I'll Let You Be In My Dreams

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Normally I might have tried a latté at Traveller's Fare or cruised the bookstand, but I'm not feeling normal. Being away from Dave, the close proximity to my mother's old-age and (almost) death, this momentary freedom are all conspiring with my unease. So I find myself in the lounge-bar of the station hotel with a martini -- and that's when it happens, so fast I'd not have believed it possible. There's a man in the gilt-inlaid wall-mirror, watching me. Like something plucked direct from my imagination. Mid-thirties perhaps, dark, slightly tousled hair, bohemian scuffed leather jacket and wranglers. And he's watching me with obvious interest. Normally I'd have frozen. I've always been 'backwards in coming forwards'. I've always been passive, waited for the other person to make the move, to take the initiative. No wonder I'm near-forty with nothing to show for it but fantasies. So I smile at him, what the hell. And then we're talking.

He's here, at this Hotel, a weekend Printing Technology Centre at the local college, bored and lonely, time to kill. Like me. There's sorrow in his eyes, but when he smiles his lip curls like Elvis in 'Jailhouse Rock'. He's probably married, or 'in a committed relationship'. He's wearing a ring -- but then so am I, and I can't staunch the flow of thoughts I'm thinking.

'I'd love to put genitals together with you, and then you can leave a little something of yourself inside me.' I can't believe what I'm doing. I'm saying 'you're very attractive', and he smiles back at me with eyes of purest sex.

I'm thinking 'the train is due. If I run I can still catch it. But haven't I been running all my life? Running from experience? From situations like this? It's time to stop running. I've got a Top Ten to fulfil before my birthday. Why not start here, now?'

He starts to tell me his name, but I finger his lips to silence. 'No names. Can't we just go somewhere private where we can be together? You're just what I've been looking for.'

And his expression is magical. 'I am?' like he can't believe his luck.

A huge curve of white stairs in a 1940's style Art Deco foyer, lush with aspidistras. I say 'I didn't realise there was a Hotel like this in Scraborough.'

He says 'There probably isn't.'

What does he mean by that? But then it no longer matters, because we're in his bedroom. A window overlooks the fire-escape and the back alley. A huge moon. I begin undressing quickly, before we've even kissed, before I've time to change my mind. There's a mirror at the head of the bed, and I can see myself in it, kneeling there as my breasts bob free, as I stoop, raising first one leg, then the other, to pull my pants down and off, my pussy moistly wet with anticipation. Strangely at ease. Scary, yet safe too, although he's naked but for black body hair and a pair of well-filled white briefs. And as I'm lying on the coverlet, squirming out of my underwear, he watches me. His gaze scarcely leaves my breasts, and the more he looks the more his briefs widen. I pull him down onto the bed. The action of sitting makes the contents of his briefs rise up into a stiff white peaked tent.

'Why not get them off, relieve the pressure?' He flounders to tug the garment down and off, his uncircumcised cock coming up like it's spring-loaded, swaying across his gut.

I watch, sizing up the enormity of the situation. I'm not disappointed. 'I like what I see. If you like what you see, why not go down and take a closer look?' -- emphasising the 'going down', and spreading my legs like a tart.

Eagerly, he climbs over me in what the manuals call soixante-neuf, straddling his hairy thighs over my face, one leg either side of my shoulders, so that I'm staring up between his thighs and arse, his balls dangling an inch from my mouth. While I can feel him stroking and gently stretching my pussy with his fingers, he must be gazing at it like a kid with a new toy. No further action, but his heavy breathing, as if he's hypnotised by what he's seeing. To nudge his memory I gorge his cock into my mouth, after all, it's hanging there so enticingly, so -- plop! -- in it goes. And, reacting as I'd hoped, his tongue goes into me, touring my soft spots like a jungle snake clear up the quim. And such is my reaction his mouth must be flooding with my juices. Then he shifts attention to my clit, closing his lips around it while I'm sucking greedily on as much of him as I can take, running my finger and thumb coaxingly up and down the length of fore-skinned shaft I can't.

Its like it's probing and penetrating so far down my throat it's nudging a direct connection into the neural-tissue of my brain, so its communing with my need and conducting the data back up the shaft to him so he responds intuitively, licking and sucking hard and rough when I want it, soft and teasing when I need that. Feeling the moist electrifying sensation, the exquisite wetness between my legs. My eyes are open wide, I can see his balls shifting up and down over my face. Then the vibrations begin pulsing and trembling.

'He's coming already', I feel its first wave bulging down the spermatic tube, the vas deferens, as I reciprocate with the first of my own orgasms. And he begins, a throat-full and more. At the angle of cock-to-mouth entry it's difficult to swallow, and some of it escapes, dribbling onto my chin, just as I imagined it would.

At length he lifts his face from between my thighs, wiping his mouth with his arm like a farm-labourer after downing a pint, as I relinquish his saliva-dripping dick, dong, pleasure-pump from my mouth. And we sit side by side, grinning like kids between wet spermy kisses, watching his face, his chest hard up against my nipples. Devouring each other's mouths and tongues with the same passion we'd already fed on genitals. His mouth tastes of cunt. Mine tastes of spunk. But we've far from finished yet, his fingers go back between my legs drawn on sexual magnetism, rippling sensations. If I'd rung for Room Service I couldn't have got better.

And when my fingers encircle him again, he's still hard, 'why not fuck me now?'

He lays me out on the coverlets, thighs gaping, smiling down at me with his arms supporting himself either side of me and his cock nestling its way in.

'What about safe sex?'

'This is the safest kind of sex of all' he says, mysteriously. I reach up, pulling his face to mine so he can't see my vulgar-slut expression as he's sliding easily all the way. The rough black hairs intermingling mine like Velcro. Accelerating, lunging.

In the mirror I can see my tits quivering with each thrust, the round curves of his buttocks going up and down on me, his heavy balls swinging to and fro hitting the open cheeks of my bottom, slap slap slappity-slap between my outspread thighs. A sight to stay with me. To return to whenever I need it. This entire unexpected, unpremeditated thing that's hit me out of the blue. So spontaneous. So ecstatic. No sexpectations. And now this loving stranger is shooting long strands of scushy white goo deep into me with sighs and grunts to match my groans as the stuff scalds up inside.

He likes a moaner, I can tell. And I'm a moaner. My imagination coming loose with the intensity of it. Shadows rippling in the mirror. Shapes. Mario and Stephano, naked, their long olive cocks quivering erect, waiting their turn. Madame Clare whispering instructions to Augusta. She compliantly shrugs off the troublesome camisole, and nude but for her stockings, dances across to straddle my face, my tongue going up to meet her moist open vagina coming down towards me, that curve in a cloud, that ripple in her flesh, that furtive secret geography of her vulva, the candy-coated pearl of her clit. It all fits over me so completely, so snugly, I can't even see which of the men are entering me next. But I'm so sexually lubricated on sperm, saliva and cunt-juice I care neither which one it is, or which target he's taking. While the camcorder spools in every ripple of my extending orgasm...

Later, we stay entwined as we cool, he keeps it in me so our juices mingle, curled into each other like dreamy contented animals. The light is moving outside. The faint sounds of the strange hotel room whispering around us. Somewhere, Bird is playing a slow Blues on the keyboard...

He unfreezes time, releasing his hold on the moment. Withdraws from her mind regretfully. In shared virtual dream-space he can be whatever he, or whatever she desires. But only here...

Once outside, in flawed reality, like all hybrids he is nothing more than he is. Impotent. His failure. His tragedy...

----0----

Cynthia looks up. The station clock says 09:47.

Across the platform there's a man watching her with obvious interest. Mid-thirties perhaps, dark, slightly tousled hair, bohemian scuffed sharp leather jacket and wranglers. And he's watching her intently, as though he knows what she's thinking. This connection, it's always here. It's always been here. The interweaving murmur of each other minds. Our gift. Our curse.

And she's thinking, 'the train is delayed. I have an hour to kill...'