A Dream Story

So, nobody in this story is real, they're in a dream. But even in the dream they're adults. Fairly consenting ones too!

Do I even want to remember this? Can I make a story out of it? There's so little left of this dream now. I can remember what she looked and sounded like. I remember what she was wearing, and how I felt. I can remember what we were talking about, in the sense that we knew one another, and that I knew she'd been the victim of some sort of assault. I felt somehow responsible, but she believed that there was nothing that I could have done to prevent it. But I don't remember the specifics of it, so I don't know if I had any real responsibility for what happened to her.

I've dreamed of her before. I know that much for sure. Or at least, I knew I'd dreamed of her before in the dream, which is in itself odd. In the house, as I walked toward the room I knew I would find her in, I felt a pervasive guilt and grief. The guilt was mine, the grief, perhaps hers. Perhaps it was something I projected onto the space, knowing she'd been hurt. Regardless, I felt the place to be steeped in sadness, a feeling I forgot at the first sight of her. My breath hitched, and my lips parted, seeing her.

She was beautiful. Her blond hair was styled, gathered high on her head and then descending fetchingly in waves and curls. When she saw me, she smiled warmly and approached with quick girlish prancing footsteps, raising her arms for an embrace.

"I didn't think you'd get here so early," she said breathily, holding me close.

She stepped back, letting me take a proper look at her. She wore a slinky, charcoal grey, silk evening dress; it clung to the shape of her, draped like a second skin on her youthful, curving frame. The neckline plunged rather provocatively in the way of modern dresses, but the coarseness of the age was blunted by the modest size and firmness of her young bosom. She'd been in the sun recently, too long from the redness of her skin. She was otherwise unblemished and perfect, and her smile revealed no sign of her trauma.

"I wouldn't have delayed. I should have been here--" I stammered, but she silenced me with a gesture.

"You can't be with me all the time. You have a life. A family. A wife," she said, looking down. "It's not your fault."

She was breathtaking, something I wish I could put out of my mind. She was so young, early 20s, I thought. And she'd had... it, whatever it was, happen to her. And here I was, my chest tight with longing. I wasn't expecting the dress. The hair. It was all too much. I should have felt shame at wanting her so, after what she'd been through. Instead, I was gaping at her as she stood, framed in the archway, resting her head against the jamb, looking up at me from under her fringe of blond hair.

We made eye contact, her deep blue eyes seizing mine, reading something of my longing, I believe. She grinned shyly, or was it teasingly? She rested her hand on my chest.

I put my hands to my face, hoping to rub some sense into myself.

She took my wrists, pulling my hands away. She stepped closer once more, looking up at me.

"It's ok," she said quietly. "I want you to."

I took her small, smooth hands in my own large, rough ones, held them gently. "Want me to what?" I asked, incredulously.

She looked down, shy once more, "I want you to look at me. I like it. I like that you want me," She looked up once more, her eyes wet. "I like you."

I pulled her close, held her head against my chest. The smell of her, a light scent enhancing rather than masking the scent of her womanly body, her hair. It was intoxicating. I pressed my lips to her head, not kissing, exactly, just feeling. Wrapping my arms around her, I felt the young soft skin of her back shiver under my touch. I hadn't realized it was a backless dress. She was warm, her skin smooth and flawless.

"You're not half my age," I muttered into her hair. "And you've been--"

"Don't say it. I don't want to think about it," she interrupted.

"Ok. But still, it's wrong of me, and I'm sorry," I chuckled ruefully, "You're just too beautiful."

She squirmed against me, shifting her position and raising her face into my neck next to my beard. She kissed the stubble there gently, breathing into the crook of my neck.

"And I'm married..." I said weakly. We both knew that my honor was a thin thing to hang her virtue from.

"And I like your wife," she said huskily, pulling me lower so that she could continue kissing her way up my neck to my ear. "But I need you right now. I think," she panted, pressing her body against mine, "I think she'd understand."

Of their own accord, my hands were skimming up and down the curves of her back, my fingers rolling over her delicate shoulders one moment, stroking the swell of her hip and ass the next. Her breath caught as my hands plunged along the curve of the base of her spine.

She actually grabbed my beard and pulled my head down for a kiss. I moved with her, rolling her back around the jamb so that I could press against her, pinned against the wall. My hands grabbed her firmly by her frankly delicious ass, pulling her against my manhood, trying to relive some of the need by grinding myself into her. Her kiss tasted like she looked, young and fit and beautiful, vital. When our kiss broke, she was moaning lightly with her breath.

"I've wanted to do that for years," she admitted, grinning up at me. Inside I recoiled, her words echoing something my wife had said once, long ago. She lifted her leg up alongside mine, pressing her sex against me in her own need. Before I could rally around my newfound reluctance, she kissed me once more.

I hadn't done anything like this with anyone but my wife in a very long time. Some things were profoundly different, her shape, her voice, her hair, the smell of her breath. Some things were wonderfully the same, the thrill of a woman's flesh pressed against me, the feel of her cupped in my hands, the irresistible excitement of hearing a woman's panted desire in my ear. I grasped her breast, gently but firmly. Her breasts were small, certainly smaller than my wife's. They were firm, and when I placed my hands upon them, she gasped, they were apparently much more sensitive as well, even through her dress and bra.

I pushed myself away, finally, leaving her panting, leaning bonelessly against the wall. "I can't do this to you. You've been through too much already. I came here to help, not to take advantage of you."

She smacked the wall angrily, hard enough to make an audible slap, and growled in frustration, raising her head to stare angrily at the ceiling. "Great. That asshole rapes me, takes my virginity. Now I want to have something nice, something I wanted to happen to think about instead, and this is what you do," tears spilled down her face, "I fucking wanted it to be you, you know? My first," she wiped the tears from her eyes. "I should have seduced you last year, when we still worked together."

I was glad she hadn't. She could have, and I wouldn't have had any excuse. This, what had just happened, well, tensions were high.

I found myself stepping toward her, to comfort her. She was my daughter's age, and well, paternal instincts and all. Never mind whatever other feelings I might have had for her; my heart ached for her. She turned away as I reached out, and swept from the room, her long slender legs flashing through the high slits in the sides of her dress. Even now, I couldn't help noticing.

I followed her, and then it was my turn to lean in the opening, watching her walk up the stairs.

"Sarah," I said to her, no real idea what else I should say.

She paused, turning her head so that I could hear her, but not enough to look at me. "Go home Geoff."

"I... look, I want..." I stammered.

She turned, looking at me now, her eyes red-rimmed. "Thank you for coming. Really. But I want to be alone now," and she turned away, continuing upstairs.

I watched her go. She walked with sure strides, not the hesitant steps of someone unsure of what she wants. I suppose I should be grateful. Every middle-aged man dreams of fucking someone thirty years younger, but I had a good life, with good kids and a good woman. I'm not sure that I really believed cheating was a big deal, but I did know I'd never had a secret from my wife, and I didn't want one. I didn't want to be fifty and divorced, chasing after women to ease my shame and loneliness, trying to find a way to bridge the gap I'd created between myself and my kids.

I made it as far as the stoop before I stopped. This was the part of the fantasy that always led me to question my own character. Sure, you could say no, but would you ever get the chance to say yes again? Upstairs was a sad young woman wanting something from me that I'd refused to give. I had been right to refuse, but I wasn't happy about having done the right thing. I was filled with regret that I hadn't stayed with her. I wanted her, pure and simple. In point of fact, I'd briefly fantasized that something like this might happen on the way over and been disgusted with myself.

I looked back into the house. If I went back in there, I wouldn't be doing it for her. I'd be doing it because I wanted to feel young again. To feel that thrill of a new romance, a new lover. My wife and I had great sex, knew every inch of each other's bodies, and knew what we wanted. There was no shame or pretense between us. I wouldn't trade what we had for anything, but yet... I wanted to feel myself plunge into her lithe, young body.

I turned away from the cool night air, closing the door behind me. I walked up the stairs, each twinge in my knees calling me a fool.

I'd never been in this house, yet in dream logic, I never questioned which door was hers. I never wondered how she afforded such a beautiful home. I simply turned right at the top of the stairs, passed a door, and opened the one at the end of the hall on the left.

She sat at the edge of a queen-sized bed, hands at her sides, palms down on the comforter. Her feet, bare, on the hardwood floor. Details of the room were hazy, a desk with a computer, wardrobe, windows. I only had eyes for her.

I pulled the door closed as I walked over to her. I leaned down to kiss her. Her face was unreadable, but she kissed me back. I knelt before her, a process that took far longer and was more awkward than it should have been, because of my knees. I rolled my eyes and sighed, and she laughed at me, the first animation from her I'd seen since I came back.

I should have said something. Asked her if she still wanted me, or if she was sure. I didn't. I'd admitted to myself that this was something I wanted, that I was doing it for me. I would have stopped if she'd asked, I'm not a monster and she'd... well. She didn't deserve to have anything happen to her that she didn't want. But I wasn't about to invite ambivalence. At this point, if she wanted to change her mind, she'd have to tell me.

Instead, I pushed the front of her dress to the side, and ran my hands under it, along her knees, her thighs, prizing her legs apart with my face, running my lips in hungry kisses along the inside of her thighs.

Oh god, she was amazing. Perfect. Her skin was smooth and cool, until I approached the juncture of her legs. There, it was hot, her trembling revealing her desire more clearly than mere words could have done. She ran her hands through my hair. My hands traced the swell of her hips as my lips neared her sex, clad in simple pale blue cotton panties. Her legs parted for me, making room for me to explore, as with one hand I pushed her down onto the bed. She moaned slightly as my lips strafed her pussy. There was little scent to her there, she must have showered right before I came. Still, that clean girlish smell was enough.

My hands gripped the waistband of her panties and pulled them down her legs, gently, slowly. Every second touching her tight flesh a pleasure, there was no need to rush. She was helping me, pulling her feet from them and immediately spreading her legs, gently running her feet along my arms and shoulders.

Grasping her behind her taught bottom, I pulled her to the edge of the bed and leaned in to taste her sex. Her voice, higher and wispier than my wife's, ahhhed in satisfaction as I stoked her clit with my tongue. The taste of a woman. Different, yet the same. It was certainly easier to get at her than my wife, since Sarah's thighs weren't quite as well acquainted as my wife's. I was pleased to find her every bit as responsive, writhing under my ministrations. She tried to participate; I'll give her that. Running her hand through my hair or her feet along my back, but then the waves of pleasure would distract or enervate her, and she'd stop, lost in the moment.

Me, I focused on the work. I won't lie to you, I find this part a little boring. I know I'm going to be here for awhile, and it's tiring. She squirmed delightfully, and I enjoyed how her hips bucked under me as I lashed her with my tongue. But I wanted to explore the rest of her, and frankly I wanted to fuck her, and this was somewhat less interesting than all that. But I figured she deserved a good solid orgasm for her trouble, and I was determined to deliver.

Her panting became whining, moaning. Subtle, not the affected squealing of porn. The sound of a woman in passion is something that I cannot resist, and were my hands not busy holding Sarah's bucking hips, I'd want to stroke myself. As it was, as she neared her orgasm, it was getting hard to keep myself on target.

"Ohhhh," she gasped, going rigid, "Don't stop, don't..." As if I would. This wasn't the first time I'd done this. Her thighs squeezing my head, my hands at least were free to stroke her legs and sides as I drove my tongue against the swollen nub.

When she relaxed, I pulled back and began pulling my shirt off. In my eagerness I briefly got tangled in my suspenders. (Yes suspenders, they're comfortable. I haven't needed to be fashionable for years, ok?)

She rose from the bed and began pulling her dress over her head. As I watched the rising hemline reveal a perfect body, I knew a moment of shame. I'd gone a few beers and a lot of cheeseburgers past dad-bod. I stood, ignoring the pain in my knees, stiff from kneeling before this sublime and sexy creature. As she tossed her dress aside, clad only in a thin brassier, I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her deeply. She moaned into my mouth, and walked backward toward the bed, trying to pull me back with her as she fell back onto it. But I stayed put, shedding my pants before joining her. She undid her bra with the deftness only women seem capable of, tossing it aside and then cutely hiding her breasts for a moment, before revealing them to my eyes. I stood there rampant, erection bobbing under my broad and overhanging belly. She blushed to see me inspecting her, which was ever so much better than jeering at me.

As I climbed onto the bed, she crawled back toward the pillows, making room for me. I ran my lips along her body hungrily, sliding between her legs as I took her nipple into my mouth, bracing myself with one arm while my hand held her other breast, stroking the nipple with my thumb. I'd forgotten how sensitive her breasts were, she was panting and groaning again, pushing her chest up at me. Her legs rose around me, pulling my hips to hers, my hard cock coming to rest against the soft hair of her pussy lips. Now it was my turn to groan as I gently pressed my shaft against her wet sex, trying to get some friction against her without pulling at her hairs.

She pulled at my shoulders, bringing my face away from her breasts so that we could kiss again. I ran my hand down her body, finding her opening and gently separating the lips, clearing my way in. Her hair was so much softer and thinner than my wife's. I slowly entered her with my finger, teasing her with gentle pressure. I looked into her lovely eyes as she felt me enter her, she bit her lip, and then closed her eyes as some feeling went through her.

She was very tight. Wet as anything, but if I hadn't known she wasn't a virgin, I might have thought she was. I opened her up as well as I could, but she was going to be tight. I'm not huge, nor particularly long, but it's thick. I didn't want to hurt her. But I had to have her.

Again, I should have asked. I should have done a lot of things, like worn a condom. But I didn't. I took a little spit from my mouth and moistened the head of my prick, getting a little extra help from some precum. Kissing her, I lined myself against her opening, and my forehead resting against hers, I began working the head into her. She was panting loudly, wining as she breathed out. I eased slowly into her, sliding in and then out, working her juices onto my shaft. She chewed her bottom lip, making me think she was in some pain. I went slowly, but insistently, struggling against the urge to quickly drive in to the deliriously hot wetness of her. Soon enough, I was fully into her.

I rested a moment, kissing her and reveling in having her heat clasp my member. Neither of us spoke, although she gave a satisfied chuckle once I'd entered her fully. She returned my kisses, her lips reaching hungrily for mine as I waited a moment for her to adjust. She was so hot, so much more beautiful than I had any business being in. I wanted to make it last.

I began to move in and out of her, long slow strokes as I made sure that she was comfortable. She was looking at me, her lips parted to allow her to breathe in a steady rhythm. As I saw the furrow in her brow ease, and heard the timber in her voice move from discomfort to pleasure, I asked her "Are you alright?"

"I think so," she panted, furrowing her brow cutely as if she'd only now began to scrutinize the sensations she was experiencing. "It hurt a little," she gasped as I plunged implacably into her, "But it's good now. Good." Her eyes screwed up tight as my thrusts elicited a moan from deep within her. "Not like..." she left the thought unspoken but found a smile for me from somewhere.

"I'm glad," I said, kissing her. "I'm going to go a little faster now. Tell me if you want me to stop." With that I picked up the pace. She began jerking her hips up to meet my thrusts. Her rhythm wasn't particularly good, so I almost wished she'd just lay there. But I was glad she was getting into it.

Sarah began to make fairly loud yips as I drove into her, surprising me. She wore a wide smile now and was beginning to match my strokes pretty well finally.

"Oh God, oh god," she began to say, her hands flailing around a little as if she wasn't sure where to put them. She lifted her knees higher, pulling me into her with her heels.

She was wide open now, and I curled my hands under her shoulders in order to slam her into me. I hadn't meant to fuck her, I wanted to make love, but she was so eager, thrusting at me, that I couldn't help myself.

Sarah began to moan loudly, and she slapped her hands down on my back, wrestling me down onto her. She thrust shudderingly against me as waves of orgasm washed through her. She finally relaxed a little and with two jerking thrusts of my own I plunged as deeply into her as I could as I came harder than I had for some time.

We lay there together for a time, sweat cooling on my back, our wetness squelching as I softened within her. As we caught our breath, she let loose a surprised and satisfied laugh. I lifted my head to look at her.

"Yes, Geoff. That's exactly what I needed," she said, stroking the hair on my forehead. "That's what I wanted." She sighed contentedly.

I tried to memorize her shape, the feel and scent of her. This wouldn't happen again, I knew, and I wasn't ashamed to admit I wanted the fuel for future fantasies. I held her for a while, and we talked. She cried a little about what had happened to her, although I was fortunate and she spared me the details. She thanked me again for making love to her, and I told her honestly that I was the one who was grateful. She was world's away more desirable than I.

When I dreamed she called me two months later to tell me she was pregnant, I can honestly say I was totally surprised. I had three kids already and it never even occurred to me to worry about it.