When Diana returned from the gym, she called out a greeting and dashed upstairs to change. I sat down and bided my time, waiting patiently on the hunter green sofa in our family room. The bouts of rhythmic flexion Diana regularly forced her lean muscles to endure sometimes sparked the fires of her always smouldering physical desires. I smiled, a little anxious, slightly pensive, wondering if I could manage to get burned. I counted on the fact that Diana liked the release of a good romp after tensing up for her daily work out. The outside chance made it worth my while to sit patiently for a bit, anyway.
I envisioned her as I waited, teasing myself. Diana’s not a tall woman, a full head shorter than me at least but because her body is so lithe and well proportioned and because she literally bounces through life, vibrant and energetic, Diana seems tall. Her eyes shine a vivid blue with a piercing and engaging gaze, refusing defiantly to shy away from even the most provocative stares, hungry glances she all-too-often compels in the lucky men who witness her approach. In a way, I think Diana’s delicate features bear lasting tribute to the regal beauty of continental aristocracy, undeniably pretty, radiant with her constant sense of delight. I have often said that Diana bears a strong resemblance to the portrait of the Princess Anne of Austria just before she married Louis of France. They both have this engaging look in their eyes.
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