Im Dreaming Of Your Breasts

I'm dreaming of your breasts; not just anyone's breasts, but your own, very special, unique breasts, with their own special shape. I mean, I am not dreaming of great, swollen, superstar breasts, or brand new perky ones with puffy purple cones for nipples; or some that at are smooth and shiny and pushed up and together by a Victoria's Secret bra.

I'm dreaming of your breasts as you lounge casually on your back, half out of a Japanese silk bathrobe, a cup of coffee with cream in your right hand and something I have written in your left. I believe the writing is erotic, or at least very romantic, something that takes you away to classy houses with stained-glass windows over wind-swept moors blushing with heather. So you, perhaps, are imagining yourself as a late teen with restless thighs and ideas of dashing majors in tight white pants.

When your right hand doesn't hold the delicate handle of the teacup it drifts under the edge of the silk and finds your nipple there. Your breasts, as you lounge on your enormous bed, lie pretty flat to your chest, with fine ripples in the pale skin.

My mind is fascinated by its view of your aureola, a deep mauve, but not all one color; deepening to purple as it surrounds the nipple; becoming lavender as it circles outward. It makes a little basin around the nipple, so you could pour just a little warm jojoba oil on it and it would pool there.

If you did that, and then circled the nipple with your finger, the tiny beads and puckers would probably grow tighter; the aureola contracting toward the nipple. The nipple, even if you did not touch it, would tighten, so that it was smaller at the base than the top. A tiny purple muffin. The top has become very pale as you become aroused.

What do you do now? Do you reach for the coffee because your mouth is dry? Do you freeze, your fingers barely above the sensitive skin, knowing the gentlest torture of cool air on nipple flesh? Does that lift you, or chill your ardor? Has the other nipple, the neglected one started to ache for equal treatment?

Suppose you put down your story for a moment; do you dare let your hands do what they want? What else urges to be touched? Does your scalp ache to have your fingers pull through your hair, spreading on the pillow, pulling out its musk? Is there a small pain in the side of your neck that asks to be massaged; and as you do that, do you imagine that these are not your fingers, but mine, stronger, a bit more rough, lifting your head, massaging the base of your skull?

You can feel the muscles in your mouth tense. But what will they touch? Is it my lips, a bit sandpapery with a day's growth of stubble? Or, do you dare imagine, the dry, puffy lips of your high school best friend as she adjusts a ribbon in your hair the night of the prom? Or perhaps swollen head of the ruddy penis, a bit slick at the tip, of a total stranger you bumped into in the supermarket?

I imagine you sighing; opening your eyes to find your coffee cup and sitting up to take a sip. As you do, do you feel the tightening in your belly, and think of the moisture growing down there? Do you feel the heat between your legs and a very slight ache inside?

I know you like to save your thoughts of that until just the right moment. And you are not ready. Instead, you tuck a pillow behind you and let your left breast fall out of your robe. Using both hands you lift it, cherish it, cup it with your left while your right circles the nipple. Enjoying the feeling of all the mysterious thick stuff under your creamy skin.

You take the nipple in your right fingers and give it a little twist. It goes tighter and you feel a twinge down there. You do it again, hurting yourself a little bit and the twinge goes deeper. Asks. You stretch the nipple out and it relaxes a little but needs more. You neglect it and go to the other one.

Now you chafe your right breast between your hands, bobble and bounce it. You tease yourself by ignoring the nipple. It demands attention, pert and achey. You stroke everywhere else gently, dragging your nails so very lightly all over that tender skin until it has fine red welts.

You wet your right thumb in your mouth and address the nipple with it. The slickness conducts very fine electricity. The nipple yearns for a mouth and in your mind's eye you can see my scarlet tongue approach it; my rough mouth surround it.

Something has released. You can really feel the slickness down there emerge, an itch now on that thin lip just below the opening. The heat grows.

You are not ready to neglect your breasts. You want to lie back and cup each one in a palm, a wet thumb on each nipple, flicking, flicking, feeling your belly twitch, your buttocks clench, lifting that warm target, feeling its heat, swelling, and opening like the mouth of a sleeping lover, begging for a gentle kiss, a secret kiss, a moist tongue to dip between the lips, tickling the sweet, oozing moisture.

Each touch on your aching nipple now brings a squeeze below and within. Perhaps you imagine that you have two lovers; a very young man and a very young woman; each has damp, soulful eyes and a thick, angel's mouth as they suck together on your nipples; not too hard and not too soft, a gentle rhythm that demands more of you, pulling and massaging with animated tongues until your whole mind exists only in the heat of your chest.

You could climax in ecstasy just from this, it seems. You are so close. And yet. And yet — the heat flows downward between your breasts, surrounds your navel and moves over the mound to your thighs. You must be touched.

Perhaps the angels' hands are your hands, so light, gentle-fast, and slow-firm. Of course there is the bud, and the swollen petals, and they are stirred, and fluttered, and squeezed until the slick spreads around them and the curls are darkened against the slippery reddening skin. The bead is scarlet and squeezes out, aching for a tongue.

Again and again the inner lips arch open, wider and wider. They are hungry and need to consume. Around them the slick fingers dance, teasing, teasing.

I know you are ready. Your head crushes back against the pillow. Your eyes are gone in your head. Your mouth is wide open, straining; a deep moan escaping from your belly. Your face is mottled with red. Your neck strains. Is it now? Can it be now?

Your hips lift high.

Your right palm crushes your breast against your chest. You can feel your heart hammering.

Now the fingers of your left plunge deep into you, pressing hard against that spot you know will release you, thumb tight against the swollen button.

You explode inward and the waves of aching-heat roll over you and out of you. Again and again you ask the sky to fill you and it does.

As the shocks fade away your breasts lie exposed, a slick line of moisture between them. Below, you are wet and blushing. You must sleep. But I yearn to taste you. As you doze off, I move in, very close, so close you could feel my hot breath on your tender lower lips, my hot palms covering each breast.

I taste you, I taste you only with the eyes of my imagination; still dreaming of your breasts.