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Jasira and I had been working together for several years, and I've been in love with her pretty much since we first met. She's beautiful, of course: medium length black hair, olive skin and deep dark eyes; the very essence of Indian sensuality. Physically, she's perfect: about 5 foot 6, trim athletic body, lovely medium-sized breasts and a voluptuous ass that defies adequate praise. It is true that I lust endlessly for her body, but I love her for her smile. I love her for her humor, her intelligence, her questioning search for new ideas and new answers, her love of the absurd. She is an angel, a goddess, a radiant spirit who lifts my world with a mischievous giggle. She is love. But she can't be mine.

I've been married a long time. My wife and I have shared the very best and the very worst of times. We're not constantly at each other's throats, but we're light years from a harmonious union. We're together because of the kids now, and because it's all we've known for so long. We've grown so similar in many ways, and now we each clutch a common dream: escape.

I drown my sorrows in fantasy. Well, no, more than that; it's more accurate to say that fantasies are a large part of my life. I have a regular, full life, but I also live another life in a world completely of my own imagination. Those two worlds are very much separate; I'm not sure whether that is due to circumstance or whether it is just the nature of my dreams. ...

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