A Dreamer

I'm harder than I've ever been, thinking about this girl and what is to happen tonight. She's in the bathroom now, getting ready, I think, and I lay here, wondering. I've always found myself to be pretty lucky, but this is ridiculous. In a few moments I will be able to do all of the nasty, dirty things that I've dreamed of to this woman -- the same woman I've been dreaming of doing all of this to. I panic a little, hoping that she hasn't changed her mind in the last... well, thirty seconds that's she's been in there. God, it feels like it has been so much longer than that. My mind has been speeding through all of what had led us here -- a mere kiss on the hand, a few great conversations. Admiration, respect, trust... Then I think on what is about to occur... just thinking, I haven't even thought about what it would be like fucking you. Or 'knowing you,' whichever works for you. I mean I have, but I haven't. Some nights it would cross my mind, and I'd briefly envision me inside of you, my dearest. But these thoughts would leave my mind swiftly, as they had come. Then covered by another vision. Another thought. Dream. Scenes that my imagination brings forth and lets me build, with you.

I've always enjoyed the idea of kissing those beautiful lips. I've liked to imagine how great or poor a kisser you are. Sloppy wet or Desert Dry. Grab-my-dinner-back-up tongue or Oh-no-full-defense-of-your-mouth tongue. Are you the extremist that I can sort of see you being? Or that female of subtleties that you've become in mind since talking to you? All the little things taking there part in how you see the world. I see myself looking into those beauty-brown eyes and reading every one of the million and two thoughts that would cross before them. Trying to see just how much you want me, for I won't see it if I look at your near-terrified face. I imagine you thinking that you shouldn't do this. How in the Hell did I get you in this position. Do you remember drinking anything? Did I feed you anything? Do you want to be here with me, right this very moment, my devotion? Do you want to know me? I wonder if you'd feel uncomfortable with me holding you then, that very moment. Consoling you. Kissing and licking your earlobe. Whispering the little nothings that cross my mind into your ear. Whispering things like, "I like chicken almost as much as you do," into your ear, just to break the tension that for some reason I'm so sure will be there.

I've always wondered how you'd react to my fingers running up and down the nude skin and flesh of you. Oh so very slowly up and down you. From the nape of your neck to arches of your ass. From shoulder to shoulder. Through your hair. On your cheeks. Eyelashes. Stomach. Breast. Thighs. Do goose bumps appear at my faintest touch? Where? Could I kiss them away for you? I've wondered how your breast would feel. How hard your nipples would be at my touch. For me. Then I would run my fingers from them, down your stomach, then into a pair of, say, red panties, and in-between your legs. I would like to see how warm you are with me laying beside you. I'd like to see how moist you are when my finger runs the slit of your pussy. A small sign of inhalation, or a small gasp slips from you. Tension. Near-insignificant readjustment. For or against my touch, my dearest? I'd love to look you straight in the eye as I taste you. That sounds like an idea -- I'd love to see what your eyes say to me at the sight of that. Your face will either show disgust or shock or nonchalance. I can see your eyes filling with other thoughts..

I've always had more fun thinking about my head enclosed and secured between your thighs. I've wondered just what you'd taste like. I'd assume cherries. I hope cherries -- there have been times when things weren't as fruitilicious. I've imagined you breathing really heavily all the way up there, as I just barely graze my tongue on you. Readjustment -- for or against my lips and my gentle kisses? For or against my tickling fingers? For or against my adventurous tongue? How hard it is to wait to just barely taste of you. Sip from your grail so heavenly the nectar of you. I've never been able to imagine you as the moaner type. Just a heavy breather. Just a challenge -- you're probably going to be a bit more difficult than others to make orgasm. When all I want is for you to melt upon me. I hope not too difficult, because the sooner you cum for me, the more times that very night I will make you cum. I've thought about that, too: how many times could I make her cum for me? Let me drink of her. Of you. Break your heavy breathing into a silence and stillness that just doesn't seem to end. I've wondered if you would kiss me after you soak my face with your sweet, sweet juices. I've wondered if you would be the type to like fingers inside of you or just on you. How much or how little do you like your nipples sucked, love? How fast do you want your clit stroked? Lots of pressure or feathery silk-like 'brushes' against you? All questions I could never ask you, in fear of losing the moment. In fear of pushing you away. Even in my dreams, even in my scenarios. Especially in our conversations; one of these questions' pop up in my head at least once whenever I hear your voice.

She's been in there for.... a whole minute and a half now. I guess I'm a little too anxious. I want you too much. Calm down, calm down. Pretend like you usually do - you're too cool to be nervous. Too smooth to be antsy. Stay self-assured that you will make her very, very comfortable. And just as I imagined you clenching your thighs around my head, the back ark, the undying silence, vibration, and then the final exhale - the door opens, and you step into the room. My dick throbbing, you looking wonderful. You look at me and, as timidly as you usually do, you smile at me, and walk in my direction...