I woke up panting, tangled in the covers. My boyfriend snored quietly next to me. Sweat beaded on my forehead and slicked the joints of my body, and the juice from my aching pussy gleamed halfway down one exposed thigh. I threw off the blanket to try and cool my overheated body with the night air.
I had dreamed of him again--my sweet, passionate, and now-married best friend. He had been attached and unattainable since I first new him. And I went to his wedding and toasted and laughed, boyfriend at my side, and then left early, pleading migraine.
Married. He had chosen her before he met me, and now he had affirmed and consecrated that choice. He was happy. She was beautiful and kind and funny. I couldn't resent either of them. But that didn't stop the dreams.
I had known him less than a month when the first dream came. It was clear and simple and straightforward, like dreams never are, and so beautiful and vivid that just the memory of it could still make my panties damp.
In that first dream, we made love in the afternoon sunlight. I could feel his hands on me, his lips on my breasts, his strength as he claimed my body. His breath feathered over my skin with his hot laughter. One hand fisted in my hair as the other stroked down over my belly, and he kept his eyes on my face as he began to play with my clit. When he dipped his fingers inside me, my hips arched to meet him. His happiness and his fierce desire set fire to my blood, and when he finally gave me his cock, thrusting deep, our gasps mixed with triumphant laughter.
And then I woke up, still feeling the phantom thrust of his cock, my heart still beating in time with his laugh.
I knew then that I loved him. I think I'd loved him at first sight, but after the dream, I couldn't deny it. I knew he was with someone, though, and I wasn't a cheater. Unless maybe his girlfriend was an ogre? Then I met her, and damn it, I liked her.
That had been years ago, and since then we'd earned new degrees, tried on a handful of careers, consoled each other in hard times and celebrated some good ones too. When his girl spent a year living abroad, I sympathized with his impatience and longing, and respected his boundaries. When I found a new crush, he laughed at my giddy reports and encouraged me.
I never told him about my dreams of him. I didn't know if the sexual undercurrent was all on my side, and I didn't want to find out. Close as we were, I couldn't bear to risk our friendship.
Now, as I lay recovering from this latest dream, I turned to look at my boyfriend. He was still fast asleep, one arm over his head, his strong shoulders bare to the moonlight. He was a beautiful man, and I loved him, but it wasn't the same. I felt familiar stirrings of guilt as my cunt ached with desire for another.
In this dream, we were in my friend's workshop. In real life, he and his wife had just bought their house, and a new garage and workshop were at least a year out. But my dreaming mind had skipped ahead, to a setting with sawdust ground into the concrete floor and the scents of wood and oil permeating the air.
I was behind him, sitting up on the counter-height workbench, watching him as he worked the drill press. He was wearing a rumpled white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, over broken-in jeans and scuffed work boots.
He finished, powering down the machine, then turned to me with a wicked half-smile. I realized abruptly that I was naked from the waist up, with my wrists bound above my head and suspended from the peg-board lining the wall.
Cool air washed over my breasts, and the tips were strained tight. My ass was protected from the rough work bench by a pair of denim cut-off shorts and nothing else. Looking down, I could see that my shorts were freshly cut off, hardly frayed, and the legs of the jeans were lying discarded on the shop floor, a utility knife resting on top.
As I shifted, I could feel the thick seam at the crotch of my shorts rasping along my pussy and gently abrading my clit.
