Warning! This is something for the girls out there! Anyone who's had a crush to the point that even his simplest of actions spark a fantasy... *cough* Well, rated an innocent PG-13 for those who need instruction.

He gestures to you to wait a moment and slips through the gate of his backyard chain link fence. His dog, a young and spry, beautiful golden retriever rushes up to him in pure joy and excitement, leaps to its hind legs in its haste to embrace him.
"Hey, girl," he replies, energetically stroking the silken coat, patting her soft head as she pants and licks, her eyes large, brown, and eager. He bends to vigorously scratch behind her ears, her tail wags fervently, her mouth open, panting with pleasure. She laves all over his face, leaving him laughing, and he kisses her soundly on top of her head. She bounds around him, ecstatic, bursting with her undying love and rapture and he throws his arms around her so they collapse onto the fresh, green grass.
You watch this, with revere, with amusement, with wonderment. Such impetuous, uninhibited affection, it warms your heart and plucks at the corners of your mouth so you cannot help but grin wide. He is so kind, so impassioned. His hands strong but gentle as he caresses her thick fur.
You wish you could run and fling your arms around him, feel him embrace you tightly back and tumble there on the grass with him. You love him that much, you are anxious every minute he's gone and are eager to greet him when he comes. You yearn for his endearment, you would live for his touch.
Of course you are not like the dog, you have human composure. But oh! Your heart quivers when he approaches you, your skin tingles in longing for his touch.
He is so soothing, so comforting, you long to curl up to his warmth and bask in his presence. Secure in his adoration, lost in him, a world of bliss. You want him to murmur contented words to you, share his joy of life.
You wish you could nuzzle him gently when he's hurting, to nudge your way under his arm to make him smile again. You want him to confide in you, tell you his pain, and you will give him thoughtful silence. To trust and divulge in, faithful as the sunrise. An eternal companion, a soul mate and best friend, to live together and share the sunlight and the stars.
He is so loving as he touches the animal, do you wish for his hands on you? Would you bound up to him with energy and eagerness, hungry for his caress? To smooth your hair and stroke your skin, with fondness, with adoration. To roll on the grass in a passionate tumble, and play and shriek like children? To kiss him all over his face, to make him laugh. He knows all your tender spots, he moves with skilled and gentle hands. A hand, rough-skinned but affectionate and playful, to stroke your back, your face, your chest. Would you arch to meet his touch, would you pant with pleasure?
Would you consent to him willingly, plead for his kiss, for his touch? Enraptured in his love, you want for nothing else.
And this thought is gone in an instant, your cheeks glow red as the dream flutters away. Did you imagine?

The steady walk up to the podium, the setting of the page and the placement of his hands draws your attention even before he starts speaking. As he begins his flow of words, you directly sense his confidence, his energy. He is at home on the stage, articulate, eloquent and entrancing. He's enthusiastic and passionate about his speech, every word is essential and precious.
He is fascinating in a debate, composed, calm and pensive, crushing the aggressive competition. He stands straight and tall, face and voice alive and animated, blessing the microphone with crackling energy. The audience around you disappears and you are surrounded by his clear voice echoing in the room. Now his hands are gesturing in time with his expression, scattering the words like fireworks. You never cease to be amazed by how easily he captures the audience, his irresistable spark of wit.
How can he manipulate words so, how does he transform raw emotion into perfect verse so smoothly? He knows exactly what to say, what action accompanies it. He can set you on fire without even touching you.
Such energy flows from his mouth and tongue, what would it be like for those lips to cover yours? Would he still have the same energy, this same passion, and confidence? What would it feel like? Would it shoot through you like an electric bolt or cause a soothing spread of warmth to fulfill your spirit?
His voice is developed, a low gentle bass. Wouldn't you just die to hear that calm, clear voice perfectly articulate exactly what he would like to do to you? A single word, a subtle gesture, and the flames in your heart ignite your blood. He clears his throat briefly, and you are so intent on watching the Adam's apple bob gracefully, you mimic the movement and swallow in spite of yourself. Wouldn't you love to follow that movement with your mouth, feel his throat vibrate under your lips?
Would you want his passion to be directed away from his monologue and towards you? Or are his words enough?
He glances at you from the podium. You freeze, and lower your eyes guiltily, as if he detected your thoughts. Did you imagine?

The classroom is warm and muggy one spring day. The air is still and heavy, thick with boredom, interrupted only by the infrequent rattle of the air exchange system. The teacher’s voice drones monotonously, washing over indifferent minds like waves on a beach. Your eyes restlessly wander, and catch on him.
He’s sitting at the opposite end of the classroom, staring hard at a blank sheet of paper. Like a master, a true professional, he deftly wields a pencil and sketches an outline, the blueprint of his new creation.
With the same pencil he uses for math, the same looseleaf he takes notes on, he is forging an original piece of art, all his own.
Darker the lines become as he gradually maps out the lines and strokes. A skilled, controlled hand guides the pencil along the paper. Lines fly out of the lead, comprehensible only to him at the moment. You can almost see his mind whirling, focusing on replicating a picture of his imagination, visible only to him.
His fingers- beautiful fingers- are long and tapered, the callused middle finger and rough fingertips unmistakably belonging to one who has spent years familiarizing himself with the use of a pencil, the texture of paper.
A pencil stroke goes awry and his hand reaches for the eraser, touching it exactly without looking up. He works with unison of the three tools- pencil, paper and eraser- with ease and non-pausing grace.
He narrows his eyes in deep concentration and the rhythm of the pencil strokes are entirely mismatched to the mood in the room. He is lost now, winging away from the world, only your eyes watching him to confirm he is still on reality’s plane.
The pain-staking details begin. He bends slightly, but not strenuously, in his concentration. He applies and lifts pressure to the lead, it yields to his desire for darkness and lightness. He operates in harmony with every shade of gray.
You regard with awe the way the picture takes form, the way it blooms from ordinary lead and paper, underneath his strokes. How he loves his drawing, uninhibited creativity and conviction. What passion is burned into his creation.
You long for those fingers, that steady and focused gaze. Can he be so passionate, so attentive? How you would love for him to concentrate on you, a new surface to explore, a new terrain for his fingers to master. Would he smile at the challenge?
Is the picture already etched in his mind? Does he have the intended outcome formed in his imagination? Or will he approach with an unpredictable creative lust?
Would he experiment with his strokes, play with your nerves, observe the effect, plan the next? Would his eyes rest on you, watchful and attentive, to take in the fruits of his efforts? His thoughts solely occupied with the task.
Wouldn’t you just die to see his eyes narrow in concentration, for the pressure to increase the perfect amount, to achieve his effect, his desire. The feeling to be molded underneath his fingertips in a sweet surrender, the feeling of becoming his creation.
The bell rings. Blood is still roaring in your ears and you nearly tip over as you rise quickly to leave class. Did you imagine?

(Sure, a sculptor might have been sexier. But that could’ve gotten kinky...)

He left his shirt here with you, a shadow of his former presence, a solid reminder that his body was here, real and touchable, warm and alive.
You can feel a warmth that lingers when you take it in your arms. Heavy cloth, worn and soft, still holding the heat it absorbed from surrounding his body. You trace the seams, smooth the chest, imagine the flesh that it once encompassed. The shoulders, the arms, the nape of his neck. The cotton that shelters and confines his skin.
You can see the clothes on him now, somehow more attractive than if his skin were bare. It hides him modestly, it lets the mind wander... the beautiful folds and creases it forms as it conforms to his body, the crevices, the bends. The muted color accentuating his features, the shadows, the textures, the movement of muscles shifting discreetly underneath.
You hold the shirt to your face, the soft cloth against your mouth, inhale the scent on the neckline. Warm musk, clean scent, whether aftershave or cologne, soap or shampoo... the smell is augmented by his body heat. Can you detect his natural smell, the oils of his hair, the saltiness of his sweat?
His smell drives you wild- it reminds you of skin, of water, of clouds, of autumn air- always comforting, always fresh, always instantly calming and loving.
You want to lie on this shirt, slip it on, feel the cotton on your skin as he does. Watch how it fits differently on your frame, excess fabric falling past your waist, covering your hands. To curl up near a fire, in a blanket, in bed, held by the soft warmth of his favorite shirt.
But you can't keep it, you realize, feeling guilty. The scent is faded and the warmth has left it, as has the attraction. Did you imagine it?
You will return it. Besides, you wouldn't like it if he kept one of your shirts!

(I just had to do a fetish item. Gotta cover everything. XD)

You always observed him from afar, his tapered frame, his erect posture, the concentration and intensity in his eyes, every muscle in his face. His gaze even, focused, rapt to attention, every limb poised and controlled.
You can almost feel the energy radiating from his lean body as he begins to move, hear the pulse roaring in his ears, the dizzying rush and surge of movement- like tidal waves, like liquid adrenaline. You can almost see the explosion of electric energy when he focuses on a single goal.
Gods, he is strong, his muscles exhaustively trained and excersized, always in motion. He knows his own body, surely, every level of tension, each flex, the thin barrier between passing shock and lasting pain.
Sweat gathers on his brow, on the back of his neck, underneath his muscles. His breathing is deep but even- he is not deterred.
There's nothing team colors or self-absorbed or conceited about him- only ambition and undying passion. He loves the challenge, the action, the constant desire.
You would like to feel those muscles against your own, arms wrapped around you- could he be gentle?
Could he harness his strength, maintain his poise, continue concentration and not succumb to impulse? It would make him lose the game, on a different ground- can you make him think different? Can you teach him what to do? The body that is so sure of itself, how comfortable underneath the skin. What does he not know about himself?
Would you test taut flesh, stimulate the nerves underneath, feel them stretch and tighten under your touch.
Place your hands on a firm back, press your thumbs into the shoulders, massage in a rhythm and watch the muscles ripple and melt. Manipulate his nerves, experiment with his senses- can you show him sensations he never felt before? And can you make him submit, that living embodiment of health, to surrender his focus and flesh to you?
But his determination will not waver so easily. His resolve to overcome may overtake your own- will he turn the test on you, would he change you to his will?
It's a game to find your weakness, to discover the secrets of your tactics, and your body.
Who would win? Can you imagine? Your heart pounds with desire- as you wish you could find out.