Can you screw a dream? Can you lock it tightly inside your mind and hide it away in the secret creases of your soul? Does the dream call blindly when you aren't watching or listening and points its shaky finger at you, taunting, teasing you into weakness? Dreams are illusions that trick you and whisper to you until your blood boils wickedly, and you can taste madness in your veins.
I was bored out of my mind at the party. I didn't even want to be there, but I promised my friend I would go with her. I hated these Ivy League pompous bullshit gatherings. She was the Ivy League wannabe, not me. I was just an underpaid writer who had fled the West Coast, and was now working for a no-name magazine in the bowels of New York City.
I had wandered into a bedroom. My eyes drifted to the wall. I was looking intently at the picture of the jazz legends hanging above the bed. I loved jazz music. I lost myself in dreamy images that night and never resurfaced. My mind drifted to smoky clubs and sensual, whining saxophones. He surprised me with his smoky voice and I thought Mr. Charlie Bird Parker himself had risen from the dead. He was sipping scotch.
I noticed his full, delicious lips licking the rim of his glass as I peered behind me. The smell of scotch made my lungs burn. He was looking over my shoulder. I could smell the scotch on his breath. He had asked me if I liked jazz and started ticking off the jazz legends in the photo.
I had noticed him earlier leaning against an overstuffed leather couch with smug Ivy League defiance oozing out of him. I hate Ivy League pricks even more than I hate the smell of scotch. His skin was a smooth, rich chocolate brown. He towered over my petite, curvy frame. His build was husky and athletic. My mind flashed to his lips--wondering how his lips would taste as I licked off the scotch.
He took my wine glass from me without saying a word and disappeared. He returned with a full glass of red wine. I remember the color of the wine--thick, viscous blood red. I looked at him intently, and knew this man would rip my heart to shreds. His penetrating, liquid brown eyes boiled my blood. This man intimidated me. I wanted my dream images. I wanted to return to my jazz babies on the wall. I wanted to push the rewind button. I wanted to run from the room and disappear, but our eyes communicated everything. We both knew we had to fuck the shit out of each other.
The first time was pure, hard fucking. It was physical, animalistic heat that night. It was warm, brown strong hands grabbing my bare ass, my skirt around my ankles, panties down around my ankles. I can remember the feel of his thick, granite-hard brown cock thrusting inside my sloppy wet pussy. That's how it needed to be the first time with us. My orgasm was fierce as we exploded together whilst the tinkling of glasses and canned party laughter faded in the background of our minds. I remember staring at the picture when he exploded inside me.
