I'm lucky when my dreams come back. Vivid and arousing to the point of unaided orgasms in my sleep. I spent last night imagining myself pressed warmly between two unknown bodies in the dark. Touching their softness. Feeling hands caress and explore me. I think its time for me to start writing again. I can feel it building up inside me, growing. It needs release.
1
"Agatha, Agatha..."
I feel myself awake. It's dark. I lay there trying to work out what's woken me. None of my senses respond.
It's warm and I'm laying on top of the bed. I think. I can't see where I am, and I can't feel fabric covering my skin. It was probably too warm last night, and I've shrugged off the light sheet.
Still my eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness. It's pitch black. I can see nothing.
"Agatha," someone touches my shoulder, "don't move." The voice is female, firm, familiar but indistinct.
There are other hands on me. Stroking my arms and my legs, caressing my face and running through my hair. Mmmm, that feels good. The hands on my arms and legs have a firmness that suggests I should stay where I am, in their grasp. I don't feel any need to disagree.
The hands move around my breasts and up my legs. Others on my arms, fingers taking me in, exploring me. I feel a tingle as two, no, three then four hands begin to gently caress my breasts. Others on my stomach, and I don't know how many caressing my legs. I feel my breath shortening and sink into the pleasure. Sensual caresses along my limbs, down across my stomach.
My neglected nipples ache. That ache echoed elsewhere in building pulses. I can feel my inner heat building and with it my need to be touched intimately...
2
I'm awake. My breathing still shallow. Don't you just hate it when that happens before things get too interesting!
It's still dark. I feel the heat of the dream still inside me, lace fabric hot and damp between my legs. I throw back the summer sheet and feel a cool quench my peripheral heat. But I so need to find a release for my inner heat. My fingers trace down across the lace of my chemise, brushing my nipples and generating a burst of pleasure that echoes much louder deeper within me. I need to touch and release that ache. My fingers travel lower seeking my own moist heat...
I pause, aware of movement that isn't me. The bed moves around me. I'm not alone. Was I dreaming after all?
Hands are again touching me. Exploring me more forcefully than before, squeezing and gripping my body around and through the lace. Fingers pinching my skin, making me gasp in surprise.
My chemise pulling at me as someone takes hold of it. The sound of tearing. The delicate fabric of my chemise ripping, exposing me. I now have very little to hide my modesty (?) behind, save for my matching panties. Finding my involuntary exposure - to these strangers - incredibly arousing.
Hands taking a grip of my wrists and my ankles, holding me. So that they can do what they want with me. A pull on my hair. Yet more hands touching me where they want. Squeezing my tits, pulling on my nipples, and someone tugging that flimsy shard of panty-lace tight up into me. I can feel how wet I am. Feeling them tug it tighter against my sex in harsh pulses. My swollen nub responding with its own pleasant pulse. I can hear how wet I am. The vulnerability to their whims along with the sensation arousing me further. The thrill of being a plaything.
Someone is kissing me, soft feminine lips used with a too-long restrained hunger. Mouths hungry on my nipples as hands squeeze my large boobs tightly, the skin taught with the pressure applied. Fuck - I love having my tits squeezed like that - you can do that harder!
Hands spreading my legs wider, others on my thighs, urging my legs open. Just how many hands are there? It feels as if they are all over me. They are not being gentle with me. Do they know I need it hard?
My hair being pulled back, kisses and bites on my neck, mouths suckling eagerly at my tits. Hands on my ankles holding my legs apart, no modesty. Can they tell how wet they've made me?