Dreams Ch. 01byRomantic1©
This story could be submitted under a number of genres; however, the dominant theme is Group. It follows an increasing number of characters; thus, to reduce confusion the reader will find a 'list of the characters' at the end of each chapter with approximate ages and how they 'fit' into the plot. Someone told me good fiction is based on reality and truth; this story is no exception. Lastly, while there are what I hope are exciting doses of sex, the story also has a few doses of philosophy about relationships and sexuality that I hope the reader will indulge – and perhaps even comment upon. Enjoy. The chapters will be posted on consecutive days.
The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of
Take another picture
Shoot the stars off in your own backyard
And you will see
It's the stuff that dreams are made of
It's the slow and steady fire
It's the stuff that dreams are made of
It's your heart and soul's desire
It's the stuff that dreams are made of"
By Carly Simon
"The dream included this wonderful, sexual, erotic landscape. But there was more; I was surrounded by love. I actually had an orgasm, but I never ... woke up or came too. I just knew it later, when I did wake up normally."
I spoke softly. The wine bar was crowded, and in the interest of modesty I didn't want to announce my experience to anyone but my friend Marcella. By now Mar's eyes were the sizes of saucers. I had her attention. Anything sexual got her attention, and for that matter mine too.
We'd been in the lounge an hour – two drinks – again, without any prospect of meeting or attracting any member of the opposite sex. It wasn't that we were bad looking either. I was a shapely twenty-nine year old that I thought oozed personality and sexuality. In high school and college I'd been a cheerleader – the only one with a straight 'A' average. Mar was a shorter and bustier version of me, plus she was a beautiful redhead I found hard to believe hadn't been snatched up by some handsome male.
"And, you've had this dream several times," Mar inquired with a touch of amazement. She paused and asked, "Do you remember the 'others' in the dream? Wasn't there a guy, you know, tall, dark, and handsome? I mean there must have been at least one other person there, or were you just doing this to yourself?" She thought for a minute, watched some tight-assed guy walk by our table, and asked rhetorically, "Can all women masturbate in their sleep?"
I tried to remember my dream. I was terrible at remembering any of my dreams, let alone my series of recent dreams that carried an exotic mix of love, passion, and romance in them. The past month, my dreams had taken a turn for the better. Some nights I had long and deep dreams of a highly sexual nature. When I finally woke I was short on details, but long on the emotions and physical feelings I'd enjoyed. Moreover, my pussy was sopping wet with my sexual juices, a sure sign my libido was working, as well as a sign that my body had tuned into my dream state and prepared for intercourse.
I finally shook my head and told Mar, "I guess there were others, but I can't remember. This morning I looked online about how to remember dreams better, and one site suggested I keep a pad of paper and pen beside my bed so that as soon as I wake up I can write down what I can remember before it fades. Tonight I'm going to start doing that."
"Well Ariel, if you don't share more of your dreams with me I will hate you forever. I want details – lots of them. I mean you are the hottest thing I know. Wow, sex dreams. How great! I wish I had sex dreams. I'm going to masturbate when I get home. I think I'll dream about getting fucked by Tom Ransom in Purchasing while I Jill off – he is such a hunk."
We both laughed, yet there was a touch of remorse in both our laughs since Ransom was unlikely to set a precedent and date anyone in the office. He'd been quite vocal about his 'not at work' rule several times within our hearing range. Ransom and two of his equally buff friends were frequent visitors to our lunch table in the company cafeteria.
Mar launched into a short fantasy about how Ransom would suddenly show up on her doorstep hot, horny and available, and then how she'd invite him inside, peel his clothing off, blow him, and then how the two of them would consummate this new and significantly meaningful relationship with a night of wild sex.
Mar's fantasy descriptions were physical – sexual, base, hedonistic, stimulating, and raw. She was always sharing her daydreams with me, and I think we both got off on them. Her ramblings didn't ring true as to what I'd experienced in my dream. I, too, had daytime fantasies about a body like Tom's smothering mine in a romantic romp, usually as my battery operated toy alternated between its vibrations on my clitoris, or its use as a dildo while I fucked myself with the dick-shaped device.
No, what I'd experienced in my nighttime dreams had been in a completely different landscape from that conscious fantasizing. My dreams were more sensual, erotic, seductive, passionate, and loving. Sure they were sexual, yet they transcended those urges with even deeper and more integrative feelings. The dreams had affected my soul – touched my mind, body, and spirit, in every way possible. While I couldn't remember the physical details, the effect on me was unforgettable.
That night I did indeed lay a new notebook and pen beside my bed. I also left the small bathroom light on so I'd have enough light to find the writing instruments and be able to jot down a few notes.
I prepared for bed as though it was a formal ceremony. Every action – all my ablutions – took on a sacred air. Towels, bedding, and the like had to be folded precisely before I finally got into bed and lay back in the dim light, awaiting another manifestation.
The next I knew my alarm clock went off. It was 6:30 a.m. Without thinking, I hopped out of bed and started for the bathroom, but then my notepad caught my eye. In my handwriting were the words: "Love starts within. Give what you want away. No fear. Self pleasure."
The words hit me like a runaway car. Moreover, I couldn't remember writing them in the night. I held the pad in my hands and re-read the words; then I took stock of myself. I had been holding back, avoiding a serious relationship. I'd been raised to play my cards close, and not give away anything; and I'd always been overly cautious of being injured or taken advantage of in a relationship. My solution had been to date, but not reveal my inner self to anyone.
If I wanted love, and I increasingly did, I realized I'd have to start with myself – get so I loved myself and wasn't scared of what might happen. If I had self-love, the words I'd written suggested I give it away to others – others that needed it, without fear of the consequences. Did that include sex? Might I become a slut of some sort, sharing my body without thought? I thought not. I'd have to work through what those words really meant.
Lastly, I pondered the words 'self pleasure.' My morning assessment had now reached my physical body, and I realized I'd had another experience during the night. I was wet between my legs. A whiff of my sexual readiness reached my nostrils. I felt a lingering horniness that betrayed the sexual feelings I'd had during my sleep. In one sense, I was satisfied; without thinking further, I knew I'd climaxed at one point. I also knew I remained eager for a further experience, yet there was no prospect of that happening today. I sniffed my fingers and found the tell tale trace of my own juices; I had jilled off during the night, most likely before I wrote 'self pleasure' on my notepad.
Later, I told Mar at work, although I was somewhat embarrassed to admit my apparent masturbation. She was spellbound as I recounted the words on my notepad and my interpretation of them. She decided she'd also go to bed with paper and pen nearby, just in case she also started to fire off erotic dream sequences.
My weekend nights went by with no apparent dreams or notes to myself.
Monday night, however, was different. The dream was vivid and came in the darkest hours of the night. I don't recall how the situation started, only that I became 'aware' of the massage I was giving to a pliant stiff shaft with a mushroom shaped cap – I was fondling a man's cock.
The rock-hard penis leaked some fluids, and I smeared the pre-cum around the shaft to lubricate my hands as they took turns rubbing up and down the smooth shaft. I added some of my own spit to my hands, and kept the massage moving so that I delivered the maximum amount of pleasure to the shaft and its owner. I used one hand to stroke the shank, and the other to stimulate the glans at the head of the beast.
I remember thinking how impressed I was with this particular love stick – this cock: length, girth, rigidity, skin tone, and kinesthetic feel all were perfect. The surrounding body was muscular, yet a remote focus in my dream. I could feel the periodic throbbing of the rod as I inched it towards a glorious climax.
I stroked harder and faster, my grip tightening on the long smooth love stick. I stroked up and down with a clear goal in mind. Finally, the cock erupted in a Vesuvius of cum, the first shot of fluid shooting across the bed to my nightstand, the subsequent shots oozing from the shaft over the sensitized purple head and down over my hands. I had delivered pleasure as I'd set out to do, and I'd found my own pleasure in the act of service as my own orgasm swept my body. In my delirium, the dream faded, and almost like a movie a darkness and unconsciousness reclaimed my night.
As I awoke in the morning, I knew instantly I'd had a sexual dream again. I was becoming attuned to them now. I was sexually wet again. As I sat up and stretched, I looked to see if I'd written anything down on my notepad. I hadn't; instead, there were the drying splatters of a man's cum shot, drying on the white lined pad – droplets of semen that could only have come from a man's powerful ejaculation.
To tell the truth, I panicked. I looked around the room expecting some predator; I carefully and quietly searched my small apartment, but no other person was there except for me, and all my deadbolts and chains were in place on the door. The windows were all securely locked.
At lunch that day, I pulled Mar to a table remote from everyone else in the cafeteria. "Mar, you've got to listen to my story – I need help. Something happened; it was more than a dream this time. There was ... well, there was physical evidence this time – evidence that wasn't mine."
I reached in my purse and slapped a small sandwich baggie down on the table next to our food trays. Inside was the violated piece of notepad paper, the dampness of the cum now clinging not only to the paper, but also to the clear inside of the baggie.
Mar looked puzzled, and then I explained what I'd found and the memory of the dream it had evoked as I'd awoken. Her jaw hung open in disbelief.
"Jeez, Girl, you really dream in 3-D and Technicolor don't you?" She studied the bag again, and then pushed it back to me.
"Mar, I'm a little bit worried. Just in case some deviant is at large, would you keep this?" I pushed the baggie back in her direction. "I don't mean to be kinky, but if something happens to me, would you tell my stories to the police. The other dreams were nice and sexual, but this one has me worried. Where'd this juice come from?"
Mar nodded with understanding and slipped what was now 'evidence' into her shoulder bag. The rest of lunch was occupied with speculation about how such a sign could occur, and how a man could sneak into my fortress in the middle of the night.
We had to break off our talk. The guys we had lunch with started to arrive at the table. I looked sheepish enough for them to know that we'd been talking about something intimate, but fortunately none of them said anything.
There were three of them: Tom, Peter, and Dave. We'd fallen into eating together because we liked each other's company, and if the truth be known, I really liked all three of them – a lot; and, if the vibes we got were on target, they liked us a lot too. Tom had some new company news that he shared, and the discussion took off on more neutral topics.
From then on, I double checked all the locks on doors, windows, and ensured I was locked in my apartment in an inviolable haven of safety. After a few days, my anxiety had passed and I'd had no more dreams. One night, after I dressed in my PJs I hit the bed with some intent to rethink the events of the past few weeks. Before I could muster my thoughts I was asleep in seconds after my head hit the pillow, almost as if I was rushing to some other space and time.
Sometime in the night, a hazy light formed in my bedroom. I was nude and lying on my back beneath the covers. Two strong hands parted my legs; I gave no resistance; in fact, I sensed my own eagerness for the encounter. There was no anxiety or worry, only a feeling of love and anticipation.
Then I felt it, a tongue lightly tracing down the inside of my left thigh. It broke contact just as it reached my crotch and repeated the process on my right thigh, only this time the muscular organ dropped to the bottom of my slit and then slowly dragged upward along my moistness. I groaned loudly. I felt lips now as well, often kissing me along my thighs, my pubic area, and atop my clit. The tongue also thrust into my vagina, darting around the circumference of my opening.
The tongue started to vibrate and oscillate rapidly as it traced a path to my clitoris, moving back and forth between vagina and clit, and all manner of sexual and erotic places in between and around the area.
I reached down with both hands to the head of hair of the man bringing me such pleasure. I stroked and encouraged for many minutes as the masculine form brought me all manner of pleasure. I came in a torrent of girl juice, hoping my benefactor was not turned off by my emissions. He continued, taking me from one high to another. Another small orgasm surged through my body.
While I had many smaller pleasures, I could feel myself building to a larger and more significant climax. As three long male fingers sawed in and out of my pussy, my male lover locked his tongue onto my clitoris with suction and finally brought me to perhaps the best all-time ever climax in my life. I screamed my ecstasy as I pulled his head tightly against my cunt. I could feel his nose bury itself into my depths as his tongue made its last laps at the copious supply of my juices.
Amid the moans of joy in my after-glow I drifted back into sleep, the lingering feeling of wonderment and awe surrounding every pore of my body. I felt so happy, so loved, so sexually sated.
I awoke before my alarm clock went off, something I often did, even on weekends when I didn't set the alarm. I lay in bed, enjoying the feeling of the sheets against my nakedness. As I became more conscious, I remembered my middle of the night climax. I glanced at my notepad; however, the top page was blank. What assured me I'd had a real experience were my pajamas carefully folded and placed carefully on the corner of my dresser top. I had never folded pajamas in my life, nor would I ever think of leaving them where they lay. Someone else had done this, and the way things felt, it certainly wasn't my fairy godmother.
Without any fear or anxiety, I arose and walked nude through my apartment looking for my lover – the sexual friend that had given me such pleasure in the night. I was apartment's only occupant, and the doors and windows were all secure.
At lunch with Mar, I described what I could recall of my night episode of cunnilingus, including the nearly continuous string of orgasms that carried me along to the screaming 'big one.' By the time I'd finished, she was panting and, to tell the truth, so was I.
It was a long afternoon, and then I went home directly. Three minutes after I'd locked my apartment door, I again lay naked on my bed with my trusty vibrator held tightly against my clit as it vibrated me into sexual oblivion. As I floated down from the inevitable orgasm, I smiled to myself with certainty that Mar was similarly engaged on the other side of town.
I had no special dreams for the next five nights. Sunday night things took an interesting turn. I'd again gone to bed in my nightgown. In the morning it was neatly folded on my dresser again and I lay naked in bed. I could even feel the after-glow of a sexual encounter, not to mention the wetness of my pussy. This time I remembered little. My notepad contained one word – 'titfuck,' as well as a little heart.
I felt my breasts and chest. Cum. Copious amounts of cum had covered my breasts sometime during the night. Either I or someone else had spread the male jizz around, smoothing out the deposits into a sexual lotion that had mostly dried into a reminder of a carnal encounter. Some had gotten onto the top sheet of my bed.
My memory of the night included warm and loving emotions of giving and receiving not only physical love, but of a more uplifting connection with a person I really cared for. Again, however, I couldn't put any name or face to my midnight lover, if it was even the same person night to night. I focused on what I could remember of hair, physiology, cock, hands, tongue and lips; I decided there was only one lover in all my dreams.
A few nights later I again participated in sex with my mystery man. I remembered a little of the experience, aided by the two letters 'B-J' on my notepad. I'd again added a little heart to remind myself I'd rather liked the experience, or perhaps it meant I had fallen in love with my secret lover.
I lay in bed and tried to focus on the blowjob. By use of those initials, it meant I'd been the active participant again. A few fleeting memories came to mind: my hands again fondling a hard, erect cock, and then, this time, using my mouth and throat to bring pleasure to my partner. My sense of the experience was like watching a movie in slow motion through a foggy haze.
As I played through the movie, it seemed to bring back a clearer and more detailed memory of the event than I had at first remembered upon awaking. I tested myself to be sure I wasn't adding my own fantasies or memories from some other encounter to the past night's event, but I wasn't as far as I could tell.
After I shared the slim memories with Mar at lunch that day, she confessed, "God Ariel, every night when I go home after you've shared one of your dreams, I masturbate." She paused to see if I was shocked; I wasn't. She went on, "I mean, except for eating briefly, I masturbate all night long. I've been going through a set of batteries a week. I'm such a slut."
"Well, if you're a slut, then so am I," I reassured her. "Nothing wrong with any of this, as I see it." Since my sexual dreams started, I'd been jilling once or twice every day now. I shared this with Mar, and it seemed to make her feel more comfortable.
Mar said, "Yeah, but I'm thinking I need some real cock. I just might let myself get picked up by someone soon, maybe at that pub down on the corner – heck, maybe I'll even find a couple of guys and do it right!"
We grinned at each other and then headed back to our workstations. Our three luncheon buddies were nowhere to be seen that day. Mar reminded me their department was having an offsite meeting that day.
Somewhere in the middle of the following night, in that zone of twilight consciousness where reality becomes mixed with fantasy, I made love with someone – I mean really had sex, the fucking kind of sex. When I became conscious of this hazy zone of awareness, I'd already passed through the zone of foreplay that I'd enjoyed so much the few times I've had really attentive lovers. I felt fingers and then a tongue bringing me upwards towards a sexual high.