Your Dream Man
You can't recall the first time you dreamed of me, your perfect lover. Each piece of me was carefully curated by your subconscious from hundreds of references. The kind, clear eyes of your first crush, the strong and slightly crooked nose of your favourite actor, the soft but cracked lips of your first kiss. I am a Frankensteinian fantasy that has brought you to ruin many, many times.
So often you've awoken, damp with sweat and arousal but with no memory of the delightful depravity you and and I, your dream man, engaged in. Were you artistically inclined, you may have attempted to paint me, just to capture my essence for a moment longer. To be able to freely recall the sound of my voice, the feel of my touch, the taste of my lips. The sight of me looming over you as I bring you to the heights of pleasure not possible in the waking world.
You're trying to picture me even now, as you lay in your bed with your hand between your legs, fingers tirelessly dragging through your wet folds and teasing your sensitive clit. You're thinking about how I would touch you, were I there with you and not trapped in the recesses of your mind.
The way my strong hands, once belonging to your University professor, would grip your thighs to spread them apart, fingers digging into the soft and supple flesh. The way my hair, stolen off the scalp of the cute guy at your gym, would tangle in your grip as you ground your wet cunt onto my face, legs writhing and hips rolling with pleasure.
There is none of the fumbling exploration of a one night stand, nor the lazy appreciation of a long-term lover. Each stroke of my fingers, every graze of my tongue, it carries the expert precision of someone knows your body as if it were mine own.
