I
know it's really late in the day, but I hope you enjoy my first
Wicked Wednesday offering inspired by this week's "dream" prompt.
Warning: contains domination and submission. If that offends you, please read no further.
Warning: contains domination and submission. If that offends you, please read no further.
Only in My Dreams
Copyright
©2015 by Ria Restrepo. All rights reserved.
If
I could, I'd dream the impossible…dream about him.
He wouldn't be married. He wouldn't have kids and a nice house in the suburbs.
We'd live in the same state—in the same city, even. We'd live the fantasy we'd explored in so many variations.
In my dream, I'm watching him perform at some small, intimate club. His band isn't there that night. It's just him and his acoustic guitar. He's lost in the music. His eyes are closed, his longish hair falling into his face every time he leans over his guitar. His smooth, rich, powerful voice pours over me, his words seeping into my soul, singing songs of lost loves, redemption, and forbidden desire.
After his set, I go into the ladies' room and take off my panties. They're damp from the mastery in his voice and strong agile fingers. I carefully wrap them around a hotel keycard and palm the illicit package in my hand.
Back in the club, he's at the edge of the stage, entertaining a few smitten ladies. I edge closer, pretending to be just another groupie waiting for my turn. He politely smiles and thanks his fans for coming out to see him. If they only knew the wicked games we play.
Finally close enough, I slip my present into the pocket of his well-worn jeans. No one sees me, but I know he feels me. Not waiting for any acknowledgement, I turn and walk away, leaving him and the club, disappearing into the night.
Half an hour later, I'm naked in the hotel room, kneeling in front of the bed, waiting for him. The carpet is rough on my knees and my body is stiff from holding this position—thighs splayed so I can't relieve the growing ache in my cunt, arms clasped behind my back so my chest is pushed forward, head bowed so I can barely see the edge of the door.
Nervous anticipation has every sense amplified. The light in the room seems too bright. My skin tingles. I can smell my own excitement. And over the ringing silence, I hear the distant ping of the elevator arriving on this floor.
Is that him?
My heart pounds in time with the throbbing between my legs. The door lock engages, it slowly opens, and I see him come into the room. My muscles tense as I fight the urge to look up at him. He shuts the door behind him, then walks toward me. I struggle to keep my breaths slow and steady as he stops a few feet in front of me.
Even if I hadn't heard or saw him enter the room, I would have sensed his presence by the magnetic force pulling us together. His North to my South. His top to my bottom. His dominance to my submission.
"Look at me, naughty girl," he finally says in his warm, mellow voice.
When my eyes meet his, it's all there: need, lust, understanding, acceptance, promise, and so much more. I feel the air change, the subtle vibrations pulsing along the taut string of desire connecting us reverberating throughout the room.
"Do you feel it, baby?"
"Yes, sir."
He steps closer and offers me his hand. "Stand up."
Putting my hand in his, I touch him for the first time, skin on skin. The delight of just that weakens my cramped legs, making it difficult to stand gracefully, but somehow I manage.
He leans in close enough for me to feel his breath on my shoulder. "Are you wet for me?"
"Oh yes, sir."
He lightly touches my hip with his callused fingers. I expect him to move downwards, but he trails his fingers up the side of my waist, over my rib cage. They trace around my arm to my shoulder, then to my neck, pausing briefly to feel my rapid pulse. His fingers then follow the slope of my breast, rasping over a distended nipple before going down my stomach to my smoothly shaved pussy. At last, he delves between my slick folds and murmurs his approval.
"Such an eager little slut."
A long-suffering "good girl," I love being called dirty names and he knows it—especially if they're used appreciatively. From him, it's the highest compliment. I'm his slut, his whore, his little bitch in heat. Always. Only for him.
"Get on the bed and rub that horny cunt for me—but don't come until I say."
"Yes, sir."
Swiftly obeying his command, I lean back on the pillows and spread my legs wide apart, so he can see how aroused I am. I glide my fingers through my drenched slit, teasing my aching clit, circling it, moaning at the sensation.
He watches me for a moment, his fervent eyes devouring my wantonness. Then he slowly starts pealing off his clothes—t-shirt, shoes, socks…
As he's unfastening his jeans, he says, "Spread some of that wetness between your tits."
Tits, not breasts. That's the word that gets him hot. We've talked about it so much, I know what to expect. He loves my generous tits and needs to fuck them. And I can't wait to give him what he craves. I burn to be his—in all ways.
Easing first one, then two fingers into my tight cunt, I gather up as much of my juices as I can, then rub the slickness between my tits. There's no shortage of moisture; I'm practically sopping as I watch him take off his jeans and boxer briefs in one go.
He's impressively erect and grasps his dick in his hand. "Is this what you want, little girl?"
I whimper with longing as he teasingly strokes it. "Yes…please, sir."
He doesn't torture either of us any longer and climbs up onto the bed. Straddling my chest, he places his long, hard cock between my tits. It's comforting and deliciously arousing feeling his weight on me and the heat of his skin against mine. He fondles my ample flesh before squeezing it around him.
"Hold them together. Just like this. Nice and tight."
I do as he says and he starts rocking his hips, sliding his dick back and forth, possessing that part of me as his own. Pre-cum oozes from the tip of his cock, making my tits even more slippery. I can't resist leaning forward and licking him as he emerges from my cleavage again and again.
His breath hitches and then he groans. "Fuck, you're a hot little slut."
Reaching back, his long fingers find my needy slit and start playing me with the same confidence and skill he uses on his guitar. As his thrusts become more forceful, his balls slapping the underside of my tits, he fucks two fingers deep inside me while his thumb strums my clit.
The sensations are overwhelming, my moans and his in perfect harmony, the pleasure building and building to a crescendo neither of us can resist.
"Come for me!"
And I do, wailing my release as he reaches his own. Growling, he gives one final hard thrust, spurting his climax all over my chest, neck, and chin. Writhing beneath him, I rejoice in him branding me with his cum, claiming me body and soul.
The aftermath of such intensity leaves us both sprawled out on the bed, panting as we recover.
Once we've caught our breath, he leans over and captures my lips with his own. His kiss is both tender and possessive. When he pulls away, he smiles at me and says, "Good girl."
And I know I'm his.
If only in my dreams.
He wouldn't be married. He wouldn't have kids and a nice house in the suburbs.
We'd live in the same state—in the same city, even. We'd live the fantasy we'd explored in so many variations.
In my dream, I'm watching him perform at some small, intimate club. His band isn't there that night. It's just him and his acoustic guitar. He's lost in the music. His eyes are closed, his longish hair falling into his face every time he leans over his guitar. His smooth, rich, powerful voice pours over me, his words seeping into my soul, singing songs of lost loves, redemption, and forbidden desire.
After his set, I go into the ladies' room and take off my panties. They're damp from the mastery in his voice and strong agile fingers. I carefully wrap them around a hotel keycard and palm the illicit package in my hand.
Back in the club, he's at the edge of the stage, entertaining a few smitten ladies. I edge closer, pretending to be just another groupie waiting for my turn. He politely smiles and thanks his fans for coming out to see him. If they only knew the wicked games we play.
Finally close enough, I slip my present into the pocket of his well-worn jeans. No one sees me, but I know he feels me. Not waiting for any acknowledgement, I turn and walk away, leaving him and the club, disappearing into the night.
Half an hour later, I'm naked in the hotel room, kneeling in front of the bed, waiting for him. The carpet is rough on my knees and my body is stiff from holding this position—thighs splayed so I can't relieve the growing ache in my cunt, arms clasped behind my back so my chest is pushed forward, head bowed so I can barely see the edge of the door.
Nervous anticipation has every sense amplified. The light in the room seems too bright. My skin tingles. I can smell my own excitement. And over the ringing silence, I hear the distant ping of the elevator arriving on this floor.
Is that him?
My heart pounds in time with the throbbing between my legs. The door lock engages, it slowly opens, and I see him come into the room. My muscles tense as I fight the urge to look up at him. He shuts the door behind him, then walks toward me. I struggle to keep my breaths slow and steady as he stops a few feet in front of me.
Even if I hadn't heard or saw him enter the room, I would have sensed his presence by the magnetic force pulling us together. His North to my South. His top to my bottom. His dominance to my submission.
"Look at me, naughty girl," he finally says in his warm, mellow voice.
When my eyes meet his, it's all there: need, lust, understanding, acceptance, promise, and so much more. I feel the air change, the subtle vibrations pulsing along the taut string of desire connecting us reverberating throughout the room.
"Do you feel it, baby?"
"Yes, sir."
He steps closer and offers me his hand. "Stand up."
Putting my hand in his, I touch him for the first time, skin on skin. The delight of just that weakens my cramped legs, making it difficult to stand gracefully, but somehow I manage.
He leans in close enough for me to feel his breath on my shoulder. "Are you wet for me?"
"Oh yes, sir."
He lightly touches my hip with his callused fingers. I expect him to move downwards, but he trails his fingers up the side of my waist, over my rib cage. They trace around my arm to my shoulder, then to my neck, pausing briefly to feel my rapid pulse. His fingers then follow the slope of my breast, rasping over a distended nipple before going down my stomach to my smoothly shaved pussy. At last, he delves between my slick folds and murmurs his approval.
"Such an eager little slut."
A long-suffering "good girl," I love being called dirty names and he knows it—especially if they're used appreciatively. From him, it's the highest compliment. I'm his slut, his whore, his little bitch in heat. Always. Only for him.
"Get on the bed and rub that horny cunt for me—but don't come until I say."
"Yes, sir."
Swiftly obeying his command, I lean back on the pillows and spread my legs wide apart, so he can see how aroused I am. I glide my fingers through my drenched slit, teasing my aching clit, circling it, moaning at the sensation.
He watches me for a moment, his fervent eyes devouring my wantonness. Then he slowly starts pealing off his clothes—t-shirt, shoes, socks…
As he's unfastening his jeans, he says, "Spread some of that wetness between your tits."
Tits, not breasts. That's the word that gets him hot. We've talked about it so much, I know what to expect. He loves my generous tits and needs to fuck them. And I can't wait to give him what he craves. I burn to be his—in all ways.
Easing first one, then two fingers into my tight cunt, I gather up as much of my juices as I can, then rub the slickness between my tits. There's no shortage of moisture; I'm practically sopping as I watch him take off his jeans and boxer briefs in one go.
He's impressively erect and grasps his dick in his hand. "Is this what you want, little girl?"
I whimper with longing as he teasingly strokes it. "Yes…please, sir."
He doesn't torture either of us any longer and climbs up onto the bed. Straddling my chest, he places his long, hard cock between my tits. It's comforting and deliciously arousing feeling his weight on me and the heat of his skin against mine. He fondles my ample flesh before squeezing it around him.
"Hold them together. Just like this. Nice and tight."
I do as he says and he starts rocking his hips, sliding his dick back and forth, possessing that part of me as his own. Pre-cum oozes from the tip of his cock, making my tits even more slippery. I can't resist leaning forward and licking him as he emerges from my cleavage again and again.
His breath hitches and then he groans. "Fuck, you're a hot little slut."
Reaching back, his long fingers find my needy slit and start playing me with the same confidence and skill he uses on his guitar. As his thrusts become more forceful, his balls slapping the underside of my tits, he fucks two fingers deep inside me while his thumb strums my clit.
The sensations are overwhelming, my moans and his in perfect harmony, the pleasure building and building to a crescendo neither of us can resist.
"Come for me!"
And I do, wailing my release as he reaches his own. Growling, he gives one final hard thrust, spurting his climax all over my chest, neck, and chin. Writhing beneath him, I rejoice in him branding me with his cum, claiming me body and soul.
The aftermath of such intensity leaves us both sprawled out on the bed, panting as we recover.
Once we've caught our breath, he leans over and captures my lips with his own. His kiss is both tender and possessive. When he pulls away, he smiles at me and says, "Good girl."
And I know I'm his.
If only in my dreams.
* * *
