There’s no sun but I’m still warm, too warm and I keep fighting to take off what I’m wearing, but it won’t come off, my fingers won’t grip.
At some point, I realise that this is a dream. The loch is never this still and the sky always moves with the wind rather than being static, but although I’m frustrated with the dress, I don’t want to leave here.
I’m flat on my back, watching the sky, thick unmoving clouds a dense duvet. I don’t think anyone is with me; the boat is static. Not even a bird’s wings flutter across the grey ceiling. My hands are trapped in the material I’m draped in and I can feel panic stirred deep inside me. Alone. No one to help.
There’s a tear, the rip of material and I’m sitting up, warmth behind me, but the boat doesn’t wobble. I feel air against my chest and my nipples harden, now exposed because the rip was my dress. It’s now gone. Evaporated, as if it had been made of the mist.
Big hands cup my breasts, the skin rough and calloused, a working man’s hands. He isn’t gentle as he touches me. He pinches my nipples, massages my breasts, pushing them together. I relax back, completely at his mercy. Allowing myself to be at his mercy because there’s nowhere else to be, except here, exposed.
His scent is familiar, as is the press of his cock against my back. I can feel his desire but he’s oblivious to it, this is about me, primarily. But soon it won’t be because he’s going to take what he needs, a pearl for him to feast on.
Between my legs is soaked, my cunt slick with my juices and my hips buck slightly with need and the want to be filled, but he won’t touch me there. His sole focus is on my tits, playing with them so much it’s painful. Teeth graze my neck, biting softly and I’m desperate for him to suck on my tits, to bend me over and enter me, fuck me like it doesn’t matter who I am.
There’s a clamp on my hips, another set of hands and for a moment I panic. My hips can’t move anymore and I need to find some friction, something to cure this interminable ache.
There are words but I don’t understand them. Voices, but I can’t make out what they’re saying but it doesn’t matter because someone is sucking on my clit, then licking, tiny flicks of a powerful tongue, a serpent’s tongue and I need to be held down, else I’d be flying.
I don’t see who’s between my legs. The hands on my breasts are still there, cupping them, teasing, creating a current between my centre and them. I hear myself moan, begging to be allowed to come, but each time I’m nearly within touching distance of the grail, I’m pulled away by both of them as they slow their hands and mouths.
A finger enters me, pushing against the spot inside that reduces me to ash and tinder. My nipples are pinched hard and I erupt; the sky now has stars and I’m shooting towards them, but instead of feeling the air around me, I feel the cold laps of water.
We’re sinking.
The hands have gone and I’m being pulled under by the current, a swirling levy of fury. And then they are there again, the hands.
Steadying. Touching. Lifting me up, touching my nakedness while they are still clothed. It’s wrong, to be seen and touched. I’m breaking rules but as my head comes out of the water, I’m orgasming again, their hands bringing me rapidly to that edge and letting me surface into something new, their bodies supporting me.
My eyes open and I shudder as my cunt pulses around nothing, the orgasm not just in my dreams. The sheets are sweaty, my nightdress pushed up high, like a virgin’s on her wedding night. It’s been too long since Cuba.
I touch myself, feeling my wetness and groan. I know the dream was to do with Ben, even if he wasn’t explicitly in it. Since we’ve returned from Manchester, he’s avoided me as much as he could, saying nothing about me kissing him or how he touched me. We’ve hit an impasse, a stalemate, pretending that each other doesn’t exist and it’s made me want to bite my arm in frustration.
I remember how he touched me when we were younger, his hands were smoother then although they’d felt rough against my skin, his fingers big when they played with me, slipping between my legs and over my clit, then pressing inside, at first the pain giving way to pleasure. I think of him now, how he would play with my body now it was different. Older. Now I know more about what I like, what I want to try, how I like it.
How I want him.
He was catnip and cocktails and the hidden ray of sunshine on a dingy day. I think of him as my own hand slides over my skin, my fingers delving into my wetness, spreading it over my clit, pinching my nipple with my other hand.
I imagine him spreading me open for him to see, just as he did before, his head between my legs, tasting me, gripping my thighs as he drank, only now he doesn’t stop there, flipping me onto my front and pushing two thick fingers into my cunt, stretching me ready.
In my mind, he enters me roughly, gripping my hips as he pushes his cock inside me in one swift move and then he’s reaching underneath to find my clit, the rhythm of his fucking the beat to my finger and I come hard, gripping the mattress to save my sanity because he makes me lose every ounce of my mind.
I come on my hand, my fingers saturated and I’m panting. Beneath me the sheet is wet and my nipples are exposed to the room. Sleeping naked is new, but I want to feel the sheets over my skin because any sensation is craved. Needed.
The floor is cool beneath my feet, contrasting sharply against the sticky warmth of my bed. I would stay in bed, but it would be a waste of a day when I don’t have anything planned; a day to get ready before we head off tomorrow for three weeks’ vacation on a tropical island as far away from the public as we can find ourselves.
Today I plan to ride, see the mountains and the loch for one more time before I’m away because homesickness is real and I know within a few days I’ll be craving the dark grey of the water and the wave of the pines.
I need real, not these wicked thoughts of Ben which reduce me to living in a world fabricated from fantasy. Still naked, I pull back the curtain enough to look out at the loch, knowing that the rough land outside means no one will catch sight as it’s rare for anyone to be there.
But I’m not alone.
Ben’s standing on the rocks, looking out to the water at the oncoming clouds. Weather spotting.
It’s almost like he knows I’m there, as he turns round to my window. He’s naked from the waist up, his skin tanned and muscles cut, wearing army fatigues that are worn.
I drop the curtain open and stand at the full-length window naked, knowing he’ll see me. Wanting him to see me.
He stares, the movement of the material catching his attention if it wasn’t there already. My arms fall to my sides, my nipples still puckered and I know that the top of my inner thighs is shiny with my arousal, which is now heightening once more as his stare touches my skin.
