Dreams are a discombobulated mess, always. The ones that I happen to play a part in, that is. I have the occasional "film" dream, which is laid out for me in a theatrical format, comprised of people I don't know and scenarios I've never lived, played out in my mind as if I'm in a private screening. . . but that's another story.
I dreamt the other night of a darkened room; the sounds and sensations being multiplied as compensation. I felt as if I were surrounded by velvet; a soft cushion underneath and to my sides. I was sunken in to a cradle of warmth, wearing nothing to keep the feeling from my bare skin. I felt the cooler air upon my shoulders and face, the velvet underneath me, and the hot skin of a beautiful boy held nearly weightlessly on top of me, my legs spread and pressed against his hips.
In this state, I let my mind go, being drawn in by the touch of this lover's fingertips down my sides and up my neck, and the caress of those same fingers across my jawbone in a path to my lips. I was completely blind to my surroundings, and was forced to identify every sensation felt by texture alone. The soft wetness of lips against mine, against my cheek, against my neck, against my breast, surrounding my nipple. The rougher feeling of a hand as it grasped my thigh, my hip, slid up my stomach, found the back of my head. The feeling of a wet tongue sliding between my lips and around my tongue, behind my ear, down my chest, down my stomach, and the cool trail it left in its path.
The hot breath of a frantic-yet-calculated lover upon every surface of my body.
Now, being a dream, everything is a little different. Logic is lost, and feelings are multiplied. Feelings of hot breath between my wide-spread legs became more intense than anything I'd ever felt, and the touch of hands around my thighs became so warm I felt as if I were melting into my underlying velvet. I felt his hair as it brushed occasionally across my inner thigh, sending my body into convulsions. I felt his fingertips dig into the flesh of my legs, and it felt so real I know that I was gasping in my sleep.
But it was that breath, that hot expelled stream of air that made my sheets wet that night.
To feel a concentrated stream of hot air between my thighs, centering directly on the point which drives any woman mad with passion, was more than euphoric for me in this dream-state. Fuck. . . this boy's
breath felt more intense and more satisfying than anything I'd felt in a long time, if ever, for that matter. And it was a dream. . . which always effects conscious hope and fantasy upon waking, through sheer memory alone.
I came harder from that dream than I have in I don't know how long, actually. An immeasurable passage of time. In fact, with every recollection, I feel my stomach muscles tighten, and blood rush down between my legs. A recent phone convesation is a definite contender, though I'm not sure which one entirely wins out. All formality aside, remembering that dream makes me so hot I can feel my pulse in my clit. And that boy should feel privileged
