In her dreams, she is more.
Awake, she's average height and not more than pretty. Her best feature are the strange turquoise eyes, the near second her breasts which are a proud, firm C-cup. She has a cute face, and shapeless, shoulder-length chestnut hair. Her hips are too wide to consider her shape an hourglass, and it means her ass is big, too. Her limbs are long, forever knocking into things. It's different here. Her hair gleams, her body is full and womanly, those baby-deer limbs full of lithe, graceful movement. She's naked.
Shameless.
Her victim is a strapping male with long, dark hair. Typical female erotic fantasy material, except instead of ravishing the lady, his wrists are knotted above his head to a sturdy iron headboard. The deep brown eyes beneath that heavy brow are full of fear and lust; it's a hard draw of which is more present. Both please her.
She crawls over the blood-red velvet sheets to him, already flushed with desire, already thrumming with a sharply pleasant lust. She settles her thighs to either side of one of his, knowing he can feel the heat and wetness against his skin. He's tense. Good. She licks her lips and smoothes her hands over his chest, feeling the rippling texture of muscle beneath her eager fingertips. She stretches over and licks a long, lazy line up his neck, playfully nips his jaw, and then settles into a deep kiss. Her lips tease at his at first, and he's hesitant to let her in. He's taut beneath her, straining, and she can feel his erection strong against her hip. After a moment she becomes more insistent, pressing her tongue between his lips, using her teeth to pry them apart.
The moment her tongue darts to play with his, he is lost.
She can feel the surrender in the long shudder that wracks him, and then she's drowning in their kiss, breathing it, feeling the heat build so hot that it could burn them both down. It's not until she breaks it to draw actual breath that she realizes that his thigh is soaked from where she was grinding against it.
He isn't quite that desperate yet.
Yet.
She takes a moment to adjust herself, moving so she's straddling his hips and all that promising wetness is right over his aching cock. She doesn't touch him, no. She does something worse. She touches herself.
Her hands smooth over her pert breasts and cup them, offering them to his eyes as she strokes her thumbs over her nipples. They bead up under that light touch, and she squirms at the pleasure, rubbing her cunt against him directly now. He grits his teeth.
She pushes her hair back, and then lets one of those hands wander lazily between her thighs, the knuckles of it brushing over his shaft. It's enough to force the tortured groan he's been holding back. She grins like the Cheshire cat and dips two fingers inside- and damn, it's good. Her eyes shut and she enjoys the tease of fullness, circling her fingers inside of her, tapping that spot that makes her back arch. A whimper of pleasure escapes and that noise makes him shift restlessly.
When she opens her eyes, she can see the begging in his.
She can be crueler, still. She takes those dripping fingers and begins to paint his cock with the wetness, playing it along the very top, then drawing lines down the shaft. He cries out every time she touches them and yanks violently at the bonds, but this is her dream and he has no hope of escaping. She paints and teases and taunts until he's shaking, every single muscle standing out from the strain of being locked beneath her.
And then she lifts him up and slides him inside of her.
She's still for a moment, savoring the feeling of him filling every inch of her, but she's a restless creature. At first it's slow and patient, drawing the pleasure out for both of them until he's begging with his eyes for her to move, move, please move... and when they can't take it anymore she digs her nails in his chest and slams her hips down on his.
It gets wilder, faster. She never lets him fully escape her cunt, only sliding a few inches up or down for that delicious, damning friction, bringing them both breathlessly close to the edge before pausing just enough to yank them back. He leans up to kiss her, but she doesn't oblige. Her nails bite into skin until his face contorts with pain, but the pleasure is too good, too much. She feels like she could die of it.
At last he shouts and drives up his hips enough to sink all the way inside of her, finding his release. With that comes a warm rush that's not like any orgasm she's ever had- it's better. It's a hot meal when you're starving, it's tea when your throat is sore, it's a fireplace in the dead of winter, it's a warm bed when you're exhausted. It's every bit of salvation she's ever needed, and she loses herself in the feeling.
When she remembers herself, she gently gets up and grabs a velvet edge of the sheet to wipe herself, and then reaches up to close the eyes of her now-dead lover, letting him sleep it off for good.
***
Heather O'Neal woke up crying and wet beyond belief.
She reached up to dry her eyes before rolling over to check the alarm clock on her nightstand. It read 4:22 in blocky red light. That's AM, in the dead of night, well before normal people would wake up. Heather briefly considered addressing the aching need between her thighs, but who masturbates to murder? Psychos. She firmly told herself not to be psycho.
Psycho or not, she was awake, the way she always was after the Dream. She'd come to learn in the last three months that going back to sleep wasn't going to happen, so she got up quietly, careful not to wake her sister.
No luck. A sleepy voice called, "Heather?"
