bill-swift - August 30, 2012
Sometimes I imagine waking up blissfully in the morning, the smell of coffee wafting through my 840 square foot palatial estate. I rise from my bed in my Spiderman (the original animated TV series) licensed pajamas and make my way four steps into my kitchenette to find Miranda Kerrin nothing but her undies, prepping a fresh brew of Dunkin' Donuts® Coffee, the sugary residue of a greasy cruller about her lips and she turns toward me and smiles and opens her mouth and out comes the sound of my alarm clock waking me up in the morning and snapping me back to reality as I shoot up in bed with the utter sadness of knowing my sweet Miranda was just a dream and that my overactive Doc Ock has soiled my favorite pair of PJs once more. Alas.
But how can a man not dream of Miranda when seeing such visuals as her latest Victoria's Secret treat, her wicked hot MILF body in bra and panties, a soft fuzzy sweater far too magical to touch, it's all really too much for any man or Sapphic leaning lady to handle. And, so we are not responsible for our dreams. Enjoy.
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