Two-Minute Daydream
                   (part 1)

It was always at those odd moments when she thought 
about it.  

A mix of half-fantasy and memory, twirling together, 
the real and imagined parts mixed and matched and 
running all together, as if there were nothing 
separating them.

It took no more than a couple minutes to go there, 
in her mind ... to see and feel a little piece of it.

And she'd snap back to reality ... driving down the 
street ... needing to put a turn signal on, or to 
half-register the light now turning yellow, then 
red.

You could say it haunted her.  It was a delicious, 
sensual, wicked presence in the otherwise mundane 
moments of her life.

She wouldn't *decide* to think about it.  She would 
realize she *had* been thinking about it a few 
minutes later.  

And that she was wet and warm, with a touch of that 
mild, achy erotic buzz.

That night, when she went home, she would *not* find 
herself in the midst of it.  Most days were like 
that ... normal.  But then there were the other 
days.  Sometimes one.  Sometimes several.  Once for 
an entire two-week period.  Other times, for just a 
portion of an evening.

It was like someone threw little clumps of spices 
into her life, and didn't care if they tossed in 
little pinches or whole bushels full.

She had a *real* life too.  A normal one.  A sense 
of being on par with everything around her.  Of 
being successful.  Of being in balance.  Of living 
and exploring all the things she could do.

A normal life, with the oddest moments of the most 
unimaginable perversity thrown in.  It didn't fit 
together.  And she loved that most of all -- the 
fact that it didn't fit ... the fact that it would 
come at odd moments, unexpectedly, and that there 
was no way to reconcile it with the tenor of her 
normal life.

With that simple realization, she'd get the most 
uncharacteristic, wicked little grin on her face.

What had she been thinking about?  Ask a moment 
later, and it almost dissolves into a dizzying spin 
of faintly remembered whimsy.

Pull at the threads of that whimsy, though, and you 
begin to see it.  Her wicked imagination.  And the 
reality that some of it wasn't *imagined*, was 
*memory*. 

Simple and perversely elegant things.  Or complex 
images, like the time ... on her knees ... you'd 
have to feel like you were zooming out from her 
face, to begin to capture each part of it.  

Her lovely face ... but then you see her mouth open, 
and, yes, her tongue is out ... and, oddly, what at 
first appears as a long line running across her 
mouth, from corner to corner and past.  

Zoom in a bit, and you realize it's a pair of 
chopsticks, held together at either end by rubber 
bands ... and her tongue is *between* them, pushed 
as far out of her mouth as it will go, the 
chopsticks pressing at the corners of her lips.

Only a slight pull-back from there brings into focus 
her husband's erect cock, at eye-level for her as 
she kneels before him ... and you watch her tongue 
touching lightly, slowly running up his shaft ... 
over, up ... touching with such delicacy even as she 
feels all the pressure, radiating from her tightly 
squeezed tongue, the painfully pressed corners of 
her mouth.

And a slight pullback still.  You'd realize her 
husband was fully dressed, except for the carefully 
retrieved and now strikingly stiff member.  

You'd realize that she was humbled *everywhere*.  
Pained ... shamed ... hurt ... reduced.  Her breasts 
were encircled and bound tightly with thin latex 
tubing.  Her nipples had grown huge, but were 
thoroughly coated with bright red lipstick.  Her 
tightly swollen breasts barely supported a small 
mousetrap hanging precariously from each nipple, 
barely able to pinch enough flesh to remain in 
place.

And, across her chest, in the same shade of red 
lipstick, she is labeled in a dramatic but obviously 
accurate manner.  In big block letters, it says 
"Cock Licker".

Part of that image was now available to everyone.  A 
closeup of her chest ... something that didn't allow 
you to identify *her*, but which captured the moment 
surprisingly well.  You could see the writing, her 
bound breasts, the mousetraps.  You could imagine 
the rest.

And guys did, trading it across the internet at any 
hour of the day, commenting on it ... inspired by it 
to stroke themselves, to come.  And she knew it.  

This she imagined too at those mundane moments ... 
driving somewhere, seeing herself subject to an 
ongoing worldwide sexual humiliation ... not even 
realizing she was thinking about this ... jolted to 
consciousness when the warm flow between her legs 
produced a noticeable trickle.