tagRomanceGypsy Dreams Ch. 03

Gypsy Dreams Ch. 03

byJenna Grey©


Thanks to everyone who has written me asking me where I've gone. It seems I've lost my muse and without him it's been hard to find the desire to write.

Maybe the healing has now begun?

Happy reading, I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoy bringing Rachel and Phillip to life.



The grey sky hung low, Winter's chill evident with each breath Rachel took. She pulled the threadbare woolen shawl around her shoulders tightly. Each booted foot crunched along the hardened frozen earth as she stepped towards the barn.

Reluctant to give up even a minimal bit of warmth by unfolding her arms, Rachel shouldered the heavy barn door and it slowly gave way to creak open. The smell of hay mixed with the heady scent of burning wood as the warmth of a kindled potbellied stove enveloped her. There he was, standing on the far side, by the stove, at his bench, banging away at something. He was always fixing something, repairing something, making something out of nothing.

They worked well together. He did the building and the mending, and the tiling and the cutting and the chopping and the lugging. She did the cleaning and the washing, the cooking and the growing and the sewing. She would help him as much as she could, but his strength and stamina was immeasurable to hers. They would work together in the fields, tend the animals together. Then, as sunset gave way to evening, she would join him out on the front porch cradling the last of the days coffee in a tin mug. Sip by sip they would share the brew and watch the sun go down.

This one night she came to him while he was lost deep in thought, as he plied the metal. He barely hesitated as the door pulled closed with a soft thud of wood against wood. Finally, she whispered, hesitant to disturb his concentration. "You think 'twill snow?"


It was cold and she wanted to go to bed. With him.

She watched him hammer and pull at a piece of old tin.

"Canna that wait til morn?" Though her voice was little more than a whisper, he replied. "Nay."

He always replied, regardless of how soft her request. Sometimes it seemed she barely spoke the words and his reply would come. Sometimes she could just think the thought, and he would respond.

Likewise with her and his thoughts and words.

"What is it you're making?"

"Woman, shush now."

With a deep sigh, she reluctantly turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"Back into the house by the fire. 'Tis cold."

"Warm yourself there." He nodded off to the side while he worked a corner of the tin until it was rounded.

"Verra well." She sat in the chair by the fire, eventually falling asleep to the sound of her man plying the piece of wellworn tin, the fire crackling, and the wind outside picking up and howling around the barn rafters.

This dream was different. There was no sex, but the longing was just as powerful. Her readers wanted sex. Of course, Rachel knew this, so she sat there, staring at the white document, trying to imagine what the Phillip and Rachel of her dreams would do.

The announcement of an email broke her train of thought, so she hid the word processing program and brought her email program to the foreground. Feedback. She always enjoyed feedback.

"You write well. Where do you come up with your story lines? I get mine from dreams." It was signed journo1130.

Well. She wrote back to the faceless, nameless, sexless reader. "I, too get my ideas from dreams. So you write as well?" She sent it off and focused again on Phillip and Rachel.

No sooner had Rachel gotten the couple out of the barn and into their bed when the email alert sounded once again. Yes, journo1130 was back.

"Do I write as well? No. Not as well as you do. But I manage. What else do you write?"

This went on for most of the night, with Rachel caught up in the game of conversing through email. It felt safe enough. And unless he was lying, Journo was a professional writer, such as herself, in his mid-30's- such as herself- married to his career. Again, such as herself.

And he lived within 45 minutes of her. She had not told him where she lived, but when he answered her question as to where he lived, as promptly as email could allow he gave the name of a town which Rachel knew to be fairly close. She smiled.

Journo had distracted her enough to keep her from finishing the story. When at last her bedtime came she dejectedly emailed him one last note, "Good night. Bedtime for me." She waited a few minutes and sure enough, he wrote back, "Sweet dreams."

* * * * *

"I don't know, Carrie. There's like some kind of attraction. I can't explain it." Rachel updated her co-worker and best friend the following morning waiting on the deli line in the shop across the street from work.

"But you don't even know his name." Carrie said before ordering "two coffee's black, one sugar."

"Thanks." Rachel put her money away and nodded to her friend. "I know. Names didn't come up."

"If he's reading your stuff on that website he's got to be a perv."

"So what's wrong with that?" Rachel laughed. "I'm a perv and you like me."

"You're a normal perv!" She took the stryofoam lidded coffee cups and handed one to Rachel. As they left the deli, Carrie tried to rephrase her concerns. "Look. You don't know him at all. He didn't offer his name. He reads your stuff- I'm sure you're not the only writer he's contacted. Does he write for the same site you do? can you check his profile?"

Rachel shook her head and burnt the tip of her tongue as she impatiently tried the coffee she knew would be too hot to consume for the moment. "He didn't say."

"Why didn't you ask?"

"Well. I did sorta."


"Well. He said he didn't write as well as I did."

A knowing look was all Carrie offered for the moment. "A non-denial denial."

"Well. Yes. I guess it was."

"So he writes but doesn't want you to read it. He's probably into something weird."

A chuckle escaped Rachel's lips. "It's all weird," she grinned.

"Okay then. Really weird. You're not using your brain. Come on, woman. Think!"

That was the problem. Rachel was thinking. All she could do was think about Journo. And the dream she had last night. Oh my god, what a dream. IT wasn't about the Rachel and Phillip in her stories. It was about journo and herself. And so hot that she couldn't even begin to put it into a story format. Just too personal, for some reason. That information was kept from Carrie. She just wouldn't understand.

Silence prevailed until they reached their desks, at which time Journo1130 was filed away for the moment, until deadline had passed and Rachel had free time to toy with the idea of her fellow perv.

* * * * *

Phillip was having a problem. He couldn't focus on work. His friggen hard-on made it difficult to write, research, interview, prepare for interviews. He couldn't get Rachel out of his head. Or her author.

He knew what she looked like, even though he had never seen her. He knew what she felt like, although he had never held her in real life. He knew what her skin would taste like if he ran his tongue along the curve of her neck, then lower, to trace the soft orb of her breast. He sighed, the bulge in his pants tightened against the cotton material of his Dockers.

There was no getting around it. He had to meet her. Especially after last night's dream.

She was beneath him, her hair fanned out and tousled against the stark white crispness of her pillow. Her eyes were closed but her face was screwed up in deep concentration as she hovered on the edge of release.

"Not yet, baby. Ride the edge."

"Ohhhhh God. I can't. Please." She pleaded as her nails dug into his shoulders. Rachel clung to him, obeying him instead of giving into her orgasm. Just the thought of such command over her drove him wild.

At first, he let her think she had control, at least until she sucked him to the point where she tasted his pre-come, demanding he fuck her. Although his body begged him to give in, he took over, teasing her relentlessly, almost bringing her to orgasm so many times, until he himself could take her suffering no longer. Although his cock was hard and throbbing, although his balls were tight with his need to shoot his load, he denied her demands over and over again.

With great effort he kissed her soundly on her lips, his tongue raping her sweet mouth before trailing down her tanned, sleek body to focus on her juicy pussy. Her nipples were taut with her desire, her flesh quivering as his tongue and lips claimed her. Her legs parted and spread even further as he moved his hands to her inner thighs and prodded. She smelled so sweet, so musky, as he buried his nose in her bush. His tongue traced the tender folds of her pussy lips, as he parted them and found the hard nub of her clit.

Fingers tangled in his hair, Rachel cried out, thrusting her hips upward as his lips found and teased and sucked gently on the swollen, glistening pearl.

One, two fingers slid inside her pussy, curling upwards to massage that secret, tender spot that stilled her writhing and made her wimper. She undulated beneath him, trance-like and he smiled down at her.

"I love what you do to me," she whispered. "Don't stop."

"I'm not." He slid a third finger into her tight cunt and her eyes grew wide as she looked up at him. He continued to tickle her hidden spot, his hand flooded with her pussy juice.

"I'm gonna come!" Rachel groaned loudly and lifted her hips. "Hold on, babe. Not yet." He smoothed the flood of juices over her clit, over her lips, down further over the valley between her cunt and ass, over her beautiful ass, around the tight bud of her asshole. Very carefully, he slipped the tip of his middle finger into the tight bud of her asshole.

"Oh My God!" Rachel started bucking beneath him, fists knotted up in the sheets and blankets. Phillip slid two fingers of his other hand into her pussy and pumped hard, while his middle finger continued to slide slowly in and out of her ass. He felt the walls of her vagina grip him and release him over and over as the first waves of her orgasm began pulsing through her body.

Finally, when he could take it no more, he moved his hands from her cunt and ass and grabbed her hips, nudging his cock against the opening of her thoroughly drenched cunt. She wrapped her legs around him and he slid in slowly, inch by inch, moaning and throwing his head back as his cock glided into the soft velvet folds of still pulsing pussy.

"Fuck me," she whispered, her hands coming up to grab his ass, urging him deeper inside of her. "Please, fuck me, damn you."

Her voice drove him over the edge and he picked up the tempo, wanting nothing more than to fuck her as deeply, as hard, and as fully as he possibly could. The length of his cock bore home, pounding her as she lifted her hips up to join him. Hands on her hips he guided his cock into her over and over and over, real slow and hard, then moving faster and faster until her sweet tight cunt squeezed the first bit of his come out of him.

"Fuuuuuuuuck!" He cried out as he came, his load spurting deep inside her cunt. "Fuck, Rachel. Oh fuck! You feel so fucking good!"

Her nails dug into his ass as she clung to him for dear life, her orgasm clenching and unclenching his cock as he fucked her relentlessly.

Phillip woke up drenched in his own come and sweat. And achingly alone.

He had to have her.

That was the thought that kept him from focusing on work. He had to have her.

He had to have her.

He logged onto his email program and typed out a quick note. Her email address was memorized already. "Thinking of you. Hope you slept well." He signed his initials and sent it off. Only after hitting "Send" did he swear softly, regretting his actions. So consumed in her thought, Phillip had used his work email address.

* * * * *

It was lunch time. Rachel had to force herself to focus on work all morning. But now she waved off Carrie's offer to grab a bite to eat and instead pulled out a salad she had brought from home and logged onto her freebie email account used for her erotica writing.

There was an email there, but not the one she was hoping to see. This was from plairdon@sentinelnews.com. It seemed so official. No one ever wrote her using official email addresses. Her heart hammered loudly in her chest as she opened it up and read the quick note. It had to be from journo. It had to. It made her heart beat wildly and her thighs ache. Only he elicited such a response from her with a few simple words. It had to be him.

He had taken it a step further. He wanted her to know who he was. Quickly she dialed Carrie's extension, leaving a message to buzz her as soon as she came back. Meanwhile, Rachel loaded up her browser and checked out the Sentinal News website. Phillip Lairdon. There he was. Well. There his byline was. Political reporter. Good stuff. "Hmmm....Didn't write as well as I did, huh?" She chewed her lip lost in thought until Carrie came up behind her.

"What's up?"

"Look." Rachel pointed to the website. "I got another email. Meet our perv."

A quick scan of the news article before her was all it took to get Carrie to respond. "He could just be saying that," she noted with a bit of cynicism tainting her voice. "He could just be saying that's who he is."

"No. He emailed me from this-" Rachel pointed to the contact email address of Phillip Lairdon, "address. plairdon@sentinelnews.com."

"Hm. I don't know. I smell something fishy here. He's up to something. You're not getting the whole story, Rache."

"I'm going to write him back."

"That's fine."

"From my work address."

"Oh, Rachel, I wouldn't if-"

"It'll be fine. You'll see."

One more glance at Rachel, who was totally absorbed in the story on her screen, and Carrie backed off without another word.

"Phillip, Hi. Thanks for giving me your real email address and name. You do write well. Probably better than me. I'd better get back to work now. Have a great day. Thanks for thinking of me.



PS. Do you find it a bit odd that we have the same names as the characters in my stories?"

She then copied and pasted his email address into her work email program and sent it off, wondering what he would think when he got a response from rachelp@thejournal.com.

* * * * *

Rachel. Rachel P. At The Journal. She was a journalist. He automatically trusted her. While most people do not hold journalists in the highest regard, Phillip knew that it would be a rare event indeed for a journalist to plagiarise another writer. And her name was really Rachel. What the fuck was going on here?

He immediately hit "Reply" wanting nothing more than to get to the bottom of this. He had to meet her. To see if she was the woman he dreamed about night after night. What was going on?


"It's difficult not to think about you for some reason, although I'm not sure what the reason is at the moment.

"Yes, I find it odd that we have the same names as the characters in your stories. I wasn't expecting your name to be Rachel. I'd like to meet you. Regards,


PS. What color are your eyes?"

Before he hit "Send" he erased the 'PS.' Geez, what was he thinking? He was thinking how bright a green her eyes glowed as she came. That's what he was thinking.

* * * * *

Rachel buzzed Carrie's phone and squealed when her friend answered. "He wants to meet me!!"

"Rachel! Get a grip! You have to meet deadline. You can't meet him!"

"Not now! He didn't say when. I can't work. I can't think."

"It's too soon. You can't just start meeting strangers off that pervy website. It's too dangerous."

"He's not dangerous."

"You don't know that. Talk with him a bit first. Read his stuff and see what you get out of that. Just don't meet him yet."

A sigh sounded through the phone. "You're right. It's too soon. I just ache for him, Carrie. I can't explain it."

"Well ache after deadline. You gotta get your head outta your ass and get back to work."

"I know. I know. Thanks."

After hanging up, Rachel turned back to her email to Phillip. Carrie was right. It was too soon. He could be an axe murderer.

"Dear Phillip. I'd like to meet you, too. But I don't normally meet strange men from this site. I'd need to get to know more about you first. Do you have a profile?


It took a while to re-focus, but soon Phillip was out of sight, out of mind. The article she wrote on fundraising efforts for a new playground was put to bed successfully a half hour before deadline.

As if on cue, her email notification jingled softly and with a knee-jerk reaction Rachel clicked on the throbbing icon.

"Plairdon" had replied.

"Hi. Hope your day is going better than mine. What are you doing for dinner tonight?"

He signed it "PL".

With a slight grin she responded without hesitation. "I think I'm meeting a new friend."

If, she thought hitting the "Send" button, tonight went as well as her most recent dream, his day would be improving very, very shortly.


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