The Visitor

As soon as you get home, it's obvious you're in a bad mood. You growl "Hello" and stalk off to fix yourself a drink. "Bad day, honey?" I ask. Your mumbled reply is mostly indecipherable, but I make out something about your colleagues being "pig fuckers." I decide that you need some TLC: "Why don't you let me do both the cooking and the cleaning up tonight?" That seems to mollify you slightly, although you still sit and sulk. Your mood seems slightly better as you sit down to dinner, but it soon becomes apparent from the look on your face that I have once again either overcooked or undercooked every dish I made. I make a few unreciprocated efforts at small talk and humor, but we mostly eat in silence. After I finish cleaning up dinner, I find you scowling at the TV, flipping the channels. I sit down and say, "I have an idea for something that might make you feel better." You look at me. I continue, "It might help release some tension if we fooled around," and smile at you invitingly. You look back at the TV and say, "I'm NOT in the mood," as if I had just asked you to take out the garbage. "Honestly, sweetie, I think we're both a little tense because we haven't had sex in more than a week." You just grunt "No" while continuing to flip through channels. After a while, you get up: "I'm exhausted. I need to get a good night's sleep." As I watch you stomp up the stairs, I think, "Yeah, I know what YOU need, and it's not sleep."

Soon, you are dreaming about being in some foreign country. Mexico? Or maybe Spain? You are getting your hair done by a woman with dark, creamy skin. The woman has the demeanor one often encounters abroad: she's happy to have your business, but seemingly cool towards you personally. But the air is hot, and everyone seems languid. She's washing your hair before cutting it, and you feel her soapy fingers slipping through your hair and over your scalp: slowly, gently, but insistently. Now she's rinsing, and you enjoy the sensation of the cool water rolling down your scalp, some of it splashing onto your neck. She leans over your face to reach the back of your head. You smell her perfume and a faint hint of musk as her breasts hover over your face. You are surprised to find that you have an urge to follow those scents between her breasts and apply your tongue to their source. But you are even more surprised when you notice that there are hands caressing your body: your sides, your arms, your stomach, and now gently circling your breasts. "What the hell is she doing?" you wonder. But then you remember that her arms are busy rinsing your head.

You finally realize that the hands on your body were not part of your dream. You have woken up in bed to find a man's hands exploring your body. You can hear the sound of the man's heavy breathing. You figure it must be me, but when you open your eyes to look, you can't see anything. You reach up to see if there is anything over your eyes, but quickly realize that it is simply pitch black in the room. The door and curtains must be closed and the nightlight out. "Why did he do that?" you wonder. You feel the man in the dark sit up and then reach under your nightshirt for your panties, which he yanks off unceremoniously. His left hand lunges between your legs; his forefinger slips between your ass-cheeks and his thumb slides through your pussy lips. You are surprised at how roughly he does this, but you also discover that you are quite wet. The man must have licked his finger, because it slides easily around your anus. Your brain thinks, "Don't touch me THERE," but your hips buck in response to the pleasure they are getting from both your ass and your pussy. You feel strangely vulnerable, and realize that the heaving of your hips is the only motion you've made since you woke up to find his hands on you.

The man pulls up your nightshirt and mounts you. You are surprised again. He's wearing a condom. Why would I be wearing a condom with you? This also isn't how you expect me to make love to you. In fact, it isn't really making love at all. This is fucking: his cock is pounding into your pussy like a piston. The motion is regular, hungry, and selfish. When his hands reach down to your breasts they grab and pinch. You're just a toy for his pleasure. You feel on the verge of cumming, but also frightened. "Is it you?" you whimper. "Please tell me it's you." In response, the man covers your mouth. You find yourself licking the palm of his hand submissively. The uncertainty and fear are intoxicating. You feel completely in his control, yet somehow completely free: he's doing it all to you. You didn't ask for it, so you're not responsible for it. You drop over the edge: your orgasms are so intense they hurt. You'd scream if his hand weren't muffling your mouth. As you writhe under him, the rythm of his fucking speeds up; he'll cum soon. You'll be able to tell by his moans whether it's me. But he cums quietly, like he's afraid to be discovered. He immediately gets off. You hear him fumbling in the dark. Then there a squirting sound, and you feel something hot and sticky dripping on your nose and cheeks. He emptied the condom on your face.

You hear him quickly pull some clothes on. He darts out the door. The hallway is pretty dark, and you can't get a clear look at his outline. He seems shorter than me. Or was he just stooped over? Did he have a big head of hair, or was that some kind of hat?

You're so in shock that for a few minutes it's hard to even move. But you eventually pull your nightshirt back on, go to the bathroom to wash your face, and then stumble downstairs. You see me sitting in the living room with my back to the stairs, reading a magazine and listening to something with my headphones on. You check the front door: locked. You check the kitchen door: unlocked. You come over to me and get my attention. "Hi," I smile, taking off the headphones. You hear Pearl Jam blasting out of them. "Why are you wearing headphones?" you ask. I look puzzled. "You said you were going to sleep," I explain. You slowly nod and then remark, "You left the kitchen door open again."

"Oh, sorry," I say, "I'll be more careful. I promise." I stare at you for a moment. "You okay?" I ask. "You seem a little flushed."

"It's nothing," you say. "Just a ... strange dream." I nod and give a sympathetic smile.

You wonder whether you should ask me some more questions. It occurs to you that, if you had to, you could check to see whether your smell was still on my body. But that would destroy the fantasy, one way or the other. So, you just say "Goodnight" and head back up the stairs. When you get in bed, you really want to masturbate, but then you think, "If I go to sleep now, that Latin woman might still be there to finish blowing me dry."