April 15, 2012
The dream begins with a slim blonde woman kneeling over my face. My view is the elongated skyscraper of her body. Her thighs nestle around each of my shoulders, and I gaze up up up her body, the angle making her hips a foundation, her belly a tower, her breasts a parapet, her head a dome, her face smiling down at me, a giant and detailed caryatid.
Her pussy, then, perched on my sternum, becomes her grand entranceway.
She is not yet very excited. Her pussy is a closed slit. It warns a careful approach-it extends no wet welcome to my tongue or my fingers. I pull her hips toward me and slowly separate her slitty lips with my tongue. My nose nuzzles into her pudendum, and I inhale her; she is muskysweet ocean pale.
This dream has been brought to me in high-def Technicolor. I can see her, this unknown slim blonde, leaning back on her hands, her thighs spread and squishing their tender flesh against her calves, her back arched in the slow-opening acceptance of pleasure. At the same time, her pussy glows in cibachromatic clarity. Her creamy skin blends into her coralbrown labia that washes into her shell-pink inner lips that shades into her sherbet clit. No food advertisement is presented in as gloriously photographed and lavishly edible detail as my dream presents this unknown woman’s pussy.
I lick her. I weave my arms under her thighs and around her hips to spread her lips with my hands. I lick and lick, and her mounting excitement mirrored in the delicate transformations of her cunt. Her color deepens, pussy lips thicken, her clit buds, and its sherbet pink mound grows a tiny needy cherry. I feel and see and taste her slickery-wetness.
My dream is generous with its details. I can even hear the smacky-wet lapping of my tongue. I can feel her persimmon-porpoise pliable smoothness. I can smell her, and I can taste her pussy flavors change from a deep-sweet Pacific oyster to a cucumbery wateriness.
Her orgasm nears. She begins to buck her hips against my mouth, tiny tremors spasm down her thighs. Her breath, high above me, turns a ragged zephyr. Under my tongue she thickens and swells, the tender tidal cresting of blood swoons to press against her flesh under my mouth.
With the strange surreal perspective of dreams, I can feel her body shudder and break, can feel the susurrations of her pleasure articulated in the anemone-pulsing of her cunt, and I can see her pussy contracting in orgasmic ululations. The real life doesn’t give this experience-you can either feel with your mouth or see with your eyes a woman’s orgasm-but my dream life gives me both, a lovely anomaly.
The dream life, though, as often as it extends pleasure snatches it back. The unknown blonde comes there on my tongue, rests a moment on my chest, and looks down at me to pronounce imperiously, “You don’t have a very long tongue, do you?”
And then she says, “It took me forever to come.”
In my dream, I feel slightly bemused, for it took only a few minutes to me, far less time than I usually need to orgasm, and I find it kind of funny that this little, young girl (she looks to be in her early twenties, maybe half my age) is complaining about getting an orgasm. I marshal some response, something about the relative importance of journeys and destinations, the totality of the experience and not its end, and then I wake up.
And I have to wonder: why in my sex dream am I giving someone else pleasure? And how is it that she’s complaining about it?