Dreams of 18(94)

It’s us: him and me. The new us that we’ve created together.

I told him that night when I wore the red dress for him, that I want us to be us, just him and me.

This is us.

Wild and savage and filthy and beautiful. Beauty and The Beast.

And I’m right there, right on the edge of coming for him. He probably senses that, sees it on my face and knows it from the way I’m squirming now, restlessly and erratically.

Because he pushes me over the edge with this:

“I’ll keep you here, you understand?” he whispers, penetrating my soul with his gaze that surprisingly looks very clear and alert despite his heavy, erotic breathing. “I’ll keep you safe, in my lap. I’ll hide you in my arms. No one will hurt you, baby. Ever. No one will ever make you feel scared. I won’t let them.”

At this, my eyes clench shut and I come.

I have to. I have no choice but to let go and let his words, his look of pure possession take over.

It makes me sob, my climax, it’s so brutal. It’s so all-consuming that I go completely rigid in his arms, so completely frozen and he hugs me then. He brings me to his chest and tucks my face into his neck, as he moves inside of me.

I pant on his skin with an open mouth as I come and come. I even feel my pussy leak all over his jeans. I feel the juices running out from my fluttering hole and seeping into the fabric and his skin, and it makes me come even harder.

It makes my holes clench and that sets him off.

That makes him splatter his cum inside of me, all thick and hot, covering my walls for the very first time. He jerks below me, his hips pumping once and twice, three times before he completely empties and fills my ass up to the brim.

Through all this, he keeps his arms wrapped around me. He keeps me safe in them, hides me away from everything.

Then he whispers, “Happy birthday a day early, baby.”

And I die, or at least, tears leak out of me as this pain grips my heart.

He remembered.

He remembered my birthday even when I forgot. It’s my birthday tomorrow and I’ve been busy living the dream that it completely slipped my mind.

But he remembered.

On top of that, he gave me a gift for it. This was a gift, wasn’t it? He gave me what I wanted from him. I wanted him to take my ass and he did.

But he gave me another gift too.

He calmed down my anxious thoughts. He claimed me in front of someone, picked me over everything and gave me the strength to look a stranger in the eyes while standing up for him.

Finally, I understand the restlessness that I felt when Graham stopped me from spilling my biggest secret in front of Richard.

That restlessness was because I wanted to tell Graham. I wanted him to know.

Because how could I have not told him yet? How could I have been so selfish? I can’t have him fighting the world for scaring me when he doesn’t know the truth.

Besides, it doesn’t matter if he can’t love me. It doesn’t matter that he’ll never love me. Or that he’ll stop looking at me the way he usually does, like I’m his world.

Love isn’t about asking someone to love you back.

It’s about loving.

It’s about finding that thing you love and letting it kill you because you’re going to die anyway. And what better way to go than at the hands of someone you love.

That’s what Bukowski said, didn’t he? Those were the words that pushed me to kiss him that night when I turned eighteen. So it’s only symmetric that they push me now.

I’ll tell him the truth and maybe he’ll kill me. But it’s okay.

Because all along he’s been telling me what I deserve, and I’ve finally realized what he deserves.

He deserves the truth.





I told him to paint my nails the other day.

We were on the bed, getting ready to sleep. He’d just come out of the bathroom, all bare-chested and wearing those plaid pajamas of his when the inspiration struck me. I was propped up on the pillows, wearing his shirt that I stole from him as soon as he got home from work – no panties – lifted my leg up and wiggled my toes.

“Will you paint my toes, Mr. Edwards?” I asked, swirling a lollipop in my mouth.

He prowled toward me, making all the lust inside me wake up. Not that it ever goes to sleep when he’s around but still.

He reached the bed and looked at my lifted leg once before focusing on my core, which I was accidentally-on-purpose flashing him.

“Do I look like a dumb college kid to you, Jailbait?” he rasped, glancing back at me.

I lowered my leg onto the bed but kept my thighs open for him. “You look like a sexy hunk of a man right now and I want you to paint my toes.”

I thought he wouldn’t; I was just kidding.

But he grabbed the shiny nail polish bottle from the side table where I’d left it the last time. Then, he climbed on the bed and knelt between my open legs. He clutched my ankle, widened my legs even more so I was open for him and put it on his hard thigh before getting down to work.

He meticulously painted every little toe of mine. Every single one as he bent over me and stroked the tiny little brush just so.

He wouldn’t even look at her, my pussy, that he’d spread my legs for, and for some reason that made her wetter, sloppier.

But more than that it filled me with so much love for him that once he was done, I legit attacked him. I pounced on him and kissed his entire face, ruining his work on my toes in the process but whatever.