Author's disclaimer: Not mine, all theirs, blah, blah.
Author's notes: A PWP. For Miriam, the bestest beta a woman could want. And feed me back if you've got a minute, 'k?
So I used to dream about women.
Okay, so I used to dream about women a lot.
In my very earliest fantasies, I used to dream about just seeing and maybe touching them —
— hey, look, whaddya want, I was eleven, okay? and a glimpse of thigh seemed like the sexiest thing in the universe. Smooth thigh leading up up up to — well — maybe the tiniest sliver of cotton panty. God, the thought still makes me shudder. Cotton panties, the round, silky firmness of a breast, the feel of soft lips on mine. Holy wow.
You know, in a weird way, I'm just full of nostalgia for those early wet dreams. Nothing ever really happened in them, but I still came my hormone-addled brains out.
But eventually, you know, you get more sophisticated and your standards get higher — you get past the thigh-touching and up to the panties and then suddenly the panties are wet (which is a very nice stage to be at) and then you finally have dreams where you actually get into them. Into the panties, into the women, into everything — in your head, anyway. And man, oh man, the sure-fire unadulterated pleasure of that.
And then you're into positions — front, back and sideways — and then you start adding appetizers and desserts to the main course — she's blowing you off, you're sucking her off — and then you maybe flirt a little with the kinky stuff. And you do the bondage scenario, and the she's-a-slut scenario, and the I'm-a-slut scenario, and the toys, and the whipped cream, and then there's the multiples: I mean, if two breasts are great, why not four or six or eight? Hey, it's my party, right? And why shouldn't I be chained to the ground and successively fucked by a series of Egyptian priestesses? I mean, it's their ritual, right? and I am nothing if not culturally respectful.
But then you get jaded, and eventually you end up picking a few, favorite, fail-safe fantasies. Mine tend to focus around sex in unexpected spaces and places: "Hi — can I get two tacos with rice and beans and — ohhhhhhh!"
You can fill in the blanks on that one for yourself.
But that was before everything changed, before my whole life got turned upside-down. See, I was working on a rather abstract academic study on Sentinels — the subject seemed harmless enough at the time. I was sort of like those people who collect Lionel trains — except then I got hit with an actual train.
Named Jim Ellison.
Within a month I had a new job, a new home, and a new personal best for long distance running.
Continual exposure to armed psychotics will do that to you.
So my real life changed entirely: why not my fantasy life?
It took a while, but eventually I stopped having my Taco-Bell dreams and started having another one. And this one was a hoot — it goes like this:
I come home from the U. late on a typical evening. The loft is sort of dim — but that isn't surprising, because when Jim's home all alone he tends to go a little light on light, so to speak. Why waste electricity when you can dial up for free, right? So whatever — I think nothing of it. I drop my backpack by the door, take off my coat, hang it up on the hook — and then I hear this little moan.
It's a soft, breathy sound — light, airy, and distinctively feminine. I stop short in surprise and instinctively look up toward Jim's bedroom — I mean, it's not every day that Jim brings someone home. Jim is, in fact, surprisingly restrained for a good-looking guy in the prime of life. But hey, it sounds like he's got a woman up there: this, you have to understand, is an event.
Now here's where you know this is a fantasy. Real life? — I'm seventeen shades of purple, I'm grabbing my coat off the hook, I'm thinking: where I can go and how fast can I get there? I'm flashing guilt for being in the guy's space, I'm wondering why the hell I live there anyway, I'm feeling like an intruder of the first magnitude — and I'm playing out this whole internal freak-out scenario while trying to hold my breath and stop my heart from beating so that I don't blip on the human radar upstairs.
That's the probable real life response, but this ain't real life, here. This is a Technicolor movie directed by that great porn auteur: My Subconscious — and so I don't run like hell.
I go upstairs.
Utterly improbable this may be, but still, it's what happens. I move across the darkened living room quietly, and then I'm standing at the foot of the stairs. And then I hear another little feminine gasp — and it's like it pushes me into motion, pulls me up the stairs, and I am climbing. I'm going up, step by step, into the dimly lit bedroom, into Jim's private space.
And I'm still a couple steps from the top when I get the picture — and boy, let me tell you, it nearly knocks me back down the staircase. Because from the dim light of the bedside lamp I can see — Jim. I can see Jim. Jim and a woman. This woman — this redhead — this — this —
I think the word I'm looking for here is, um — Amazon.
Now I should probably say that, while it's true that Jim doesn't go for it real often, when he does he — well, he pulls women that are totally out of my league. Man, you've got to see the women that Jim pulls — they're a foot taller than I am and wall-to-wall natural resources, if you follow me — breasts and hips and legs and thighs like you wouldn't believe — they're like fucking national parks, these women that Jim pulls.
And so he's got this woman up there, one of these big, beautiful women that he pulls, and he's kneeling between her thighs and the light from the lamp is casting these weird, flickering shadows across his chest. And she moans a little, a breathy moan, and turns her head towards me, and she's beautiful, man — she is totally fucking beautiful — but she's not looking at me, she can't see me, she can't see anything, really, because she looks like she's on her 17th orgasm — which really doesn't surprise me at all.
Because, in my experience, when Jim finally puts his mind to something, he is a pretty determined guy.
And he looks like he's put more than his mind to her.
He's kneeling between her legs, and he's probably come a couple of times himself already, because he's going at her nice and slow, thrusting in with a languorous controlled pace that's making her tremble and shudder and moan like that. And then he looks up and sees me — he sees me — and for a moment I'm acutely embarrassed, for just a moment the fantasy scenario doesn't quite hold up and I'm really aware that I'm standing at the top of the stairs in his bedroom watching him have sex, which is just no position to be in, you know?
But Jim just looks at me, and then a slow smile crosses his face, and a bead of sweat frees itself from his hairline and trickles down his face, and he just looks at me in this weird way — and then he looks down at the woman he's doing, and then looks back up at me and says — (get this) — : "Do you want her, Chief?"
Wow! bang! jiminy! it's like I've been hit in the head with a two by four, and I can't even say anything for a moment, my cock is so hard and I'm breathing so hard — and then I'm nodding, I'm nodding like mad — because oh yeah do I want her, I want her more than life, more than anything — and he pulls back and pulls out and makes a sort of 'come hither' gesture with his hand and then I'm moving forward, scrambling onto the bed (though god only knows where I get the guts — but it's my fantasy, my fantasy, okay?), and then there's three of us there, now, together.
Jim vacates the area between her legs and moves over to her left side. I kneel between her legs and unzip my pants and my fingers are trembling and wow, the view from here is just incredible, because this woman is, because she is like, so out of my league — she is just the kind of woman that I could never get — big and strong and so beautiful — like, she'd just look right over my head and not even see me down here — and you know, jumping up and down and waving is just like not a sexy way to present yourself.
But here she is, and because it's my fucking fantasy, literally and figuratively, she looks happy to see me.
Presumably I'm the relief duty.
But I'm hard and I want it badly, want her badly, want to give her that 18th orgasm — and so I slide into her and try to follow what Jim was doing, long and slow, but I just can't manage it — I can't help it, it feels so good and she's so beautiful and I want her so badly — and I'm jerking into her, humping her with some weird mixture of desperation and enthusiasm, and I look over at Jim and —
Jim is lying on his side next to her, next to us, watching, and he's damnably relaxed, completely cool and collected, and he's touching himself as he watches — his hand slides gently down over his muscular chest and back up again, and then his hand moves downward and he's stroking his cock lightly, slowly, just teasing himself, totally in control —
— and then the woman I'm in moans —
— and I moan, I can't help it —
— and Jim smiles at me —
— and it's this more than anything else, more than the woman's shuddering, eighteenth orgasm beneath me, more than the feel of her silky thighs under my hands, more than the way her face looks, sweating and contorted with pleasure as she twists her face away — that undoes me completely.
And I can't keep my head up, it's just too heavy now, and I let it fall backward, and I close my eyes, and I come. I come hard, harder than I can ever remember.
And when I wake up, I've come in real life too — come all over my sheets, all over my belly, and my body feels like mush: totally sated.
Ounce for ounce, the best dream ever.
Now I don't need some ninety-dollar-an-hour shrink to tell me what that's all about, even if I could afford one, which I can't. I've got a fairly analytical turn of mind, and clearly this particular dream illustrates more than my general horniness and desire to fuck somebody taller than myself. I mean, I'm not so stupid that I can't see that this dream is more about Jim than about Wonder Woman, whomever she is. I'm perfectly aware that this scenario exemplifies and magnifies a whole crazy hodgepodge of feelings about Jim and this whole crazy situation I'm in with him. Because that's what dreams do, right?
I mean think about it: what happens here? I barge not only into his life and his job and his home (as in real life) but also into his bedroom, his bed, and his woman. And I'm sure there's not just a little wish-fulfillment there — because the dream actually has me pinch-hitting for him — in this case, sexually. It's a form of hero-worship, I'm sure — I mean, how much more can you want to be in someone's place, someone's space, than this? I mean, it's good to want to be on the team — but this is ridiculous, right?
And I also recognize that there's not a little passive-aggression towards Jim in this whole scenario. I mean, I'm fucking his woman while he watches fergodssake! I mean, sure, he invites me to, but still it's not very nice. No way that Hallmark makes a Thank-You card for this occasion.
So it's a complex group of feelings that I'm playing out here: admiration, allegiance, appreciation, aggression. And I know that these are feelings I have for Jim, and I'm just projecting them across the beautiful body of a woman. Hell, I even know the technical word for it — it's called triangulation — where you end up expressing your feelings about another person through a third person, through someone else.
Perfectly normal stuff. Dead reasonable under the circumstances. It's been a wild couple of years.
Doesn't mean anything.
Except that now my dreams are changing again.
The beginning part of the new one's the same — I come home, it's night, it's dark. I drop the backpack, hang up the coat, go up the stairs —
— and there's just Jim there.
And it's just like in the other dream, except there's no beautiful woman there, no beautiful woman between us. There's just Jim, lying on his side, looking at me — and he's touching himself, hand sliding gently over his sweaty chest, playing with his nipples.
Damnably relaxed, completely cool and collected, totally in control.
And he smiles.
And he makes the 'come hither' gesture with his hand.
And I go to him.
And I move into his arms, and I let him put his hands on me (okay: so I beg him to put his hands on me) and I make love to him, I make love with him, and I'm kissing him and touching him and going crazy out of my mind with the pleasure of it — and the funny thing is that, even in the midst of it, even as I'm licking and sucking the bulging muscles of his arms, I'm wondering: what the hell's the matter with me? That's what I'm thinking, even as I'm fucking his navel with my tongue. Except, even then, in the dream: I know.
I already know, really.
Because he's beautiful: because he's tall and gorgeous and he's got washboard abs. And he's a cop, and he's authoritative, and he's smart and he's kind, and —
He's Jim and I'm in love with him and I want him.
And I wake up hard, and I wake up crying, and I've got answers, and answers — and questions.
Because I've got a fairly analytical turn of mind, and so hey, I know what it means.
I just don't know what to do about it.
I don't know what to do. Not at all.