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From: "Pee J" <pee.j@virgin.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} I Dreamed Last Night (FM, old flame) { PeeJ}
Date: Wed, 31 Dec 2003 05:10:04 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Dreamer.txt" begin>
WARNING
This is a story intended for adults. If the lawmakers of your land
think you are too young to read such material, then please go and find
something else to do. You may be able to smoke (and in the long term
that may well cause to die a horrible death), get married and even die
for your country, but if your laws say you are to young then you are
too young. Also, if you are to believe my father after he discovered
my stash of girly pics hidden under the floorboards of my bedroom,
reading (and what follows from reading and looking at) such things
will harm your eyesight.
I Dreamed Last Night
(FM, old flame)
By PeeJ
Copyright 2003
pee.j@virginSPAM.net (please remove the SPAM)
I dreamed about you last night. You and I, sometime lovers whose
paths now rarely cross, yet you were there in my sleep and I wanted
you.
In my slumber I hear the phone ring. With an effort I stretch out my
hand and pick up the phone. The bedside clock blinks 6.24. It is not
yet light. Not yet six-thirty on a Saturday morning! Who would . . .
Oh, no. Panic. Not someone ill - or worse.
Then your voice, I always recognise it immediately, anywhere, even
when I'm heavy with sleep. Another panic. You don't sound in
trouble, but you always bear your problems stoically, no wearing your
heart on your sleeve, but this time perhaps . . . A tiff with a
lover maybe, you need a shoulder to cry on? I try to drag myself out
of my muzzy half-asleep state. You want to come round? Now? To
talk? But it is early morning, it's Saturday, no one is up at this
time unless one has to be up, surely.
The penny drops. Of course, you've spent the night with someone.
Huh! Slightly strange, as usually you take them back to your place,
you don't all that often go to theirs. Come to think of it though,
you often spent the night here with me. You seemed to find it
comfortable . . . with me. You used to come round during the day,
too. Sometimes we would stick together with sweat; sometimes there
was so much sweat that it lubricated our bodies as we ground together.
We generated lots of other liquid which slicked those other places.
No need for artificial supplements for us, not ever! But remember the
scented massage oils? Crème de Menthe for you, Almond Essence for me.
We had such fun with those!
Now it is rare for you to come round at any time. Perhaps I should
feel honoured you have decided to come round. I am pleased, in spite
of the hour. Yes, definitely, very pleased. Just like old times. I
will get up and make some preparations - something to show that I am
happy to see you, glad, even at this unearthly hour.
At one time you had a key, but that was long ago. I set the door on
the latch, it looks as though it is locked but a push will open it. I
often used to leave the door that way when I expected you at night or
in the early morning when you came off shift at the hospital, and I
know you will try it without ringing the bell. Old times. I put out
big fluffy towels in the bathroom. Green, your colour. I set out
candles, some scented, and light them to guide your way to the
bedroom. Where else.
The bottle of Champagne I always keep in the fridge I open and seal it
with a stopper so it is ready for later, and together with two crystal
flutes place them beside the bed. I slide back under the covers and
wait. The duvet wraps around me and hugs me close. With the
anticipation of your arrival and the warmth, the intimacy is sweet. I
close my eyes and doze.
I hear the moment the outer door opens and you steal in. I pretend to
still be asleep, but of course I have been awake from the moment you
opened the door; all the time tracking your every move.
You do not call out when you enter the bedroom. I am facing away from
you. I remain still, feigning sleep. I hear the rustle of clothing
being removed. I hold my breath in anticipation.
Still you say nothing. You slip under the covers. You cuddle up to
my naked body, moulding yourself to my back, every part of you
touching every part of me. Your soft skin delighting me. Your hands
roam over me, my back, my front. I breathe in your freshness, the
fragrance of your hair, a trace of perfume.
I perceive another odour, quite unmistakable. Sex. You've just been
with someone! I wonder if it is a man or woman. Knowing your
preferences, it could well be a woman. Just the thought of you being
here is always arousing. Then your actual arrival increases my
arousal. To realise that you have just had sex with someone and have
now come to me, raises my excitement to long-forgotten heights.
I wonder if you just want comfort, companionship, or if you want sex,
more sex, like the old times when you used to come round. You have
not tried to hide the odour emanating from you, and you are doubtless
aware that undressing has released these powerful scents and that I
will have picked up on them. You want me to know. You want me to
know that others think you are desirable, as though I could have any
doubts about that.
Are you deliberately turning me on? Of course you are. How could I
have though otherwise. You are waiting for my reaction.
Your hands settle on my belly and then lower, find my mat triangle,
and then fractionally further down you discover that my pretence at
sleep is revealed as being just that, a pretence. That part of me
betrays me. The touch of your hands is exquisite. I realise I have
stopped breathing. I gasp for air.
Then you start the teasing as only you know how, just like you have
done so many times in the past, often leaving me frustrated, but
making me enjoy every second. Your teasing is, as ever, relentless.
My breathing becomes ragged, but today it is the tacit rule is that I
continue the pretence of sleep.
When I start to gasp, you bite my shoulder, remembering that is my
most sensitive spot, then when everything has gone beyond all possible
pretence, you rake my back with your nails. My back arches and I cry
out and only then do I admit to being awake and turn to you - then . .
. then you keep me at my distance, holding me away and continue your
remorseless teasing until perhaps just a touch, from you, from me, and
. . .
I know anything is likely to be enough for me to lose control. You
have always liked me losing control while under your influence. I
often indulged you. I liked you taking the initiative, teasing me,
making me wait. Power, I suppose. I vaguely wonder if you like doing
that with your new lovers. Not a question I need to ask. That part
of you hasn't changed. You like the domme role . . . sometimes.
Your hand captures mine and guides it between your legs. The moisture
there is incredible. You force my fingers deeper so they are immersed
in your wetness. This is not just wetness, it is the liquor of sex.
I wonder if some of it is a man's, your recent lover. Perhaps. No,
not perhaps, certainly it must at least be mixed with another's
saliva. If she's come from a man, it will also be his raw shissom.
Sex for you is hardly sex, is never complete, unless both yours and
your lover's nether and facial lips meet and exchange fluids. You
always maintained that the tongue was the most potent weapon in the
sex armoury. You frequently proved it. Yours on mine, mine on yours,
we were both equally obsessed.
You say nothing. Words are unnecessary, superfluous spellbreakers.
You will want me to do something with my slicked fingers; you will
have something in mind. Probably you will at least want me to suck
them. Will you want to taste my fingers, to suck on them? You will
not have forgotten how much it excites me when you twirl your tongue
round my fingers when they've been inside you. Will you want to
transfer your wetness to between my own legs? Perhaps you will want
all three, you know I won't object, that I will relish whatever you
decide.
For the moment you just want more. You are keeping my hand there,
rhythmically pushing my fingers into you. I take up the cadence, no
longer needing your guidance. Your hand remains over mine, barely
touching, supervising my movements, ready to take over should I
falter. I won't. There will come a moment, though, when either you
will guide one of my fingers to your most sensitive spot, or you will
slip your own fingers under mine and I will feel you take command of
the final charge to the end of the rainbow, where that most personally
rapturous of all crocks of gold awaits you.
Our two hands become one. Which finally does what ceases to matter.
They combine to take you to where you want to go, your Nirvana. The
one, the other - they both meld then melt into you. They, you, your
fingers, mine, are as one.
Your palpable and unmistakable pleasure becomes my own. At this
moment your needs are greater than mine. You have satisfied me by
your arrival, by being here, by coming. My turn can come later. For
the moment you are satisfied and that for me, for now, is all I need.
I have shared in your pleasure, I have been able to give of myself to
you. I am satisfied. I am content with the warm, enveloping glow
that pervades me, a reflection of your own fulfilment.
If you look you will see the smile on my face.
For now I want and need nothing more.
The Champagne? Forgotten and not required.
Finis
Copyright PeeJ 2003
pee.j@virginSPAM.net (please remove the SPAM)
<1st attachment end>
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