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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2007. Please
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Dreamscapes
by Pasego (pasego05@hotmail.com)
***
A girl is visited by a series of erotic dreams during a
long, lonely night. (Mf, ped, exh, mast, rom, dream)
***
Sleep experts claim that during an eight hour R.E.M
cycle the brain conjures twelve dreams a night on
average. However, these dreams are not usually the full
length movies but the trailers, and most if not all are
forgotten upon awaking. They do stay buried deep in the
subconscious and occasionally the smallest word, the
simplest visual, can bring back a snatch of them...
...The girl stands nude under the evergreen tree. She
is very petite, with small, pert breasts. She stands
with her arms raised above her head in seeming
invitation for something to come from the sky. I notice
that except for her long black hair and the small
matching triangle below, she is very pale; her skin is
almost milk white. The evergreen is a tall one, and
although it is a warm day, its boughs are heavily laden
with snow.
The wind picks up a little, causing the girl's hair to
blow about her shoulders and her nipples to harden into
erect little nubs. I have no idea who she is; if I saw
her walking down the street fully clothed, I would
never look twice in her direction. But now, right now
under that tree, I know she is magic. She is ageless.
The wind causes snow to drift down from the tree,
sending it fluttering silently around the girl.
Immaculately formed flakes land in her now disheveled
hair and stick there. She lowers her arms and the wind
settles, but the snow keeps falling from the tree.
She seems to notice me then, even though I know she has
been aware of my presence since the beginning. She
smiles and I take that as an invitation to come closer.
However, I stop in my tracks and watch silently again
as she cups her right hand to her breast. The left
buries itself between her legs and she closes her eyes
in complete nirvana. I know she is moaning, but I
cannot hear her and I slowly realize that I haven't
heard anything at all in this surreal landscape.
I wait patiently for her inevitable climax, enthralled
by the sight of her doing something so private in front
of me. She stiffens and begins to shake as the release
washes over her. I have so many questions to ask her
and begin to walk over to her once again. And again,
before I have taken more than a step, she disappears
and the entire world begins to blur...
...The room is shadowed in soft light and classical yet
dissonant music plays on the Wurlitzer in the corner in
true film noir fashion. I sit in a wicker chair facing
him. I can't see him in the dim light; I can just make
out his shadow. Looking to where I think his eyes might
be, I give him a small, secretive smile. I raise my
hand to my blouse and slip it down one side, exposing
my left shoulder. I sense him leaning forward in
anticipation. Instead of bearing the skin of my right
shoulder to him as well, I slowly unbutton the blouse
and slip it off completely.
There is no bra to follow it. I sit upright in the
chair, displaying my breasts to him for his attention,
his enjoyment, his approval. His hand comes forward out
of the gloom and rests gently on my right breast. He
squeezes it lightly, so lightly, but I still groan in a
strange mixture of agony and bliss. It is not just my
breast he has engulfed. It is my entire body and soul.
His mind reaches out and touches mine, our connection
is so deep there is no need for words. There is no
permission to seek. He knew long ago that with me there
would never be a need to ask.
His hand still resides on my breast as I slide off the
chair and onto the floor. The Wurlitzer skips almost
imperceptibly as it switches to a new groove in the
record. I don't recognize the new song, and yet in some
fundamental way I do. Still film noir, it is the type
of song played during love scenes in old movies.
Indeed, the world becomes black and white there on the
floor, the only color is the red lipstick I do not
remember applying. It transfers to his neck as he takes
me on the floor. Engulfs, consumes, and leaves nothing
but black, white, red, and pleasure...
...The girl lays flat on her back and smiles
beguilingly at the man who looks down at her prone
figure. His older age and her similarity to him in
appearance would suggest that he's her father. She is
naked except for a pair of light purple panties, which
apparently he finds very appealing because his hand
smoothes down her stomach and rests at the border. He
makes to slide under the elastic but she stops him by
grabbing his hand in both of hers.
Slowly, slowly she brings his hand to her lips and
kisses his palm. Then, quite deliberately, she puts his
finger in her mouth and sucks it gently. The man's eyes
flutter shut as her tongue slowly massages the
underside of his finger. He groans in frustrated lust
and mutters something cliché about not being able to
take it anymore. She ignores him and he tells her to
stop again, this time louder and more ominous.
As if in acquiescence to his request, she slides his
finger from her mouth. He makes to reclaim his hand but
she tightens her own and brings his wet finger to her
nipple. She starts rubbing his hand in circles over the
hard little bump, and it takes him a long time to
realize that she has let go of him and he is now
performing for her on his own. He stops.
"Turn over." The words are spoken more in a command
than a request, but she seems happy enough to oblige.
Her creamy back, with its light smattering of speckles
between the shoulder blades, is a visual treat.
However, it takes second place to the slight swell of
her panty clad bottom. Much as before, his hand flows
down her form to rest on that fabric barrier, and
suddenly he pats her there so hard it could be
considered a light spank.
An almost silent "oh" of surprise escapes her lips, and
she wiggles her bottom almost invitingly. He is not
discouraged. Again he spanks her, much harder this
time. She gasps and almost whimpers but that does not
deter him from his task. Again the hand comes down, and
again, and again. He gets a steady rhythm going and she
buries her face in the pillow as little "eh's" escape
her lips. "Eh, eh, eh," one for each smack delivered.
Eventually her father becomes dissatisfied with her
current predicament and forcefully slides her panties
down amidst cries of, "No, don't do that!" Apparently
though he can do that, and with a small flourish he
discards the panties over his shoulder. Exposed to the
room now is her heart shaped bottom, shaded a bright
red from the man's ministrations.
She knows instinctively to stay on her stomach for a
minute to let her father admire his work, but soon
enough she again turns onto her back. The view is
improved one hundred percent by that small mound of
tight curls glistening with moisture. So flushed is she
all over that had there been any doubt of her arousal,
it is swiftly discarded. She gives her daddy a "come
hither" smile and he is on her in a flash, releasing
his straining erection and burying it in her with an
ease that suggests he has been a visitor to this
particular receptacle for a long time.
She grinds her hips up to meet his thrusts and moans in
not entirely faked lust. As he slams her into the
mattress he never notices the single tear of regret and
determination that trickles silently down her face. Her
nine year old sister is playing in the room down the
hall, happily oblivious to her father's afternoon
perversions. As the teenager cries out in mortified
release and her father spills his seed deep inside her,
she can't help thinking, "the sacrifices one must make
for one's sister..."
...It's him again, but this time we've left the wicker
chair and Wurlitzer and are in the room of my
childhood. It is the picture of innocence; butterfly
wallpaper, stuffed animals, figurines on the shelves.
It looks like it was made for a twelve-year-old girl,
and at the time, it was. Maybe that's why we've never
had sex here, he and I, maybe subconsciously we didn't
want to dampen the innocence...or destroy it all
together.
But he's here now and I have other plans. I want to ask
him how he got here, but the idea is discarded as he
kisses me. He knows that all I've ever really desired
was this. To lie in bed with him and feel wanted. I nip
his lip with a daring I don't usually show and he
laughs softly. Instinctively his hand cups my breast,
and I put my hand over his, never intending to let him
go.
I do let him go though and his hand explores under the
covers until he finds my cleft. I whimper softly and
bury my face against his chest. My legs spread in
invitation and it takes him no time at all to locate
that little nub of flesh that resides between my legs.
He rubs it slowly, torturing me as he kisses me hard on
my neck, on my shoulders, on my breasts. His kisses
aren't the only hard thing, considering what I have
pressed up against my thigh.
The evidence of his arousal puts me over the edge and I
tremble so hard I figure I must surely break. His
finger still tarries on my clit but I can't stand for
him to continue, so grabbing his arm I put his hand
back on my breast. I'm still shivering in release as he
rubs the moisture from his ministrations into my
nipple, exciting it to the point of soreness.
Eventually the tremors pass and somewhat nervously I
reach down and grasp his erection. I feel him stiffen a
little but I do not stop rubbing it as I gain the
courage to tell him what I want. Finally the words come
out, much quieter than I intend but still there. "I
want this in me now... please. I..." I stop and blush
for a minute, feeling ridiculous.
He does not prod me to continue and I feel tears come
to my eyes for the love I feel for this man. It gives
me the courage to go on.
"I want to have your baby." There, I said it. It was
corny, but maybe sometimes corny is underrated. If he
thinks my plebeian dialogue is ridiculous he doesn't
say so. Gently removing my hand from his erection, he
turns and positions himself between my legs. I don't
realize I'm holding my breath until I exhale it upon
him entering me.
The world narrows to the feel of him inside me, to our
heavy breathing and the whimpers I can't seem to stop
making. He stiffens slightly and as his gift hits my
walls, I pray that it will go where it needs to be.
Still buried to the hilt, he leans down and gives me
another kiss. I feel sophisticated and mature with him
up inside me... I feel like such a little girl...
...I jerk awake in my bedroom, the one from my
childhood. In the delirious aftermath of my dreams I
turn to him, only to find that he is not there. Reality
comes crashing back as I realize he is still thousands
of miles away, probably sleeping by now in his own bed,
having his own dreams. Tears threaten but I blink them
back furiously. There is no point in self pity. I am in
aching need of release, but I ignore that too.
No self stimulation could ever be satisfying enough
after that dream, after being so close to a different
reality. I settle back on my pillow and without
realizing it, my hand rests on my stomach and starts to
rub the emptiness there. I drift off to sleep and if
another eight dreams are conjured, I don't remember
them upon waking.
Copyright 2007 Pasego
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 49