The two of them were at the breakfast table as usual, the sun coming in. “I dreamt about you last night,” she said.
“Oh?” He looked at her uncomfortably and asked the question he couldn't resist. “What did I do?”
“Well, it wasn't so much a question of what you did as what I did.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Yes, it was one of those dreams.”
“Did I — I mean, did you—”
“It was in some kind of palace where I was the queen. Tamara was there, too. And you were — listen, should I be telling you this? You look sort of nervous.”
Tamara? Their daughter? He coughed guiltily. “No, go ahead.”
“You were one of my servants. I had you kneel in front of me with a big fan — the kind made of feathers — to cool me off. The fan was enormous, and purple for some reason.”
“Purple. Yes, dreams are weird like that.”
“Then I ordered you to take a feather and glide it all over me from head to foot. You stroked me and curled it all around, you know, my, um, nipples, and my—.” She stopped, a little flushed. “Well, anyway. One of those dreams, you know?”
He nodded. He had no idea why women told men these things, and it wasn't the first time a woman had told him she'd had an erotic dream about him. Why did they do that?
Obviously, telling her the one he'd had last week, the one where he was buried in Tamara's oiled cunt, watching the girl lick the swollen pussy of his bitch of a boss, who was strung naked from the branch of a tree, would have to wait for another time.
Like maybe in another life.