I entrust you with the only copy. I know that you will not mistake my purpose, but we know who will. I can call nothing in my house entirely my own. The words are wretched, of course, but perhaps they give some sense.
Kneeling. He is naked before me. There are no faces in my dreams, as in my life; I have no memory for them. Only voices, and words.
I see no higher than his chest – it is strong – but I know who he is. His hand comes to my cheek, rough and good. I sense a smile, see the image of it hazily, faceless. It warms me. His legs are strong, the hair dark – but I know it is blonde. Strange, the things the mind supplies.
Behind me. The dream intensifies. Another. Nameless. He slides home, deep but painless – a powerful sensation of fullness. I feel the calculated thrust of him, his hands fanned hot on my cheeks as his thumbs pull them apart, letting him drive home. It’s hard, deep anal – hotter and harder and more delicious than life has ever seen fit to give me. I bow down and raise my hips, pushing back, taking him deeper. He’s hard with that blue-steel hardness that radiates heat and a power of desire. I take him.
The hand brushes my cheek. He is pleased. Awake, I will wonder why. Do I think it would please him, to see me like that? I doubt it. Perhaps I think he wants me to understand him? To see the world as he does? I can play Freudian games with this all night. Who knows what the mind speaks to the mind in the sleeping hours. But in those sleeping hours – he is pleased. And I am hungry for more. More of the cock that drives home into my throbbing ass – so intense that when I wake, I will still feel it. More of the cock that stands before more, to which I raise my lips. But perhaps most of all, more of the hand that strokes my hair back as I move to him, and the smile – that I see, without his face, with the inscrutable logic of dreams – that is warm, and approving.
I dream his cock a hungry thickness, the head of it scraping fat and round against my back teeth as I slide it back with low, smothered, grateful sounds. It’s good. It’s deeply good. There’s no way to say it without sounding like some stupid porn movie, some pathetic piece of throw-away stroke, but I love sucking cock. The fullness and thickness in my mouth, the heavy hard thrust, the taste and the scent … there’s something immensely powerful in it. The sense of owning and being owned at once, the power and command, the pleasure and the ability to give pleasure – all combine and I groan as I feel him slide over my tongue. His hand touches again, approving, and I sense his smile as a thrust from behind presses my mouth hard against him. He likes it.
I’m still drunk with the taste of his cock. I want to say something, but when I wake I will not know if I said it. Or thought it. Or somehow spoke while never lifting my lips, as in my dream I do not think I did. I wince, awake, when I think of the words – Freud can help one so far, but why those words? They are, roughly, “You must know how much I’ve longed for this.” And in the dream I mean it intensely; I feel that power of desire that is nearly despair. A hit, a very palpable hit. Why that little communication from the closed quarters of the internal city? In my dream I think it or say it looking up, but I still see no face – only hands, and again a smile.
I lower my eyes and indulge in the utter pleasure. He slides home in my mouth and begins to thrust, slowly. Behind me, stronger, harder, the thrusts quicken. I am shaken, and his hands grip my shoulders as I take him in my hand and begin to suck and stroke him into my mouth. As the good, hard fucking drives home from behind, I feel his pleasure in it, in this release that grows intensely sweet. I feel the words, though he does not speak him – something tells me I hear his voice, but somehow no words. But I know them. “Good girl. Ah, good.” His hands touches my cheek.