You see someone jogging down the street, someone gorgeous. Black shorts, strong thighs, iPhone strapped to the curve of their bicep. Skin taut, muscles glistening.
And sure, the thought flickers across your mind: you want to have sex with them. But it’s not just animal penetration you imagine, or the union of soul with soul. You want them to hold you down with those thighs, your hands cuffed above your head. You want the pressure of their cock rigid against your tongue, or the weight of their breasts, hard nipples between your lips. You want their flesh overwhelming your flesh, your mind ensnared and unresisting. You want to be ridden, a plaything, theirs, for them only, owned. You want to be the centre of the universe and, at the same time, to cease to exist.
But.
You breathe out, and the thought completes itself. Your hand on their throat, fierce kisses across their chest. Ordering them to kneel, palms on the floor, opening to you, your toy, your plaything, all yours. Their body wet and straining at their bonds and presented to you, for you, their mind ensnared and unresisting. Your flesh overwhelming their flesh. Whispering “yes,” as they close their eyes and snap the collar around their neck, your slave, owned.
And then your dog tugs its leash, reminding you where you are. Sun hot on your neck, shivering as a drop of sweat slides down your spine, and you walk back home.