Sweet Dreams

For a moment, Chloe Ellis thought she was going to die.

"I have to remember to breathe," she told herself, because her breath was coming in harsh gasps. The problem was, remembering how to breathe came in a distant second to realizing just how wonderful this felt.

Those thoughts faded as she realized she was approaching another orgasm. Her boyfriend Jed had already wrung two out of her, one she was sure was prompted mainly by the litany of filth that poured from his mouth as he made a meal of her vagina. "Oh, so good, Chloe, you taste divine, I could stay like this between your legs forever." He was always chatty during sex, so it was hardly a surprise as he lapped up and down the length her slit, pausing every now and then so he could spread her labia with his fingers and push even deeper inside her.

There was one troubling aspect that momentarily disturbed her. Somehow Jed, a good ol' Nebraska boy, had acquired a British accent.

But then two of those fingers had replaced his tongue and were finding spots inside her that she didn't even know about but was goddamn happy to learn, and his tongue was circling around her clit, tighter and tighter, and then somewhere someone was screaming, "I'm coming!" over and over again.

When her climax finally ebbed, she was completely seized by another thought: "Jed, I really need your cock inside me." And then she looked down and the face of Bradford McAllister stared back up at her.

Chloe bolted up in bed. "What the fuck?" she muttered as sleep fled like a routed army.

* * * * *

Of course it wasn't Jed who was eating her out. That relationship had ended years ago, when he disclosed to her that his five-year plan was to be the frontman for a grunge band, and Chloe Ellis had decided that her five-year plan didn't include being the girlfriend/wife of the frontman for a grunge band. Besides, when it came to eating pussy, his enthusiasm far outstripped his talent: he couldn't have found her clit with a headlamp and a map.

Better than her ex-husband Mark, though. Twelve years of Catholic education had created in Mark an aversion to oral sex, at least with him as the perpetrator. "If I did it all the time it wouldn't be special," he told her, until she realized that his going down on her coincided with the oil changes required for her car. She didn't need it to be that special. She'd dumped him two years ago after she'd come home one afternoon to surprise him. He was indeed surprised, but not nearly as much as the redhead who tried to cover up her tits with the bedsheet.

She was pretty sure that Bradford McAllister knew how to eat pussy. Six-foot three, his Armani or Tom Ford hanging perfectly from his toned frame, his stubble perfectly trimmed, his hair perfectly coifed, and a smile that oozed sex like flop sweat, topped off by a British accent that had women literally swooning in his presence. She'd never seen his dick, of course, but she had a pretty good hunch that was perfect, too.

He was the one of the top people in product marketing at Kendall Korp Advertising Agency, and she'd been brought in as a temporary contract employee about two months earlier. He'd spent the first minute after they'd met eye-fucking her, then said, "I see you'll be working under me," with a smirk that made her want to punch him in the face.

He was the most attractive man she'd ever met, but also as annoying as fuck: for the first few weeks he made it clear that his real desire was to find out how well they would work horizontally. She just as persistently rejected his advances.

Not that Chloe thought she was too good for him. She was certainly attractive; dirty blonde hair just past her shoulders, a body she kept in good shape by running four days a week and working out at the gym three, a cute button nose, and gorgeous blue eyes. Not bad for a single mother just on the wrong side of thirty.

But the big problem was that she'd lost count of the women she'd seen McAllister with over those two months. He was unquestionably a man-slut; he'd shown up for one business party with two women on his arm, their busts indicating they had no chance of drowning, and both named Brittany, albeit with different spellings (Britney? Brittanie? She couldn't remember now), probably so that he had less chance of shouting the wrong name in the throes of passion.

So, yes, Chloe Ellis could have a one-night stand with Bradford McAlllister, and she was sure it would be a good one. But that wasn't who she was. There's been a sprinkling of boyfriends before Jed, and even a brief liaison with a woman while Chloe was going through her lesbian chic days in college. She'd never had a one-night stand, though, and didn't plan on changing that.

No matter what she dreamt.

Those dreams came rushing back as McAllister popped into her office with a disarming smile and a cup of coffee he set on her desk. "Just as you like it," he purred. "Mocha Delight with almond milk and sugar-free caramel drizzle." That was maddening, too: while he turned the dial on arrogance and obnoxiousness up to eleven, he was kind to her, and his initial smirk had gradually been replaced by an expression which showed that he actually cared about her as something more than his next sexual conquest.

Which she so did not need right now. She kept her libido at bay by closing her eyes and imagining he had a huge goiter on his neck.

He mistook her discomfiture for something else. "Did your date the other night not go well?"

Oh yes. Her "date." No, that had not gone well. Bill - or was it Will? - took her to a restaurant where she was served undercooked fish and asparagus that looked like it had been sitting in the frying pan since last night, so that wasn't good. His spending seventy-two of the seventy-five minutes they were at the restaurant talking about his job as a car salesman wasn't good, either. She'd briefly mentioned that she'd attended her daughter's parent-teacher conference the week before, and he'd looked at her like she had Ebola. After she'd half-heartedly consumed whatever of her dinner she could manage, he'd invited her back to his place for a "nightcap," which she understood was his euphemism for trying to stick his dick in her mouth. She would have scooped out her eyeballs with a spoon before accepting that invitation.

"We're not talking about my love life, Brad," she said, now trying to imagine his face covered with hideous boils.

McAllister's eyes widened. "Aha. I notice you didn't say 'sex life.' So the poor chap left you unsatisfied, as I could have easily predicted."

Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. "Brad, unlike some people I know, I don't sleep with anyone and everyone, and I certainly don't sleep with someone I've just met."

"And that's why I'm willing to offer my services, Chloe. We've been partners for some time now, and we've grown familiar with each other."

"Which has bred only contempt." She stared ahead, not looking at him so she could pretend he had a lazy left eye and drooping eyelid.

"Oh, Chloe, what a lovely surprise! Didn't know you were a fan of Chaucer. Me, not so much; epic medieval poems are a bit of drag, actually. Not as bad as Beowulf, and we don't even have anyone specific to blame for that monstrosity."

Yes, that's it, Chloe thought. He'd make harsh grunting sounds while he had sex, and his O-face would make him look like he was having a bowel movement.

"At any rate, Chloe, you seem unusually frustrated this morning, and as always, as your dedicated partner, I'm more than willing to fill that gap."

Yeah, you're going to fill my... "Brad, we are not having sex. We are never going to have sex. The End."

The look on his face reflected that he did not accept the finality of that decision.

She doubted if the look on her face did.

* * * * *

Trixie wasn't coming back from midweek visitation at Mark's until tomorrow, so Chloe would have the night to herself. A good night for ice cream and a movie or two. Well, no ice cream; she usually dreamed on nights she'd had it, and dreaming was not on the agenda. Or if it was, it was going to be nightmares: her movie perfecta was "Nightmare on Elm Street" and "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." As she watched them, traitorous thoughts would intrude from time to time, like how good Brad looked in those suits he wore, what his stubble would feel like rubbing against the inside of her thighs... She chased them away and concentrated on guessing which oversexed teenage couple would be the first to meet their well-deserved demise at the scissor-like hands of Freddy Krueger. After enduring some 200 minutes of endless gore, she retired to bed, her last memory as she drifted off to sleep Leatherface chopping up Franklin with the iconic chainsaw.

* * * * *

The tremors in her body slowly subsided. Chloe looked down at the perfectly-coifed head of black hair that lay nestled between her thighs. She sat up, pulling him up for a deep, hungry kiss. They both broke off and stood up, then Chloe turned and pushed Brad back onto the bed. "It's my turn now," she whispered as she knelt between his legs.

"Or mine," he said with a smirk. She giggled.

He was hard as a brick, and she reveled in the knowledge that eating her pussy had been as arousing for him as it had been for her. Time to get to work, though.

He sat up, resting on his elbows, so that he could watch her. She kept her eyes fixed on his as she took one, then the other, of his balls into her mouth, ever so gently sucking on them, all the while slowly stroking the length of his shaft. He groaned and his whole body stiffened as she licked a slow, leisurely stripe up the underside of his cock, letting her tongue swirl around the head, then gently sucking on one side of the crown, then the other.

"I really like to suck your cock." If he could talk dirty, so could she. "I like the way it gets so big and hard in my mouth." Her lips closed around it, and she moaned softly as she swallowed half his dick.

She held him there, the fingers of one hand closing around the base of his shaft as she slowly drew her other hand over one breast, then over her abdomen, finally nestling between her legs, her fingers sliding easily across her drenched pussy. She slowly sucked him out, her tongue flicking along the underside of his cock.

She finally took him out of her mouth and gazed up at him. "Would you like it if I made you come like this?" His mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't muster a response. Not so chatty anymore, huh? she thought. "I want to do that. I want to taste you." Chloe was just getting to know Brad's body, but she definitely knew her own. Her finger flicked over her clit, and she swooped down on him, taking all but the last few inches. She held him there, opened wider, exhaled, and took him into her throat.

He pressed a hand to the back of her head, not forcing her, just guiding her as she sucked up and down the length of his cock, giving a slow twist of her head each time. Her fingers were working furiously on her clit now, she could feel her own impending climax just as she sensed his dick bulging even larger. Her whole body shuddered and she gave a muffled moan as her mouth filled with his thick, salty come. She tried to swallow it, but the force of her own orgasm made that impossible; instead, it poured over her lips and coursed down his shaft.

Chloe jerked awake and quickly pulled her hand from her sopping wet panties. Oh, shit.

* * * * *

Brad poked his head into Chloe's office the next day. "How are you doing today, Chloe? No more bad dates, I trust?"

No, no more failed dates for her. She'd canceled her membership on Tinder the morning after the disastrous outing with Bill or whatever. The final straw was the four most recent matches she'd received. One had an unkempt beard, not like Brad's carefully trimmed stubble, another was rather pudgy, not like Brad's fit form, another sloppily attired, not Brad looking like he just came from a GQ shoot... The last at least looked like someone she wouldn't have to be paid to be seen in public with, but then he had to ruin it by describing one of his likes as "walking in the rain." Right. Nothing like walking around with your wet hair matted to your skull, water pouring down your face, and your soaked clothes sticking to you like cellophane. Any guy who had seen The Notebook and drawn from it that the way to a woman's heart was walking around being drenched to the bone was an asshole.

"No, Brad, I did not have a date last night." Unless you were talking about two of the biggest archvillains of the horror genre. Or unless we talk about your dream, you know, the one where you took him - and could you really do that?

Her reverie about whether she could deep-throat her partner was interrupted by the appearance of the head of Marketing, Paul Donohue. "Wanted you to take a look at the Toyota campaign." He smiled at the both of them. "Looks like a good case for my A Team."

Brad's expression changed on a dime. He beamed down at Chloe. "See, Chloe, someone sees what a delightful pairing we are!"

Chloe fought to drag her thoughts away from her dream last night.

* * * * *

Off they went to lunch, a more common aspect of their relationship anymore, to discuss the project. While he'd still cast an occasional innuendo her way - "pairing," indeed - they could chat quite comfortably. Not just idle chatter, either. They'd learned they complemented each other's workstyle very well. Chloe was a linear thinker; one of her professors had told her that she was so left-brained he feared she'd tip over. Brad, on the other hand, was more abstract, coming up with wild ideas that Chloe would then shape to become workable.

It would be so easy to make this something more, Chloe thought, if he weren't too busy banging half of Los Angeles. She comforted herself with the thought that maybe he did have a really small penis, then realized that if he did, he probably wouldn't be banging half of Los Angeles.

When they got back to the office and got off the elevator, they were greeted by the dreamy expression adorning the face of Elise, the receptionist. Elise had two notable characteristics: she was an ardent BradChlo shipper, and she had no filter. She beamed at them. "You two look so adorbs together," she gushed.

"See, Chloe?" Brad said brightly. "Someone else who sees what a delightful pairing we are!"

* * * * *

Trixie was home from her midweek visitation with Mark, so tonight she could revel in her daughter. Nothing more innocent than that. The two ordered out pizza, gobbled it down, then retreated to the couch to watch Frozen. "I wonder how it ends this time," teased Chloe, and the two of them giggled.

The problem with watching a movie for the fifty-third time was that it was easy to find your thoughts diverted to other things. Like the 92 reasons why she'd never sleep with Brad. She pulled herself out of her reverie, and fixed her attention to Anna, Olaf, and Kristoff being chased off of Elsa's Ice Palace by the snow monster.

Yeah, okay, so he's hot as fuck... Kristoff's love song to Anna was sweet and funny... And it's kind of a thrill that someone that hot would find a 33-year-old single mom attractive... Oaken is just downright hilarious... and the way he looked at her anymore... The graphics work for the Hall of Ice was simply mesmerizing...

She watches the jailed Hans heading in a ship for the Southern Isles, and then the credits rolled. "Go brush your teeth and get ready for bed, Trix." Her daughter grudgingly got up and scampered off to the bathroom.

No, I am not going to sleep with hot as fuck Brad. Not going to happen. No more Tinder, no Brad, I'll live a life filled with cats, so many cats. Thinking of names for the many cats was a much better use of her time than wondering what Brad's cock would feel like inside her.

Chloe tucked Trixie in, then headed off to her own bed, diverting her thoughts to the movies she'd seen the last two nights. She drifted off to sleep wondering what might have happened if Kristoff and Anna had run into Freddy Krueger on their sleigh ride.

* * * * *

Chloe licked some of his come off her hands, then climbed onto the bed and straddled him. "Now I'm going to fuck you, Brad." The look on his face told her, unsurprisingly, that he approved of the idea.

She reached behind her and picked up his cock. It had good heft; it was heavy in her hand. She rubbed the crown against her slit once, twice. God, had she ever been this wet? She poised the head of the shaft at her opening, and slowly eased back.

"FUCK! You're huge!" she gasped as he entered her. She held still so she could grow accustomed to his size, then slowly sat back, her pussy spreading to accommodate him. Then she gave a little roll of her hips, and he was all the way inside her, and she'd never felt anything like it in her life.

"Oh, God, you fill me up!" she moaned. She slowly raised up off of him, pressing her hands against his chest, then gave a slow wiggle of her ass as she rocked back on him.

He reached up and gave her breasts a gentle squeeze, and she moaned as his thumbs flicked against her pebbled nipples. She was moving faster now, and he was helping her: he dropped his hands, lifting her ass up off of him, then shoving her hips down again.

Then his hands slid to her waist, raising her up again, but this time he was holding her still as he drove his cock up into her again and again, and now she was no longer in charge, he was. "I'm gonna come!" she screamed. "Fuck me!" And then she did, her whole body trembling on top of him with the force of her orgasm.

Chloe groaned as she woke up. She was naked from the waist down, her panties having been tossed off to a corner of the room. Her t-shirt was pulled up over her breasts, one hand casually flicking over a nipple.

* * * * *

Chloe stumbled down the steps and found her daughter sitting at the kitchen table, gobbling up her cereal. "Hi, mommy," she greeted Chloe, then gave a look of exasperation that only a seven-year-old could muster. "Glad you finally came down."

Chloe looked at her quizzically. "What do you mean, 'finally'?"

"You kept yelling, 'I'm coming,' but you didn't."

Good, she thought. If these dreams keep up, I'll need a shrink, and I could ask him for the name of a good child psychologist.

When Chloe arrived at work after dropping Trixie off at school, the first thing she saw was Brad standing at the reception desk, chatting up Elise. Brad turned to greet her with a sinful smile. He was wearing her favorite suit of his: charcoal gray, with a waistcoat and midnight blue shirt, no tie but white pocket square perfectly placed.

She so did not need that right now.

They went to work on the Toyota ad campaign, tossing out ideas about catchy slogans. Finally, he sat up. "I've got it!" he exulted. "How about this: 'From those wonderful folks who brought you Pearl Harbor!'"

As they both laughed, Chloe came to a realization. She really, really liked being with Brad. He was smart, witty, and possessed of a joy of life that she found intoxicating. It's too bad I can't fuck him, she told herself.

Why not? herself asked right back.

* * * * *

Chloe took deep breaths as the elevator carried her to Brad's penthouse. "Who should I say is coming?" the doorman had asked, and Chloe grimaced at his word choice. She gave him her name, and he called it up on the intercom. She waited impatiently, sure she was going to be told that "Mr. McAllister is busy," meaning that he either didn't have the desire to see her or was already knee deep in women. Well, not knee deep...