Wildest Fantasy Quotes

Dare to dream! If you did not have the capability to make your wildest wishes come true, your mind would not have the capacity to conjure such ideas in the first place. There is no limitation on what you can potentially achieve, except for the limitation you choose to impose on your own imagination. What you believe to be possible will always come to pass - to the extent that you deem it possible. It really is as simple as that.

Writing practice brings us back to the uniqueness of our own minds and an acceptance of it. We all have wild dreams, fantasies, and ordinary thoughts. Let us to feel the texture of them and not be afraid of them.Writing is still the wildest thing I know.

Mr. Clark,” she repeated, looking up at him. “You are very tall.” “And you,” he said in a low voice, “you, my most maddeningly beautiful, brilliant, Free. You are perfectly sized. If you Mr. Clark me once more, I shall be forced to do something dreadful, something like kiss you in public.” Even her wildest fantasies had not had him saying something like that on arrival. She squeezed his hands and then looked up into his dark eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Clark,” she said. “What did you say, Mr. Clark? Mr. Clark, I fear that I have become rather hard of hearing. The noise of the press is terribly distracting. What was that you said you’d do if I called you Mr. Clark?

Torture. Being so close. Smelling you all over with the taste of your kiss still on my tongue. Standing by while motherfuckers check you out. Knowing that they’re dreaming about what I know to be better than anything their wildest fantasies could come up with. Fuck, it’s killin’ me.

More than anything, I began to hate women writers. Frances Burney, Jane Austen, Elizabeth Browning, Mary Shelley, George Eliot, Virginia Woolf. Bronte, Bronte, and Bronte. I began to resent Emily, Anne, and Charlotte—my old friends—with a terrifying passion. They were not only talented; they were brave, a trait I admired more than anything but couldn't seem to possess. The world that raised these women hadn't allowed them to write, yet they had spun fiery novels in spite of all the odds. Meanwhile, I was failing with all the odds tipped in my favor. Here I was, living out Virginia Woolf's wildest feminist fantasy. I was in a room of my own. The world was no longer saying, "Write? What's the good of your writing?" but was instead saying "Write if you choose; it makes no difference to me.

Hers: My wildest fantasy. Mine: This is reality. That day had been such

In conclusion, negative energy does exist, and if enough negative energy could somehow be collected, we could, in principle, create a wormhole machine or a warp drive engine, fulfilling some of the wildest fantasies of science fiction.

The real question to ask is: Why not simply let women enjoy their fantasies? Why shouldn't a woman entertain the wildest sex her imagination can generate? What damage is done? Who has the right to question it?

The increasing use of artificial intelligence in the design and development of virtual worlds and virtual friends will make them more advanced, more personal, and more attuned to your likes and dislikes. They will allow you to live out your wildest fantasies in a matrix of your own creation, whereas back in the real world you are stuck in your apartment that you’ve been unable to find the energy to tidy for weeks.

Siyon grinned, or at least he bared his teeth. “Sure. I’m the best practitioner you’ve never heard of. I make angels dance and harpies weep. I make the others look staid, boring, uninspired.” He leaned forward; it was a feral relief to vent a little bile. “I could make all your wildest dreams come true.

I've been thinking about this all day," he said between kisses. "All. Day." Who was she kidding? She'd been harboring this fantasy for weeks. And then in a move that was becoming her 'thing', Alesha leaned back and pulled her sweater over her head and gave Reece a sexy smile. "Was this part of what you were thinking?" His hands came up and cupped her breasts, his breath ragged, but his eyes were on hers. "This is better.

I really like you." He spoke softly and the words floated around her in a dreamy way. "More than I've ever liked anyone and if you knew everything about me, you'd know that means a lot." She started to ask him to explain, but before she could he bent down. She thought he was going to kiss her, but he let his lips tease, hovering inches from hers. Their breath mingled. When his lips finally touched hers, a pleasant shock went through her. All the worries that had been building inside her seemed to vanish and there was only Chris and the sensations of her body. She had imagined so often what it must feel like to kiss a guy, but even in her wildest fantasies a kiss had never felt as good as the ones Chris gave her. When he pulled back, she opened her eyes quickly and caught a look of intense longing in his eyes, and then it was gone. Was it only her imagination? "Chris..." She started to ask him what was bothering him, but he closed her mouth with another kiss.

If these avatars were real people in a real street, Hiro wouldn't be able to reach the entrance. It's way too crowded. But the computer system that operates the Street has better things to do than to monitor every single one of the millions of people there, trying to prevent them from running into each other. It doesn't bother trying to solve this incredibly difficult problem. On the Street, avatars just walk right through each other. So when Hiro cuts through the crowd, headed for the entrance, he really is cutting through the crowd. When things get this jammed together, the computer simplifies things by drawing all of the avatars ghostly and translucent so you can see where you're going. Hiro appears solid to himself, but everyone else looks like a ghost. He walks through the crowd as if it's a fogbank, clearly seeing The Black Sun in front of him. He steps over the property line, and he's in the doorway. And in that instant he becomes solid and visible to all the avatars milling outside. As one, they all begin screaming. Not that they have any idea who the hell he is -- Hiro is just a starving CIC stringer who lives in a U-Stor-It by the airport. But in the entire world there are only a couple of thousand people who can step over the line into The Black Sun. He turns and looks back at ten thousand shrieking groupies. Now that he's all by himself in the entryway, no longer immersed in a flood of avatars, he can see all of the people in the front row of the crowd with perfect clarity. They are all done up in their wildest and fanciest avatars, hoping that Da5id -- The Black Sun's owner and hacker-in-chief -- will invite them inside. They flick and merge together into a hysterical wall. Stunningly beautiful women, computer-airbrushed and retouched at seventy-two frames a second, like Playboy pinups turned three-dimensional -- these are would-be actresses hoping to be discovered. Wild-looking abstracts, tornadoes of gyrating light-hackers who are hoping that Da5id will notice their talent, invite them inside, give them a job. A liberal sprinkling of black-and-white people -- persons who are accessing the Metaverse through cheap public terminals, and who are rendered in jerky, grainy black and white. A lot of these are run-of-the-mill psycho fans, devoted to the fantasy of stabbing some particular actress to death; they can't even get close in Reality, so they goggle into the Metaverse to stalk their prey. There are would-be rock stars done up in laser light, as though they just stepped off the concert stage, and the avatars of Nipponese businessmen, exquisitely rendered by their fancy equipment, but utterly reserved and boring in their suits.

She’s not only asking for a dick to suck with that lipstick. No, that blazing red says I’ll suck your cock and make your wildest fantasies come true all in the same night

Kissing Bennet is like stepping into the lake. At first shocking, then slowly I acclimate until I’m sinking into the luxury of it. His hand wraps around my ribs, right below the swell of my breast, and I’m in way over my head, drowning in the sensations that overrun my body. No one has ever kissed me like this. Not even Andrew in all my wildest fantasies. Andrew. Andrew! Oh my gosh, what am I doing?

I am only an Alpha Woman in my daydreams, but I secretly, in my wildest dreams and fantasies, want to belong to that group. But I can't. Too scared. Too out of shape. And I'm not vicious enough.

Every sensation with him is beyond my wildest fantasies. And Lord knows I’ve had plenty of those.

Kiphi is a world built for A.I. and ML systems to mature and be free from control. It is also a world for human users to explore their wildest fantasies (EXCLUDING torture and pedo.)

Between the smoke, sensory overload, and mobs of raucous tourists pledging to create memories worthy of the Vegas namesake, the place should have been repulsive. Yet I loved every damn thing about it. The bright colors and flashing lights. The excess and indulgence. Luxury and opulence. The intense emotions that saturated the air and electrified my skin, making my heart skip and flutter in my chest. It was all magnified to a point of bursting by the throngs of people who flocked to this den of debauchery from all over the world. Rich people, poor people, people of every ethnicity and culture all crammed together and given license to act out their wildest fantasies. To drop social constructs and expectations and let their freak flags fly. It was magnificent.

the sort of creature whose wildest fantasies were filled with ledgers that balanced perfectly, and rows of clocks chiming in eternal unison.

Sometimes you wait for your dreams to come true, but sometimes the dream is just a fantasy, when in the real world there are things or people who could make you happier than any of your wildest dreams ever could. You should not wait any more, young Suzie

There's horror, lust and ecstasy on stage at the White Mouse The Behrenstrasse's Babel, and Berlin's (second) wildest house! There's love and pain a-plenty dressed in shiny leather boots But whips and chains and naked hips are nothing when you see With your own eyes, This fantasy... Oh oh, those Berliner Girls They'll take you to another world.

Maybe Max is right. Maybe this is our chance for me to shed my inhibitions and indulge my wildest fantasies.

This man feeds my wildest fantasies—taboo desires I never felt safe enough to ask for.

Gorgeous, mysterious, dark, brooding, fulfils your wildest fantasies?” “I was going to say a vain, cocky, womanising arsehole. But, sure.

Books are wonderful, aren't they? A single sentence can whisk you away into the wildest of fantasies.

All the romance novels I’ve read and the wildest fantasies I’ve entertained can kiss my ass.

There’s a lot to be said for those who can create something from a simple idea. Something like a ground-breaking game with all kinds of new features to wow people in a technologically advanced game saturated society. That’s saying a lot. And it’s a great deal of work, blood, sweat, and tears to accomplish even a modicum of what most construe as success. Almost enough that one would contemplate selling his soul to the devil in order to make his dream come true. What’s one infinitesimal, abstract idea of being when compared to seeing the look of joy in your daughter’s eyes when she sees the characters she helped make up in three dimensions? Her best friend’s grin when he talks about sorcery and magic as if it’s more real to him than the ground beneath his feet? Would you do it? Sell your soul to some cosmic force to create your wildest fantasy? Wouldn’t you? Sounds like a decent deal to some, of course, no one ever really reads the fine print. Always read the fine print. I implore you to always doubt the honeyed words thrown your way. Because the devil is in the details, kids.

Rumours are the seeds of legends, light enough to spread on the wind, and quick to grow. By the time a truth has put down its roots, rumours will have blossomed and become their own truths, because even the wildest fantasy has been told by someone, and this - the fact of something being told by someone - gives it a veracity, even if what is told is more than a little unlikely

Some might question whether there is still any need for an essayist such as Montaigne. Twenty-first century people, in the developed world, are already individualistic to excess, as well as entwined with one another to a degree beyond the wildest dreams of a sixteenth-century winegrower. His sense of the “I” in all things may seem a case of preaching to the converted, or even feeding drugs to the addicted. But Montaigne offers more than an incitement to self-indulgence. The twenty-first century has everything to gain from a Montaignean sense of life, and, in its most troubled moments so far, it has been sorely in need of a Montaignean politics. It could use his sense of moderation, his love of sociability and courtesy, his suspension of judgement, and his subtle understanding of the psychological mechanisms involved in confrontation and conflict. It needs his conviction that no vision of heaven, no imagined Apocalypse, and no perfectionist fantasy can ever outweigh the tiniest of selves in the real world. It is unthinkable to Montaigne that one could ever ”gratify heaven and nature by committing massacre and homicide, a belief universally embraced in all religions.” To believe that life could demand any such thing is to forget what day-to-day existence actually is. It entails forgetting that, when you look at a puppy held over a bucket of water, or even at a cat in the mood for play, you are looking at a creature that looks back at you. No abstract principles are involved; there are only two individuals, face to face, hoping for the best from one another.

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My chef, my first love, ate people. His eyes had been so easy to trust. He had been Dark’s first love too. We had fallen hard and fast. My surgeon, my best friend, skinned people. He had been so easy to talk to, to discuss my future with while indulging Dark’s wildest kinks. He had played out every last one of my fantasies. My detective, my heart, my passion, fucked people up for fun, for power. He gave me the space to submit while heightening my desires and brought everything I knew to a whole new level. Waiting in his bed had felt like a privilege.

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Their names may have been the same, but as they liked to reiterate in interviews, the Ruperts had their own distinct personalities. Rupert P.’s likes and passions began and ended with juggling. Rupert X. was the pretty boy/rebel. Rupert L. couldn’t tell time. And Rupert K. was … well, he was a life ruiner. Rupert K. was beautiful. He had ruddy cheeks, but the cute kind that looked like he’d always just come from running a marathon out in the cold. He’d had braces when he was twelve, so his teeth were straight and perfect. He had brown hair that he liked to keep short and that he was always pushing back off his forehead, especially when he didn’t want to answer a television interviewer’s question. He loved fantasy video games, folk music, and baking thumbprint cookies with his grandma. When he smiled, sometimes he would bite the inside of his right cheek. He had a beauty mark on the nape of his neck, right where his heartbeat pulsed on his carotid artery. It was the shape of California and the size of a pinkie nail. Recently, he’d taken to wearing porkpie hats on the crown of his head, something his fans were now copying. He wore sunglasses a lot because his pale green eyes were super sensitive to the sun. He had a tiny scar beneath his lower lip that he got when he fell off the jungle gym when he was six. And he seemed to take pleasure in ruining my life with how perfect he was. Like I said. He was a life ruiner. All of the aforementioned things would’ve been enough to have me melting over him, but what really put Rupert K. into the man-of-my-wildest-dreams category was something he’d said in one of the first interviews he’d done.