I am the author and rightful owner of these fantasies. I'm in my late 20's, tall, and lean and I've been blessed with the rumplestiltskin magic of weaving a fantasy as I lay on my bed masturbating and crafting it into the story that takes me over the waterfall. The photographic images that float above each story are of me; creative writer, lustful creature, intelligent vixen, magic seducer. I live as a bachelor. I cuss like a sailor. I kiss like a woman. I fuck like a man. If you saw me on the street, you would feel the ooze of my sexual prowess; my pixie girlishness, my aggressive nature, my careless attitude of whether you see my underwear under my schoolgirl skirt, my total freedom and raw juice, mixed in with the hard runway clip of my walk that tells the world I eat men like you for breakfast; broken and smeared upon my morning toast. But, If you were to get me into bed, you'd open me up; peel back my petals to expose the juiciest, wettest, deepest, softest, most luscious, delicious, lucid red rose you'd even known, tasted, breathed in or felt. You'd unravel, unfurl and unfold me like an origami bird; only to sink into those awakened creases. But for now, this is all you can have. There is no half stepping here. Come in or get out. Get wet or stay dry. I've done my part, the rest is up to you.