by T.M. Peters
(12/04/02)
Can you screw a dream? Can you lock it tightly inside your mind and hide it away in the secret creases of your soul? Does the dream call blindly when you aren't watching or listening and points its shaky finger at you, taunting, teasing you into weakness? Dreams are illusions that trick you and whisper to you until your blood boils and you can taste madness in your veins.
My eyes drifted to the wall. I was looking intently at the picture of the jazz legends hanging above the bed. I lost myself in dreamy images that night and never resurfaced. My mind drifted to smoky clubs and sensual, whining saxophones. He surprised me with his smoky voice and I thought Mr. Charlie Bird Parker himself had risen from the dead. He was sipping scotch. I hated scotch. I had noticed him earlier leaning against an overstuffed leather couch with smug Ivy League defiance oozing out of him. I hate Ivy Leaguers even more than scotch. He took my wine glass from me without saying a word and disappeared. He returned with a full glass of red wine. I remember the color of the wine -- a viscous blood red. I expected nothing. I wanted nothing from this man. I wanted my dream images. I wanted to return to my jazz babies on the wall.
The first time was pure, hard fucking. It was physical, animalistic heat. It was warm, strong hands grabbing my bare ass, my skirt around my ankles, panties down around my ankles and his cock jammed wildly inside me. That's how it needed to be the first time with us. My orgasm was fierce as we exploded together whilst the tinkling of glasses and canned party laughter faded in the background of our minds. I remember staring at the picture when he exploded inside me.
He mesmerized me. He haunted me. He preyed on every weakness and I fought him. I didn't want him. I could never resist. I always needed to push.
I enticed him at the library, deliberately distracting him from studying. I was such a bitch. I whispered delicious, naughty words. He punished me later at his apartment for my cock teasing. He left handprints on my creamy thighs. He took me roughly from behind and fucked me until I wanted to pass out from the sheer torment and pleasure of his cock. Sometimes he could be so beautiful and gentle. I cried when he loved me purely but I never told him.
I loved him boldly. I hated every second. I felt the burning inside my lungs, tearing my heart into wispy shreds. I was lazily flipping through the newspaper sipping my coffee when he arrived. I felt his eyes burn into me as he sat down opposite of me. I didn't even have to look up to feel our whirling, all-consuming sexual tension. I pretended not to notice him.
He pretended not to notice me and grabbed the sports section of the newspaper and leafed through it slowly.
I finally peaked over my newspaper and our eyes caught each other at the same time -- blue searing into brown heat.
I purred sweetly to him, "So can I persuade you to take me back to your apartment and fuck me for the rest of the day? If your schedule allows it, that is?"
He grabbed the newspaper away from me and pulling me closer to him, he kissed me hungrily and whispered in my ear, "It's been too long."
"Oh, it hasn't been that long. I'm sure you can recall how delicious my pussy feels against your mouth," I teased as my lips nibbled on his cold ear lobe.
"Get your ass out of that chair and back to my apartment," he ordered, pulling me out of the chair as I laughed and threw down the paper on the table.
We barely made it through the door. We were a tangle of arms and hands as we stumbled through the entryway. I was intoxicated and my brain felt fuzzy. Our mouths met roughly together.
He didn't waste any time as he pushed his right hand inside the front of my pants cupping my warm silk-clad pussy with his hand. His hand was gentle but his tongue was rough and hungry and he was moaning my name madly against my lips. He slipped his hand inside the elastic of my panties and when he touched my aching, wet pussy, I whimpered then breathed out his name in soft puffs.
I backed up against the wall to steady myself and he started to finger fuck me with an intensity that overpowered me. He filled me completely.
"Fuck me, please," I begged.
"Not yet. I want you to come for me this way. I want your ass grinding into that wall with my fingers inside you and I want you to come right now," he commanded as he drove his fingers deeper inside me. His thumb found my clit and was circling it torturously. I could feel my climax building.
I exhaled deliciously as he pinched my swollen clit. My body exploded. My juices poured out of me coating his fingers and hand and running down my inner thighs. My musky scent combined with my perfume hung heavy around us. My body gave out and I slumped against the wall. His body was pressed against me so hard that I felt like he was crushing me.
He crushed me. The dream crushed me. He aches for my madness and I long for his sanity. I don't remember that picture anymore. Maybe it was Charlie Bird Parker or was it Sarah Vaughn? It doesn't matter anymore. Dreams tear at the seams. Then they disintegrate and Life shakes us back to Earth.
