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But I demurred because Conrad and June just don’t get it. My room is my sanctuary, and it’s a special place created by me for me. It’s a place where I feel safe at home, and where my creative juices can flow strongly. I’ve filled three of the walls with my best artwork. There are drawings of dark suns setting over the ocean, unicorns and mythical beasts grazing in open fields, and magical creatures flying in pink and purple skies. The paintings are beautiful and fantastical, and they come together to transform my room into a world of my own.
The fourth wall I’ve left alone because there’s a large window bench cut into the wall where I’ve placed a few candles, a vase with varying fresh flowers (but always including a single sunflower), as well as some of my favorite gemstones such as rose quartz and obsidian. The view is magnificent as the sun sets, and I’ve spent many happy evenings doodling in my notebook as the last rays of daylight warm my skin.
To add to the fantastical setting, my bed is covered by satin gold sheets, and above it hangs sheer white curtains with tiny fairy lights sewn in. These are suspended from a gold chandelier-like hoop dangling a few inches below the ceiling. This is my place, and where I feel happiest.
Tonight, I’m sitting on an oversized beanbag propped up against the wall. As usual, I’m mindlessly doodling, lost in a daydream. The ambiance is my usual: dimmed lights, candles lit, and soft wordless music playing in the background. But today, it’s different because I’m too distracted thinking about Dane. I haven’t been able to get him off my mind for days now, and it’s frustrating.
But he shows himself in my artwork because my doodles are of him. I have detailed portraits of his face emphasizing that strong jaw line and sharp cheekbones. I’m doing my best, but no drawing will do justice to those ravishing good looks. I shade in his hair and bite my lip, scrutinizing my work before giving texture to his bottom lip. I begin to lose myself filling in that thick, luscious bottom lip, so rare on a man. Then my mind flashes back to the scene where he pulled his shirt off in the Restons’ kitchen.
Oh god. I remember every piece of his body in great detail, from the sharp ridges of his abs to the delicate bead of sweat climbing down through the swath of hair curling out of the center of his chest. It’s going down ... and down … and down … I quickly turn the page of my diary and start a new image.
This time I draw Dane lying on his side, propping his head up in his hand. His top leg is bent, his other hand resting on his knee. But instead of putting him in a pair of jeans, this time, I draw him fully naked. It’s dirty but I can’t help it. My hand moves like it’s possessed, and I take great time and care to render every inch of him in clear and accurate detail. I feel a small rush of pleasure flow through me with every stroke of my pencil on the paper.
I even take the time to draw all of his tattoos, his muscles, and his body hair, working from memory. I try to add that shimmer he gets in his eyes when he gets excited. I draw his chest, his abs, his hips, and then I pause.
How big is Dane’s dick?
I bite the end of my pencil pondering this question. I close my eyes and imagine what this bit of him might look like.
I draw him erect. And large. Oh yes, this is the way it must be.
I continue, indulging my secret fantasies. I even draw a few sketches of Dane masturbating, his hand shafting the massive animal between his legs. I give him an expression of pure ecstasy as he orgasms, and I make him come hard, just as I would in real life.
I’m biting my bottom lip, seductively eyeing my creation when suddenly, a voice startles me from my reverie.
“Zoe!” I hear my mom call from downstairs. “Where are you?”
Holy shit!
I slam my diary shut in terror. I really lost myself in these drawings because I’m so turned on by the thought of Dane masturbating. Quickly, I slip my journal into a nearby bag and take a deep breath and try to center myself as I hear my mom’s footsteps approaching.
“In here,” I manage to call out in a fairly normal voice. Just in time because my mom’s at my door in an instant.
“Knock knock,” she chirps while swinging the door open, poking her head around the corner. I stare at her blankly, still trying to recover. Meanwhile Cocoa, our German Shepard, excitedly barges into the room and jumps up on my lap. She begins frantically licking my face.
