That Damned Blessing Ch. 01

But they were not here to come separately.

Without a word, her hips drop to the bed as he shifts around. His mouth never leaves her slit as he moves his hips above her waiting face and then lowers himself. Her mouth opens wide and he slides his cock past her lips and into her throat. The moan she gives at the return of his shaft is almost orgasmic. As her tongue and cheeks and throat renew their ministrations, he shifts his lips to her clit, the groans they each give echoed by the other.

The Man's lips caress her bud; the Woman's tongue smothers his glans. His finger slips past her labia and inside her tight, unsullied heat; her finger slips into his ass and finds his prostate; they fuck each other as they suck each other, driven each by the need to please the other, guided each by sure knowledge of how to do just that.

The Man comes, a flood of thick, potent semen exploding into the Woman's throat. She drinks it down like the rarest of vintages, not letting a drop escape. Someday soon he will put this powerful seed into her womb and give her a child, the first of many, but that is in the future. For now, this was all she wants. At the same moment, the Woman's body trembles and she lifts her hips against the Man's face again, bucking, trembling, spasming. He feels her discharge, tastes its high, sweet tang, hears her scream around the cock that fills her throat. He drinks her down as she drank him, lost in perfect bliss...

Day Two

Jessica awoke to the last part of the most powerful orgasm she had ever experienced in her life. Her whole body was aflame, her every nerve singing to an unheard aria, every muscle held rigid. Her eyes were screwed shut and her mouth was wide open in a silent howl of blissful release. She felt transported out of herself, out of her mind, into a place where there was nothing except the pleasure. It went on and on and on --

And all too soon it was over, leaving her to feel its absence like the departure of a lover. She lay panting beneath the thin hotel sheet, mind a white blank, body numb from overload. It was nearly two minutes before she could softly gasp, "What...what the fuck...was that..."

Slowly she came back to herself. The dream. Holy shit, that dream. What was that about? She had been home in her own living room, but she hadn't been herself...or had she been? She'd been a virgin but not, she knew that, and she hadn't looked like herself. Brown hair? Tanned skin devoid of freckles? She'd had the body she'd had when she was 19 - no, better than when she was 19. She had had the body of a goddess.

And the man she was with -- who the hell was that? She could remember the body, remember everything she felt when he touched her, but...what was his face? His name? Was it Paul? No, not Paul, but so familiar! She really felt like she ought to know who it was about - in fact, for some reason she felt like it was important that she know -- but the details were fading from her mind in the way dreams do.

But God! That orgasm! She was still trembling from it. Who would have thought that she would have a wet dream at her age --

She froze. Wet. Her panties and her upper thighs were soaked, and she could feel a damp patch in the bed under her ass. Had she peed herself? She slipped a hand down inside her underwear and brought back a milky white fluid. Semen? Had Paul fucked her in her sleep? She put her fingers to her nose -- no smell at all. She dabbed a bit on her tongue, and found it to be sweet tasting, nothing like a man's come. So what the hell...

A wet dream. A real wet dream. For the first time in her life, Jess had ejaculated! She had heard about it, read about it, even seen it online, but she had never quite believed it possible. It was supposed to take a lot of stimulation even for people who could manage it, and yet here she was with panties full of girl-cum without ever even being touched.

Unless...

She looked at Paul. He was on his side facing away from her. His breathing was slow and regular, his skin was cool. He hadn't worked up a sweat getting her off. He wasn't just pretending to be asleep for some reason, he really hadn't laid a hand on her.

It had been the dream.

Maybe she needed to wash her face. Maybe that would help. She pushed the sheet away, but then pulled it back again. She was still trembling. If she could see herself, she would bet that the afterglow would be blinding. Her heart was still hammering in her chest!

It was such a strange dream. It was her house, but not -- the curtains in the living room were green, not white. Beds didn't just appear when a girl was about to get head, more's the pity. And the woman in the dream...she had been her, but not, just as the name the man had called her in the dream had been hers but not hers. What name was it? She had forgotten that too. It was dream logic, she supposed, the same way you could be a movie character or your own great-aunt in a dream.

But it had felt so damned real! And now for some reason she was feeling...guilty?

"Come on girl, get a hold of yourself," she whispered. It was just a dream. She didn't control what she dreamed. It wasn't her fault that the best orgasm she'd ever had, had happened when she was dreaming of a young hardbody instead of with her husband. She didn't even know who the guy in the dream was supposed to have been --

But she ought to. She knew she ought to. And...she wanted to know. Maybe it was the last part that made her feel guilty.

Ugh! It was just a phantasm, a dream man, he wasn't real! She could even remember his face or his name. Her mind had just made something up to get her off!

And yet...

She pushed the blankets away for real this time. It was past dawn, she could get up. She needed to splash some water on her face...well, given how wet she was, she might need an actual shower. She stood and steadied herself, willing the effects of her orgasm to fade. After a minute she made her way to the bathroom.

It was alright. The details of the dream were fading. She didn't need to feel guilty about something her mind had just cobbled together against her will. It was just a stupid nighttime illusion, nothing more. Vivid, though. Why, if she didn't know better, she would have sworn she could actually taste the man's cum in her mouth...

At the same moment that Jessica had awakened, Ryan was snapped from sleep by an orgasm that hit him so hard it felt like a vise on his balls. Every muscle in his stomach and thighs contracted and he came hard, shooting jet after jet of hot cum into his underwear. In the first instant he had no idea where he was, and even as he moaned, his tongue and lips were still working the most perfect pussy he had ever imagined.

Unlike his mother in the next room down the hall, though, Ryan's body didn't allow him to linger in post-coital bliss for more than a few moments. The ripples of pleasure were pushed out of his body with a blast of pain from his head and another from his stomach. His moan of release died on his lips, replaced instantly by a whimper of confused agony. "Jesus Christ," he whispered, "did I just die?"

Unfortunately, the answer was no. He was just hung over.

The truth took a couple of long minutes to penetrate his tormented head, and when it did all he could do was say, "Ow..."

For all that, though, he remembered a dream. He'd been with the most beautiful woman in the world, a brunette whose pneumatic shape would make an hourglass feel like it needed to lose some weight. For a moment he was certain he knew who she was, but then it was gone, replaced by a mule-kick throb of head pain.

"Ow," he repeated, feeling justified in the repetition. Why hadn't somebody told him last night that he was going to feel this way in the morning? Why did they even let people drink if this shit happened? Bastards. Everyone was a bastard.

And he'd been home, in the living room, The sofa had been in the wrong place, and a bed had, like, appeared, but the dream had been set in the family home. He had belonged there, and so had the woman, whomever she was. It was weird that he couldn't remember --

Aw, fuck, who cared? It was a dream, that's all. Why did it matter who a made-up woman was?

Except he kind of thought it did matter.

"Fuck dreams and fuck everything el -- water!" he croaked. Oh how he needed water, and then he needed to piss, and then he might need to die. But not before taking in and letting out water.

He succeeded in pushing himself out of bed on the second try, and he was glad that Kim wasn't there to hear his whimper of pain or she would never, ever permit him to forget it. He was also glad that she wasn't there to see the huge cum stain leaking through his boxer briefs, because he never would have heard the end of that either. Basically he was just glad his sister wasn't there. He stumbled to the sideboard that represented a minibar, grabbed a bottle of water, and downed half of it with a single swig. It did nothing to quench his thirst, so he downed the other half. That also did nothing to quench his thirst.

Stupid fucking hangover.

He made it to the bathroom, dropping his underwear to the floor on the way, and lifted the toilet seat. One hand on the wall and the other on his cummy dick, he waited for three seconds for the piss to start and then groaned in momentary happiness when it did. In his current state he was no good judge of time, but he would have estimated that he urinated for 873 years before his bladder grudgingly conceded it was empty. He was kind of amazed he hadn't wet the bed...well, with anything other than his semen, that is.

God that dream was amazing. If only he could meet a girl like that in real life!

The boilers weren't working so his shower wasn't hot, but Ryan didn't really give a fuck. He stepped in and let the cold give his nerves something to worry about other than the aftereffects of booze. It was almost two minutes of just standing there before he began to wash.

When he reached his groin, he discovered there was lipstick on his dick. Obviously it had been there since Lexy gave him his beach BJ the night before. He wasn't sure if that was sexy or gross, but either way it had to go. He began scrubbing.

Given his condition, it was understandable that Ryan didn't realize the lipstick couldn't have come from Lexy Garza, because she had been wearing a sparkly peach shade that went well with her olive complexion; even if he had noticed that, he almost certainly would not have realized that the lipstick ring on the uttermost base of his cock was the same deep red shade that the woman in his dream had been wearing, and the same shade that his mother had worn yesterday during the blessing.