The Cowboy

I've always had a thing for cowboys: tall, sexy, good looking, tight jeans- and boots-wearing, drawling cowboys. Here's the fantasy I've had in my mind for years. I lie in bed many nights, hands on my breasts and a vibrator between my thighs, dreaming about my cowboy.

I'm a reporter sent to a ranch in East Texas to do a story about a champion rodeo rider. What I know about rodeos could be written on a grain of rice with a ball point pen, but my editor picked me and I don't refuse my editor. Anyway, the chance to meet a real cowboy, up close and personal, is too good to pass up.

I've no idea exactly where my fantasy takes place. All I know it that I drive to his ranch through hill country, with gorgeous vistas, mountains, cactus and other Texas stuff. Actually, I've created this fantasy out of whole cloth since I've never been to Texas at all but who really cares about the scenery except that it sets the mood.

Anyway, his house is much more than the rambling wooden structure in those old western movies. It's modern, almost starkly so, with lots of glass and stone. As I drive up, a handsomely tall, blond, curly-haired, blue-eyed stud opens the front door and waits to usher me inside. He's wearing just what I want, tight jeans that outline his ‘package', a wide leather belt with a silver and turquoise buckle and a plaid shirt with a little string tie. His beautifully tooled boots add several inches to his already more than six foot height. His face is deeply tanned with pale smile lines around his eyes. He's got a heavy moustache over thick, sensual lips.

"Well hi there. You must be the gal from the magazine and I've been expecting you," he drawls. Gal. I love being called that and I melt, locking my knees to keep from dropping to the ground. He reaches out to shake my hand.

I take it. It's warm but callused, the hard, strong hand of a working cowboy. "Yes, I'm from Western Life and Times and my name is Leslie Morgan. It's nice to meet you, Mr...."

"J.J. Everyone calls me J.J. Come on in." As he turns I notice that the jeans cup his tight buns and that his ass-muscles ripple as he walks. Unconsciously I lick my lips.

I look around as we walk through the spacious rooms. The entire house is an eclectic combination of Southwestern casual and New York modern and, although it seems it shouldn't blend, it does. In the living room I make myself comfortable on a long, nubby oatmeal sofa. J.J. sits beside me relaxed, with one ankle propped on his other knee. "Your editor called me and told me he'd be sending a Ms. Morgan. Somehow I didn't picture someone so young and lovely."

"Call me Leslie," I say, swallowing hard as the heat of his nearness envelopes me, "and thanks for the kind words." Keep it light, I tell myself. Just because he's the sexiest man I've ever seen, I'm not going to forget about my assignment. And anyway, he might not be as attracted to me as I am to him. After all he's probably trained to give interviews like this and get flattering write ups.

"It can't be the first time you've heard them," he says. "Someone as gorgeous as you must hear flattering things all the time."

I can't help blushing, just as I can't help getting turned on by his soft drawl that makes even the most ordinary words seem like caresses. He smiles, with a knowing look that says he can feel the erotic tension that is already sparking between us. It's effecting him too, I think.

Then it's evening. We've had dinner and the sensual air around us has gotten almost too thick to breathe. I want him, and he knows it. I'm pretty sure he wants me too. "There's a beautiful view of the sunset from the back of the house," he says.

We walk out through sliding glass doors and indeed the view is spectacular. But I'm not looking at the gold and rose lights that make the desert glow and back light the tall, stately cactuses. I'm looking at him, and he's looking at me. It's like something out of a western romance novel, but it's real to me. He takes me in his arms and brushes his lips over mine. His thick, brushy moustache tickles my upper lip and his breath is hot on my face. "You feel it, don't you, darlin'?" he drawls.

I try to answer but I can't take in enough air to form words. I merely nod. "I mean to have you," he says, "but let's go at this real slow. I love anticipation and want to savor every moment. I have a great hot tub. How about a dip?" I nod and he crosses the patio toward an above-the-ground spa and lifts the heavy cover. While he puts the lid aside I watch his biceps and well developed shoulders. He's like a body building infomercial.

"I hope you're not shy," he drawls and I shake my head, glad I don't have to form words.

As I watch his long fingers, he unbuttons his shirt and I almost drool as he reveals his broad chest and tight abs. His upper body is covered with a light dusting of pale hair, arrowing down to his navel. I'm transfixed as he unbuckles his leather and turquoise belt and slides his jeans down his slim hips, toeing off his boots and pulling the pant-legs off. He's not wearing briefs and as he turns away from me I can appreciate his muscular butt and thighs. He flips a couple of switches and the patio lights dim and the light from one side of the tub comes on. Steam rises from the surface of the water as he climbs in and settled on the bench seat. God, I could watch him move forever.

In my dream I've got a fabulous body: high, firm breasts, a flat stomach, narrow hips and long, shapely legs. I'm not ashamed to slowly remove my clothes as he now watches me. When I'm naked I stand and let him look his fill, then climb in. The water is a perfect temperature and I slowly settle beside him. He flips another switch and bubbles tickle my skin. Then his lips are against mine and his tongue slides over their joining until I open for him. His tongue fills my mouth, gently stroking mine. I snake my arms around his neck and comb my fingers through his curly hair, drawing his body closer.

When his chest hair touches the tips of my breasts I rub against him like a cat in heat. "God, you feel good, all woman," he purrs, "so soft and warm."

The sound of his words in my ear cause my entire body to tremble. His hands slide down my back and press at base of my spine. We are now flesh to flesh along the entire length of our upper bodies, my hardened nipples raking his skin.

He cups one breast and lifts it to his mouth, drawing one tight nipple inside. His tongue performs magic and shafts of heat rocket through me, causing my back to arch until I'm still more tightly against him. "I can't wait," he growls. "Please, don't make me wait."

He cups my buttocks and lifts me until I'm straddling him. He's given me ample time to stop things, but I don't want to. I think I would expire if I don't have him right then. His mouth still on my breast I lower myself onto his thick shaft. The ecstasy of him filling me it almost too much to bear and I feel my muscles clench his erection.

We remain linked for several moments, still, just feeling each other in the heated water. Then he begins to move inside me, his hands on my hips, lifting and releasing me. He reaches out and flips yet another a switch. Powerful jets of water buffet my body, moving it on his. I climb still higher, squeezing his erection still more tightly with my vaginal muscles.

I hear his long moan and feel his entire body shudder as he releases himself into me. I dig my fingers into his shoulders as orgasm sweeps me away too.

I've dreamed the same dream over and over, honed it to perfection and it always ends right there, as I climax both in the fantasy and in reality. I am, of course, a magazine writer and maybe, just maybe my cowboy is out there, waiting for me to write his story - and more.

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