Dreaming
- 4 years ago
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Dreaming Once free porn video
As a child, I was crushed and broken, although I mended myself time and time again. I was and am a stubborn creature, built for some greater promise than that which my parents handed to me at birth. I am a wandering soul, questing for meaning in a world that gives me none.
During this quest, I have met many beautiful and arrogant people. These high beings do not deign to commune with me, but I stare at them, wishing I could have the courage to be arrogant. My inner beauty does not reflect on the outside, and I am lost in a miserable world of self-doubt and wishfulness.
Dreaming once, I met a man. He was beautiful and his soul was innately arrogant. It wasn’t a conscious haughtiness, but something he exuded from deep within. It was the sense of a man so secure within himself that he could do nothing to deter his own destiny. I watched him like a psychotic fan, obsessed with learning his secrets, for I knew in my downtrodden heart that he could never find me attractive.
Then his eyes turned to me, assessing and curious. I blanched, ready to run from the room, wishing to fade into the wooden floor. He had beautiful eyes, pure intensity framed by ink-dark lashes. They stopped me from running, rooted my feet to the spot as he approached.
Dwarfed by his size, although I am not a small woman, I held my ground as if I had a weapon with which to fight his arrogance.
He said, ‘Hello.’
I opened my mouth and, to my amazement, answered him. ‘Hello.’
‘I’ve heard that you’re a writer,’ he went on, sliding into the chair next to mine.
‘Yes,’ I answered, wishing I could think of sentence that contained more than one word.
His smile illuminated his face, and I melted in the heat of it. ‘I write, too,’ he said, as if he were truly a shy man. He looked down at his hands and then glanced back up at my face. ‘But I’m not very good at it.’
And, finally, I thought of something to say. ‘It isn’t the writing that has to be wonderful. It’s the story. A good story can make a reader forget about the way it’s written, as long as it’s readable.’ I hadn’t even taken the time to pick each word, merely blurting it out as if I had a right to talk.
He laughed, and the sound echoed into the spaces left bare so long ago when my passion had gone. ‘I’d like to read your stories,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard that they’re pretty good.’
‘I didn’t know people were discussing me behind my back,’ I blurted out for some reason. It was the wrong way to say it, considering his comment was praising, but I was nervous.
Forgiveness was in his voice, as if he understood my nervousness. ‘You put your writing out where other people could read it. Of course they discuss it.’
I nodded, embarrassed, and retreated into single word sentences again. ‘Okay.’ My current effort was on the table in front of me, an erotic tale about beautiful people. The subject matter disconcerted me in my present circumstances, but there was nothing else to do but hand it to him.
The tips of his fingers brushed mine as he took the tablet. I’d been writing long-hand in an effort to find a new atmosphere, new inspiration at a place I rarely frequented. He leaned back in his chair to read, crossing one ankle over his knee.
I couldn’t watch. It was far too uncomfortable, so I glanced around the room at the other patrons of the small bar. It was located down the street from my home. During the day there were few people there. In one corner a young couple sat engaged in what must have been fascinating conversation, for they stared into each other’s eyes without looking away. I smiled at them and moved on. At the end of the bar a lone woman sat. Her eyes were heavily shadowed with make-up, and she wore her face with all the appearance of a coat of armor. She looked bored, a crack in her steel face revealing an internal emptiness.
A sound from the man reading my story turned my eyes back to him. He turned the page, shifting in his chair. His shift had been one of discomfort, and it drew my eyes to the cause. The story I was writing about the physical love of beautiful people had aroused him. I looked away, wishing I had chosen another topic. It wasn’t fair to arouse him without a chance of completion for him.
The bartender grinned at me when I looked up. It was a knowing look, and he nodded to the reading man for emphasis. I blushed. Had he been reading my work upside-down while I was writing? Did he understand what kind of a story this was? I wanted to defend myself, but looked down instead.
I felt naked, my work and myself on display. Expecting humiliation or worse, I waited. Noise intruded into my thoughts. A pinball machine being worked over by a man in jeans and a ratty tee-shirt. The laughter of a sit-com on the television above the bar. And still, when the man beside me turned the page, it sounded like a huge echoing reprimand. I looked at him through lowered lashes, trying to hide my curiosity.
The tablet had been pulled over his lap, probably to conceal his arousal from me. A touch of pity made me sigh. If he’d been a woman he wouldn’t have to hide it. Finally, I glanced at his face. His eyes, which had been a study in intensity to begin with, were now on fire. Darting across the page, they flickered with heat. His jaw was tensed, emotionally charged. He couldn’t hide his reaction. I was written as clear as could be in his expression.
I should have been pleased that my words could affect him as my physical person could not, but I wanted to grab the tablet from him and run home. What that would have accomplished was beyond me, so I forced myself to await the outcome. He was almost finished, anyway. Soon, he could embarrass me and I could retreat with a confirmation of my personal disgust.
He looked up, meeting my eyes, gluing me to my chair. ‘My God,’ he said, harsh passion in his tone. ‘All that wrapped up in your head. What a wonder.’
I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t do anything but stare into the furnace of his eyes. Was he going to continue by saying something about plain packages having surprising contents? Was he going to mention his need to find his girlfriend? Was he looking at me the way I thought he was looking at me?
Long, dark lashes descended over his eyes and he glanced up at the bartender. A frown creased his brow, and he closed the tablet. ‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ he said.
It was a mark of his arrogance that he never considered I’d refuse. He took my hand and lead me out of the bar into the fresh summer air of a rainy day. ‘Where?’ I asked. Every nerve ending was singing now. No rejection, not yet, but I couldn’t believe he would want what I thought I saw in his eyes.
Pausing outside the building beneath an overhanging awning, he turned to face me. ‘It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘I live around the corner.’
The look on my face must have given me away, because he began to smile. ‘It’s all right, you know. I’d like to talk about this story, and I didn’t want to do it in front of that pervert bartender. I have a coffee pot, some coffee, and I might even have a cookie or two to munch on if you want.’
I didn’t relax, but I did agree to go with him.
The place wasn’t a dump, but neither was it the epitome of wealth and sophistication. It was homey, lived it, and could have used the services of a maid. He apologized for the mess, kicked a footstool into position at an armchair, and headed into the kitchen. I followed, feeling like Alice trying to keep up with the White Rabbit, out of my element, and entirely curious.
Was this an attempt at getting me alone? It was more likely an honest attempt at discussing writing and nothing more. Warning myself not to read too much into his invitation, I sat myself at the table. It was clean, although a cup half-filled with coffee sat on it.
‘Can I read something of yours?’ I asked, watching him pour water into an automatic coffee-maker that looked
as if it was on its last legs. ‘I mean, if you want me to.’ I was stammering, I guess, trying to appear less nervous than I was.
He nodded, a bright smile turning my way. My request had pleased him, at any rate. He left the counter and disappeared into the other room for the space of a few seconds, returning with a manila folder full of paper. ‘This is all I have along the lines of erotica,’ he said as he handed it to me.
I nodded and immediately set to reading while he finished making the coffee. It was good. Not great, but good. There were several things I could have suggested to help him out, but I didn’t want to appear overly critical. By the time we both had our coffee and he was seated at the table, I had decided this really was all about writing.
His next statement blew my decision out of the water.
‘Does your real life resemble your writing?’
I stared, and gave him the first answer that came to mind. ‘Do I look as if my real life has anything to do with that story?’ It was a point-blank, honest question, and I hadn’t meant to speak like this.
‘Looks are deceiving,’ he said, and picked up the tablet he’d carried with him from the bar. ‘This story was written by someone who has passion, and who can describe lust well enough to infect anyone who reads it.’ His eyes were intense again, looking directly into mine. ‘I’d like a taste of it.’
Arrogance, direct and unassuming. In the midst of a rush of conflicting emotion, anger stood out and I grabbed it. ‘Now are we supposed to jump into a clinch and make mad, passionate love on the table?’
He raised a brow and set the tablet down. ‘That would be one way to begin.’
‘I’m not the woman in the story,’ I said, pushing away an excited little flutter that began somewhere down deep. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘Brian,’ he answered in a soft voice. ‘Brian Allen.’
‘I’m still not the woman in that story.’ Rising, I moved to pick up my tablet. ‘I should be going.’
A hand stopped me. Long, agile fingers covered mine to rest both of our hands on the table. ‘Desire isn’t about looks,’ he said. ‘Not for me.’
I was wide-eyed as he pulled me onto his lap. It wasn’t fear, although there was an element of that, it was astonishment. His kiss was warm, soft and exploring. It hit me in the deep recesses where my passion once again flamed into existence, forgotten but not gone forever.
Somehow, he’d seen into my soul, past physical appearances, and he desired me. I could feel the strength of his lust beneath me, a hard projection that sent images of rampant, virile strength through my mind. My stomach clenched and flashes of lust ran amok through every nerve ending involved in sex. Still, I wanted to run away. If I failed to exhibit the passion he thought I had, I would be humiliated far worse than if I had run in the first place.
Hesitant, I met the warm probe of his tongue. He was gentle, soothing, an exploration designed to begin slowly, building to more than I could imagine at the moment. I was held in a comforting bubble of sensation, floated over the edges of anxiety and self-doubt. Gentle hands caressed my ribs, bunching the cotton of my shirt until I wanted to rip it off and toss it on the floor.
What was his disappointment to me? He was beautiful. His frustration would be short-lived, for he could find another beautiful one soon enough. I was no longer on the outside, looking in at the fantasy. It was the only chance I would have, and I wouldn’t throw it away.
His shoulders were firm beneath my fingers, pure masculinity encased in cotton. He felt my response and wrapped his arms around my waist, drawing me closer, demanding more.
Want and need swept away everything but lust. His hand found bare skin, caressed it. My nipples burned under his touch, tightened into tight buds. His mouth left mine and my shirt found its way to the floor. Without thought, I pulled his shirt up to expose the perfect masculine chest. Muscularity isn’t masculine, although it can be a part of it. His chest was formed of skin and sinew, the muscles hard enough to flex when he pulled his shirt off the rest of the way, but it wasn’t bulging with strength.
Long arms drew me against him again. Skin caressing skin, breast to chest. I wanted to cry with the perfection of passion, but his mouth was on mine and the sudden need was eclipsed by his urgency. He stood and I stood with him, clinging shamelessly, my hands wrapping through the soft strands of his hair. My God, I’d forgotten who I was, what I was, in the heat of some primal kind of need.
Clothing slipped away, caught and pushed and clawed away from heated skin. The table rocked and the cups were shoved to the back, away as he pushed me down. I closed my eyes, the reddened underside of my eyelids echoing the muted color of passion. He was against me, the iron velvet strength of him pushing at my thigh as he leaned to kiss my breast.
Rough, wet, a cat lapping. Then heat as his lips surrounded the taut peak. I cried out, I think. I’m not sure, everything was in a haze of disbelieving rapture.
Fingers delved into my pussy, sliding along the inner folds until moisture slipped them to the entrance. ‘Shaved,’ he murmured.
I squirmed, embarrassed, yet so turned on I couldn’t stop my legs from widening. I’d shaved that morning, not because I’d expected this, but because I knew I’d be writing what I’d been writing, and I wanted to have the feeling.
His tongue slid down to lap at my belly button, then further, into the clean, slick folds. The building, burning heat was solid now, not flickering at all. If he kept this up I’d be screaming. He kept it up.
Gyrating, winding up like a rubberband, I let loose. Stiffening, arching my hips upward, my orgasm swept through me.
When I opened my eyes he was grinning.
‘I knew it,’ he said. So smug, so arrogant, I would have hit him but I was having trouble breathing. He took my arm and drew me off the table. ‘The bedroom would be more comfortable.’
I followed him, marveling at the shape and form of his naked flesh. Truly beautiful, the muscles flexed and moved beneath his skin. When he turned to wave at his unmade bed, I tried not to stare. His erection was perfect, canting upward, the mushroom head shining.
‘Lie down,’ he said, and I caught a thoughtful look on his face as I hurriedly looked away from that marvelous protrusion.
Climbing self-consciously on the bed, I settled back on the pillows and watched him flop next to me.
‘Like it, do you?’ he asked, lying on his back. He curved his fingers around the shaft, showing it off.
‘You’re beautiful,’ I whispered, kicking myself for sounding like an awe-struck teenager.
‘Would you like to touch it?’ he asked.
Still in that awe-struck state, I tried to ignore the smug look on his face and put my hand on his stomach. When my fingers drew close, I saw his cock leap toward them. I glanced up as my hand closed around him. He was watching my hand through half-closed eyes. Lust clenched my fingers, and I began a slow, stroking motion.
‘Like this?’ I asked.
He moaned. ‘Put your mouth on it.’
The tip of my tongue touched it, gave a small lick for a greeting. Clean, soft skin. It expanded as it entered my mouth, hardening further. He was still watching, sweeping my hair to the side so he could see his cock stretching my lips.
Wanton desire moved my hips in an arcane ritual dance. I swayed in time to unheard music, kept time with the motion of my mouth on his beautiful cock. Again, I forgot who and what I was, becoming someone different, some kind of lust-filled nymph. His lust for me had changed me, found some center of passion that I had buried long ago.
I took control, giving his cock one last lick as I moved to straddle him.
‘Fuck me,’ he whispered.
A long, slow shudder swirled through me as I sank dow
n on him. The head of his cock slid into the humid depths of my pussy, I felt it against the walls, slowly conquering my inner space. Leaning over him, I planted my hands on either side of his shoulders and began to fuck him. I watched his face, captured his eyes in a gaze that seemed to draw out every primal urge I had. His hands on my hips were no match for my control, and I set the motion, I kept the pace.
I wanted to watch his face as he came.
He was rising up to meet me, stroke for stroke. The slap of flesh against flesh was loud in the room, wet and sharp. He groaned, finally letting his lashes sweep over his eyes, and arched his head back into the pillow.
The length of his cock bucked inside me, washed the walls of my pussy with heat. I clenched the muscles surrounding him and pulled upward, loosening to encase him again, then repeating the motion until he gasped and grabbed my hips to keep me still. Then I sat up and ground down against him, a sudden smug feeling of authority enough to lend me a small amount of arrogance.
The dark lashes swept upward and he grinned again. ‘Thank you.’
Smug arrogance fled and I blushed. Still, tendrils of lust whipped at me, and I fell to the side with a sigh. He followed, his soft cock resting wet against my thigh as he kissed me. He covered me, security in closeness.
His lips were on mine, caressing. His body was against mine, accepting, and I melted into his embrace. I held him, hands on shoulders, my leg resting comfortably over his. Soft, gentle, he rocked me and I fell victim to his whispered words of desire.
I believed.
* * *
The door to the bar opened and I looked up from my tablet. There he was, the man I had promised to love and cherish ’til death do us part. I smiled and waved him over, shutting the tablet that he would never read.
At the bar, the man I had used as a character turned to glance at the newcomer, dark lashes sweeping over his eyes before dismissing my husband and I as part of the un-beautiful world.
Have I given in? My husband is not passion driven, nor is he aware that he’s missing anything. He is not beautiful. His body is middle-aged and lack of exercise has given him a stomach that jiggles like a parody of Santa Claus. His beard is gray, as is his hair. He has left his youth behind, but he is kind, and brings me roses when the world is harsh to me. He will not read my stories, but gives me the time and space to write them. He loves me in a solid, grounded way.
But there is no real passion, and the only beauty he possesses resides in my love for him.
Barbie
- 21.11.2022
- 15
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