Dream Man

The man of my dreams is faceless.

He is strong and confident. His arms and back, slightly toned with muscle.

He moves with the easy grace of a known predator.

I never see his face, only his eyes.

In them I see his arousal, his determination, and the knowledge that on some primitive level,

I want him

.

He approaches me from behind, while I stand, critically examining my face in the mirror.

In the few minutes before he comes to me, I think that the picture I see is plain, unattractive. What I see is someone who nearsighted, her half-Asian features that are more strange than exotic, her dark, fine hair, more dull than alluring. Without the polish of make-up, she's not worth a glance on the street.

Not worth so much as a mercy fuck.

He moves towards me slowly, telling me with his eyes that he sees past the clothes. Sees past the glasses. Sees the past the gloom.

With no more than a look, he tells me that he wants me,

craves

me, and that what

he

sees in the mirror is far from what I see.

What he sees a

woman

; a flesh and blood being, who

craves

the primitive contact he can give her.

He never speaks, never makes a sound, so sure of himself that he lets his eyes and body do the talking.

When he reaches me at last, he stands, just behind me, looking at me in the mirror. He waits before he makes his move, watching my breasts rise and fall with every breath.

I'm caught in his eyes. Caught in that strange feeling between arousal and agitation.

I'm still not sure it's happening to me. Yet on some deeper level, I

know

it is. I can feel myself breathing deeper, feel his eyes on my breasts as they rise and fall.

Slowly, his strong beautiful hands settle on my shoulders. My eyes are open, watching his every move, the mix of arousal and agitation getting stronger by the second.

I don't dare move. I am caught. Fascinated. Unable to think.

One hand slides to my hair, and then to my jaw. With sudden violence, he uses the hands to push my head to one side exposing my neck to him. I expect a violent assault on the tender skin. I crave the brutality of his lips, teeth and tongue, branding me,

dominating

me, telling me I belong to him...

but the violence doesn't come.

His warm, soft lips kiss me slowly, as though he were savoring the tender flesh. His bites are slow and gentle.

The shock of what he is doing weakens and arouses. On a gasp, I tilt my head further, opening to him willingly.

He watches me as he acts.

Knowing that he no longer needs to hold me in place, his hands slide down the front of my clothes, passing firmly over my breasts, down over stomach, and finally, between my legs. He touches me through my jeans, pressing firmly, and then gently teasing me with his fingertips.

Being teased through my clothes has always made me crazy; has always aroused the primitive urge to be naked, to feel a man's skin against my own.

From the little I see of him in the mirror, I know he is shirtless. Just as my hips begin to move with his hand, he pulls it away. My teeth clamp down on my lower lip to keep from screaming my frustration.

I can feel his arousal against me, but it doesn't seem to make him move any faster. I reach out to touch the erection straining against his jeans, but he pushes my hand away.

With infinite patience, his hands slide up my arms to my shoulders. With a gentle squeeze, he coaxes me to open my eyes. I see him in the mirror watching me. Slowly, his hands slide to the buttons of my shirt, opening them, one by one.

When the last button is taken care of, he violently pulls the shirt from my shoulders, tossing it aside as if offends him. His arms slide around my waist, gently moving his hands over my ribs and belly. My breasts ache for attention. I have to stifle the urge to put his hands where I need them most. Have to stifle the urge to try and make him finish me.

I am dealing with a full-blooded male and I am at his mercy... for I want him too badly.

His movements bring his promise that I

will

have him... but only on

his

terms.

He wants me, but he wants me desperate first.

His hands smooth their way up my stomach, over my ribs to my breasts, cupping them gently.

He teases me slowly through my bra, watching me intently in the mirror. Watching my nipples harden beneath the cups.

I arch against his hands, needing more. My breath now comes in shallow gasps. His hands move over my breasts slowly, firmly, circling, but never touching my nipples.

He reaches for my neck, gently coaxing my head to one side, he takes a sharp bite; the brutality of the act enflames me.

He soothes the bite with a slide of his tongue before while his hands ease around me and unfasten my bra. Just as he had done with my shirt, he yanks off my bra and throws it aside.

His hands cup my naked breasts, and I arch against him.

I feel an ache deep inside me. I know the ache for what it is.

I need something inside me.

His

something.

I need that feeling of completion. The feel of a man so deep inside me, all I can think of is having him again and again and again.

I try to tell him in guttural tones, but he doesn't seem to be listening. His hands move down over my naked breasts and cup them underneath. Then his fingers find my nipples and pinch them gently, making me gasp and arch against him, my head bent back over his shoulder.

"Please" I whisper desperately. "Please"

I see his eyes. See the look of triumph and arousal in them. Feel his arousal in the tautness of his muscles, in the blatant hunger and desperation of his stare.

His hands slide to my jeans. Tearing the buttons open, he pushes them and my panties down. I pull one of my feet free from the tangle of denim, spreading my legs wider for him. His fingers slide inside me, and I gasp at the contact. I can sense his satisfaction as he realizes how wet I am. His fingers withdraw quickly, and suddenly, I feel him pushing inside me. It feels so good, so right...

I shudder as he enters me from behind, bracing his hands on my hips to hold me still. My muscles clamp down on him as he allows me to adjust to him.

At long last, he begins to move, the angle of his thrusts hitting my g-spot every time. I hear myself screaming. I can't hold them in any more. But it's not enough for him.

Wrapping his arm around my waist, he reaches down, rubbing my clit in time with his thrusts, occasionally stopping to run his hand up over my breast.

I can feel his sweat and my own. Feel my muscles tensing.

The climax comes like an avalanche, releasing the tension that had built up for too long, paralyzing me with its intensity.

I can sense his satisfaction as my body is wracked by the aftershocks; sense it being conquered by a more potent urge.

He thrusts faster, deeper. I can feel his breath coming in short, desperate pants; feel him getting larger inside me. His arms tighten.

When at last, he comes, I know he is leaving bruises, but I'm too ravaged to care.

Moments later, when the sweat has dried, and the breathing returns to a normal pace, he turns to face me for the first time.

All I see is the appreciation and satisfaction in his eyes.

Without a word, he wraps his arms around me and kisses me deeply.

In his kiss he reminds me that whatever I might think, whatever I might see in that mirror, that I am just as primitive, and just as desirable as he is.

Releasing me, he turns, fastens his jeans, and walks away...

I never see him again.