Drifting and Dreaming

Sometimes the line between reality and fantasy is veil-thin. Sometimes, in the hazy drift of REM sleep, the concrete and real is no more substantial than smoke, and the smoke of imaginings can coalesce into things you can smell, hear, taste...and feel.

It was like that last night.

More tired than I'd thought, I drifted off pretty quickly. Timeless time ticked, measuring out the minutes of my night, stretching and refolding, random neurons firing in my brain, scattering a smattering of images and scenes in my mind.

Tick...

We're in a cool green room, upon a massive canopied bed with satin sheets. My hands are grasping handfuls of those sheets as I gaze up at your lovely form, poised and sliding up and down atop my hardness. The only sounds are our deep breathing and the moist sounds of flesh calling to flesh, sensuously clasping and releasing. Slow, whisper-soft sighing, our movements excruciatingly precise, drawing out every last iota of sensation. My eyes go wide, I arch my back and lift you high, and your hair spills over your breasts in waves as you bow your head in benediction to receive my offering.

Tick...

It's late at night, on an overseas flight full of sleeping people. But neither of us is sleeping; under a concealing blanket, eager hands are busy tearing at clothing, fumbling with snaps, guiding my hard cock forward into your tight, wet tunnel. Soft moans. Short, hard thrusts. My hands cupping your tits, feeling their heft and their hard tips. Your pushing back against me, using the armrest to give us more leverage. A stop for an instant as a flight attendant walks by, giving us a knowing look. A return to our fuck with the sure and constant knowledge that when we do come, neither one of us is going to be able to keep from screaming...and not caring one bit.

Tick...

The sun beats down on my shoulders as I beat down on you. You're pinned and helpless beneath me, both of us lying on a sun pad atop the deck of our boat. Both of us are soaked, glistening with sun oil and the sweat of our exertions. It makes a wonderful lubricant as I slide back and forth atop you, in you, the waves helping me rock deeper and deeper with each thrust. Your nails digging into my back and your gasping moans are practically begging me to pound you, ravage you, leave you spent and exhausted and broken. Then you make it much plainer by spitting and snarling at me, describing in graphic terms how it's your deepest desire to be unable to walk when I'm through with you. And so I lift and spread you even further, throwing your legs up over my shoulders as I hammer into you, slamming, ramming, pleasure mounting to near-agony for us both, till finally my burning balls empty themselves in a firehose blast into your clutching cunt. 

Tick...

The city spreads itself before us, a night-glittering feast all the more appetizing because of its unapproachability. Neon streaks and spangles our vision. From this 30th-floor balcony, the wind only brings us hints of the activity below: faint taxicab horns, the bass thump of cruisers on the Strip, the rush of traffic still unabated even at 2 AM. Rocking slowly and steadily inside you, I nuzzle your neck, nipping gently at your flesh, taking tiny bites, tasting the salt of your sweat. I feel you shudder against me and your pussy clenches. You bend forward a bit further, your tits spilling out of the cocktail dress that I've got hiked up above your waist, and whisper my name. I echo yours in sighing pleasure, and my hands on your ass pull you against me, my cock sliding a bit deeper this time. The wind sighs its approval as well. We make our love there on the balcony, not caring who can see, lost in the night, lost in each other.

I awoke to an empty bed and a hard cock, disappointed for a second, but grateful to have shared such lovely scenarios with you. Were they dreams, or were they reality? You decide.

-- PB