I was speaking to an English friend. She asked who I fantasized about. Because the Queen’s funeral had just concluded, one British lass immediately came to mind. No, it’s not Elizabeth II, not Catherine, who I find too-model-slender, similar to how I found Diana. Certainly not Camilla! I’m enchanted by Meghan Markle. As soon as I shared this fact with my friend, I began wondering why.
Part of the answer I came up with had to do with her “rags to riches” past. Meghan wasn’t poor, but was a lowly actor in L.A., first as a model in “Deal or No Deal” (pictured above) and then in a scripted series as a principle actor in “Suits.” This past reminds me of Wallis Simpson, the woman who the Duke of Windsor gave up his king’s throne for because she was American and a divorcee. Add to that the fact that Meaghan is mixed race, partly African-American. To be honest, that was another attraction; Meghan has that uniformly tan skin, those dark brown, nearly black eyes. You know that her pubes have to be coarse and curly, you know that her ass has to be pert and callipygous.
But as compelling as all those details are, what really captured my heart was the way Meghan looked at her betrothed at her wedding. As you can see, it was a look of abject adoration and complete devotion. I half-expected her to drop to her knees and give Harry head right there in the cathedral. I was as smitten as her royal spouse clearly was.
And it wasn’t a fleeting occurrence; Meghan gave it to her man all the fucking time (the look, I mean). The look made me fantasize about their wedding night…
A dejected ginger newlywed sits on the edge of the matrimonial bed, “You know, Meghan darling, my Mummy was taken away from me very suddenly, unexpectedly, tragically. I have Mummy issues…”
His adoring wife returns, “I know… And I certainly have Daddy issues…”
“Did it affect your sexuality, like it did me?” he cautiously inquires.
“Oh yes, I’m as kinky as a cheap garden hose!” she replies, “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, I’m a spanko and I’ve always dreamed about…”
Before he can finish his sentence, Meghan has scampered across his lap and is arching her delectable derriere in his royal visage, exclaiming, “Spank me, dearest! Paddle me, strap me with the tawse, please give me six-of-the-best with the cane! I knew we were star-crossed and predestined to be together!”
Harry treats her perfect posterior to the English treatment, immediately gets it up, and rogers her righteously in all her holes. That’s what I dreamed about, anyway.
Finally Meghan looks hot as hell no matter what fashion she wears. You know that beneath her funereal black last week she was sporting all-black lingerie, matching bra and panties, completed with garter belt and seamed hose.
These are a few of the reasons why I fantasize about playing with Meghan more than almost anyone else in the world.