A Dream So Real It Still Burns My Skin

The edge of dawn is an instant that lasts as long as the body decides.

No clock can measure it precisely. It is that singular moment when darkness gives way without a sound, when the first rays of sun slip through the half-open blind and draw thin, almost timid stripes across the sheets. The air smells different at this hour. Cleaner. With something that calls to mind damp earth and time that has not yet been used by anyone.

The night is still here. But it is no longer in charge.

I've been awake for a few minutes now, although “awake” is not quite the right word. I'm in that in-between state where the mind floats unmoored and the body feels before the head processes anything. Eyes closed. Slow breathing. The familiar weight of the sheets over my hips. The heat the bed keeps after hours of still sleep.

I don't want to move. Not yet.

There is something about this edge of dawn, this porous border between what was and what is about to be, that feels to me like the most honest hour in the world. No obligations yet. No noise from what comes after. Just this body, this warm bed, and that clarity advancing patiently from the balcony until it finds me.

I breathe in deeply. The silence in the room has its own texture at this instant.

And then I feel it.

Heat behind me.

Not the impersonal warmth of the sheets or the pillow, but another heat: one that breathes, that has weight and volume, that settles against my back with the familiarity of someone who has already been there before. A body rising and falling with the rhythm of breathing. Warm. Present. Real in a way I find hard to question, even though something deep inside me knows I should.

I stay perfectly still.

I know that if I move, I will break something. I don't know exactly what, but I have that certainty that needs no reasoning. So I remain motionless, eyes still closed, and let that warmth wrap around me while I try not to think too hard about whether any of this makes sense or not.

His breathing comes slow and even. Deep. Still halfway between sleep and waking, just like me.

And then his hand comes.

At first it's only a brush over my hip. His fingers aren't looking for anything in particular: they follow the curve of my body with a slowness that has no hurry, as if they were learning something they already know by heart. A big, warm hand, one that remembers the contours before the rest of him has fully awakened. Without me noticing, he's pulled me a few centimeters closer to him, and in that small movement I feel against my ass the hard bulge of his cock, still trapped in the fabric of his boxer briefs, heavy and hot against the curve of my butt.

I keep pretending to sleep.

But my body is no longer asleep. My pussy throbs slowly, like an extra heartbeat, and I feel the wetness beginning to gather between my thighs without any way to stop it.

His palm finds my belly and rests there for a moment, still, warm, doing nothing else. I can feel the heat passing through the thin fabric of my nightgown. His thumb moves only slightly, a tiny, slow semicircle, almost absentminded. As if his hands knew the way even though he himself was not quite present yet. That minimal caress sends a shiver starting in my stomach and shooting straight to my nipples, which harden beneath the fabric until they ache.

I bite the inside of my lip so I won't make a sound.

His breathing against the back of my neck changes. It is no longer so deep or so slow. Shorter, more awake. He presses lightly against me with his hips and I feel what is between his legs: the entire shaft, thick, marking the groove between my ass cheeks over my clothes, shifting only in small lazy thrusts that search for the gap. A concentrated heat, unmistakable, resting against my butt with deliberate pressure, though still restrained. Still waiting.

—You're awake —he says. It's not a question. His voice has that thickness of someone just waking up, low and a little rough, and that roughness runs through me in a way I can't pretend I don't notice.

I don't answer.

—It's okay —he murmurs—. You don't have to say anything. I know what you want.

His lips find my neck. A soft kiss at first, almost without force, barely a touch. Then another with a little more intent. His tongue brushes my skin, nips slowly under my ear, and I have to control my breathing so it doesn't show too much how much this affects me. I don't quite manage. A small moan slips from between my teeth.

His hand leaves my belly and moves up. Slowly, with a certainty that doesn't need to rush. When it reaches my chest, it doesn't squeeze: it just rests there, warm and firm, learning again what it already knows. His fingers find the nipple over the fabric and pinch it lightly, rolling it between thumb and forefinger until my back arches without my being able to stop it. And that, paradoxically, is what makes me want more.

I give in without saying it.

I move my hips back, seeking him, rubbing my ass against his hard cock until I hear him let out a low growl. Only a small gesture, but enough for him to understand without me having to explain anything. His hand on my chest reacts: it squeezes slowly, knowingly, calibrating the pressure as if he has known me forever. His fingers push the nightgown up over my tits and now it's skin against skin, and the bare nipple against his rough palm tears a gasp from me that I can no longer disguise.

—Like that —he says, just above a whisper—. Keep moving like that for me.

His hand drops. Not in a hurry, but with that specific calm of someone who knows exactly where he's going and has no need to get there quickly. It passes over my hip, down the outside of my thigh, then up the inside with a patience that starts driving me insane in the best possible way. When it reaches its destination, it finds what I already knew it would find: heat, wetness, a soaked pussy opening under the first touch, the want I've been holding since the moment I felt him behind me.

—Fuck —he murmurs against my neck—. Look at you. You're dripping.

His fingers move slowly. With a precision that is not mechanical but deliberate, as if each motion were a question waiting for an answer in my body. He traces the lips of my pussy from top to bottom, gathering the wetness with two fingers, spreading it across my sex until the clit is slippery and throbbing. Slow circles around the little bud, not touching it directly yet, torturing me. Exact pressure when he finally covers it with the pad of his middle finger. The rhythm that empties my head of everything else.

Then he goes lower. One thick finger slides into me without resistance, sinking all the way in, and I involuntarily clench around it with a long gasp. It comes out slowly, soaked, and another one goes in. Two fingers fucking me with a methodical slowness while his thumb keeps tracing circles over my clit.

—You're so tight in here —he says—. The way you squeeze.

My body responds without me having to decide anything.

My hips start moving on their own, riding his fingers, searching for the rhythm he's offering. I lean back against his chest and he receives me. With his free hand he yanks down his boxer briefs, and now it is the naked cock pressing against my ass: hot, hard, the tip already wet, dripping against my skin. His leg opens mine from behind with gentle firmness, leaving me exposed, and he pulls his fingers out of my cunt only long enough to replace them with something else.

I feel the thick head of his cock rubbing against my soaked lips. Up and down, sliding along the entire slit, coating itself in my wetness. It stops at the entrance for a second, pressing lightly, making me wait.

—Ask me —he whispers in my ear.

—Fuck me —I gasp—. Put it in already, please.

He enters me slowly. So slowly it takes an eternity, pushing centimeter by centimeter, opening me little by little until I feel him all the way inside, thick and hot and pulsing against my walls. And that eternity is exactly what I needed.

A long sound escapes me, a guttural moan I don't recognize as my own. He answers with one lower, more contained, almost a sigh of relief against the back of my neck.

—Hold still —he murmurs, and it is not an order: it is a caress spoken aloud—. Let yourself feel all of it.

He stays buried to the hilt, not moving, letting me feel every millimeter of that cock filling me completely. I can feel it throbbing inside me, feel my cunt adjusting around it, feel the wetness sliding down my thigh. Only then does he start to move: back very slowly, almost all the way out, then inside again with the same premeditated slowness.

We move together with that deliberate laziness that only exists in the mornings, when the body is still full of night heat and in no hurry to get anywhere. No urgency. Nothing that needs to be achieved quickly. His hips set a steady rhythm that matches mine without apparent effort, thrusting from behind with long, deep strokes that shake me slowly against the mattress. One hand on my breast, squeezing my tit, pinching the nipple. The other on my clit, never stopping, drawing those circles that have had me on the edge from the start.

I grip his arm with both hands. I cling to him as if he were the only stable thing in this dawn dissolving gently around us. Every time he drives all the way in, the wet sound of our bodies colliding mixes with my ragged breathing and the faint creak of the mattress.

—Don't stop —I tell him, and my voice sounds rougher than I expected, more urgent—. Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop.

He doesn't stop. On the contrary: he speeds up a little, pushing a bit harder, and the sound of his hips hitting my ass becomes constant. His cock comes in and out with a perfect rhythm, and I feel moans slipping out of me, getting sharper and sharper, ones I don't even try to hold back.

—That's it —he pants in my ear—. Just like that, for me. Keep squeezing me like that.

The heat rises from where we're joined and spreads outward in waves that keep taking territory. Into my thighs, my back, the base of my neck. My breathing turns uneven. He adjusts the angle, lifts my leg with the hand that was on my breast and opens me a little more, and suddenly his cock hits a precise spot with every thrust, an exact place where pleasure branches and grows until I can no longer even try to contain it.

—I'm going to come —I warn him, my voice breaking—. I'm going to come on your cock.

—Come —he growls—. Come with me inside you.

I arch. He holds me by the hip with a firm hand, fingers digging into my skin, and keeps thrusting with that cadence that no longer lets up. The other hand continues without pause on my clit, pressing, rubbing, demanding.

And then it comes: a long, sustained peak that shoots through me from top to bottom and leaves me breathless for several seconds. My muscles clench hard around his cock, a deep spasm repeating in waves, and he feels it, and that pushes him to the edge too. I hear his breathing break in my ear, a rough grunt against my neck, his fingers digging into my skin until it hurts, and suddenly I feel the heat of his load spilling inside me, pounding against the deepest point in several thick bursts while he keeps thrusting slowly, emptying himself completely, until he falls still pressed to my back. Then that moment of absolute stillness when both of us remain motionless, glued together, sharing the heat and the silence of after. I can feel his cock still throbbing inside me, feel the cum beginning to seep slowly from the place where our bodies meet.

Only the sound of our breathing. Recovering. Little by little.

***

The bed is cold.

I open my eyes and the light has already advanced quite far across the room. The sun is higher than it should be if everything before had been real. There is no one behind me. The sheet on the other side is flat, untouched, without the weight or warmth of any body. Only the pillow, and my own hand still clutching the fabric of the sheets.

I lie there staring at the ceiling for a few seconds without moving.

It was a dream. Of course it was a dream.

But my body hasn't gotten the memo yet. My skin is still burning, my nipples hard against the fabric of my nightgown, my thighs tense. My breathing slowly returns to normal. Between my legs there is a wetness that has nothing dreamlike about it: that is completely real, a warm pool against my soaked panties, completely mine, completely present in this room where no one else is.

I move slowly beneath the sheets. I stretch. I let the memory of the dream settle without trying to analyze it or understand it or dissect it.

His voice still echoes somewhere in my head. Hold still. Like that. Come with me inside you.

I bring my hand to my body.

Not in a hurry. Following the same deliberate slowness he had in the dream. My fingers trace the path his traced: belly, hip, inner thigh. I move the fabric of my panties aside and find myself completely soaked, the lips of my pussy swollen, the clit throbbing as if it had never stopped. I give myself the time to find that heat that is still there, waiting, not yet gone.

I don't try to bring the dream back. I just follow what it left behind on my skin.

Two fingers slide into my pussy with the same ease he had, and my thumb finds my clit without needing to search. My hips respond immediately, as if continuing something that was interrupted in the wrong place, riding my hand with a lazy sway. Pleasure returns without my needing to look for it too hard: it was close, stored away, only a few steps from where I left it. My fingers move with the pressure I know, the rhythm I know works, the angle that never fails. With my other hand I pinch a nipple through the nightgown, rolling it between my fingers just as he did.

I let the air out very slowly. A low moan slips from between my teeth.

The room is still. The sun keeps advancing without asking anyone's permission. Outside there is some persistent bird and the distant noise of a car. The world keeps going, but in here time still belongs to this: my fingers sunk into my own cunt, the wetness dripping down to my ass, the pulse of my clit beneath my thumb.

Pleasure rises again, more concentrated this time, more direct, more mine than anything else in this room. I bite my lower lip. My fingers do not stop. I speed up, squeeze a little harder, curve my fingers inside me, searching for the exact spot where he touched.

And when it comes, it is brief and clean and lonely and exactly what I needed. A sharp spasm that shakes my hips and tears a short moan into the pillow, while I feel my pussy clench several times around my own fingers.

I stay still with my hand still there, letting the last echoes fade on their own. My breathing evens out. My body settles. The sheet remains cold on the other side.

I smile without anyone seeing me.

The dream was exactly what I needed. Not because he existed, or because he was real, but because inside it I found what I had been looking for for days without knowing how to ask anyone for it: that slow attention, that sustained heat, that rhythm that competes with no one and nothing.

I made it all up. Every hand, every voice, every exact pressure in the exact place. Every inch of that cock filling me to the root.

And did I do a good job.

I turn toward the side where no one had been and stretch my arm over the still-cold pillow. Outside, the edge of dawn has already turned into morning. Inside here, so have I.