around the confines of your little camper cabin, wondering if anyone could possibly know.

And then you stiffly address your childishness, reprimanding yourself that there’s no one anywhere around here to care, and actually it’s none of anybody else’s god-damn business.

With a deep sigh you acknowledge how good it feels to be this relaxed and free. Out on the open road, a year off, away from the office, the city and the grind. To have the freedom to choose when and where to travel.

And then there’s the risque indulgence that comes with being an independent woman, alone, and starkers beneath your warm, heavy, Siberian fox fur blanket.

You slip an arm free, fumbling for a long, loose fitting t-shirt from a nearby overnight bag, and sitting up with the fur throw clung across your chest, you slip the loose cotton shirt over your head, the cold cabin air pinching at the porcelain smooth, and ageless skin, that covers your briefly exposed and slender back.

You slide your legs out to the side, stooping over to retrieve your abandoned woolen walking socks, finding them where they lay, bunched up by your bedding, entangled with your towel.

And as you sit up, wriggling your toes down inside their warm woolens, you see the expired remains of the exhausted candle, and a deep tingling of warm self indulgent satisfaction runs through you.

Keeping the heavy fur throw wrapped around you, you rise to your feet and proceed to boil a small kettle of water on the gas ring, preparing the first and most important ritual of your day, a cup of tea, in bed.

The mug steaming, as you cup it in front of you, your toes wriggling and squirming with delight, stroking inside the confines of their warm wool, while your bare knees and thighs happily feel the reassuring weight of the fur throw.

You look down at the towel and notice it looks clean enough, you reach forward and scoop at it, pulling up onto the bed with one hand while you counter balance the tea precariously in the other.

And indeed it is clean. Curious, almost unconvinced, your mind scans your body for senses and sensations and returns a report that you feel the best you ever feel.

Were you dreaming about the motorcycle, and the rider? Knowing how hard he came, and how good and deep he felt inside you. How could the towel be clean, unless a dream, but then the spent candle confuses you?

You reach out under the fur, somehow knowing where to find your secret silicone stow-away, and looking down at the fur blanket for something to chide you say aloud: “I don’t know what you’ve awoken in me, but I haven’t dreamt this horny for…”

You pause, your mind scrolling for a reference point, a date stamp, a time or place, as if keeping a record of whenever you feel a certain way was somehow required of you.

And you allow your breathing to relax, meditative, contemplative, finishing your tea and letting the warm glow you’ve woken with flow freely over, through, and around you.