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© Sauce*Box, Summer 1999, All rights revert to author. Material may not be reused without author's explicit permission.
Return to Sauce*Box, Summer, 1999
Dreamlover
by Darla Michaels
He'd come to her again. The thought filled her head even before she opened her sleep-drugged eyes. She felt the wetness still clinging between her thighs and a pleasant tingle when she shifted her legs.
Melinda Baker turned over in the big bed—the same bed she'd shared with her husband until six short months before—and surveyed the room. Nothing had been touched, but she had already known that before she'd looked. With the slightest look of disappointment clouding her features, she swung her legs to the floor and sat at the edge of the bed.
"I'm losing my mind." The words were mere whispers in the silence of the bedroom. She didn't know what was happening to her, but the nighttime visits from her dream lover came with increasing frequency over the last week or so. Now, barely a night passed without her succumbing to the tumultuous desires that raged through her while her body slept. She could still feel his hands on her skin as he knelt over her on the bed. She could never quite see his face. It was always obscured by the shadows or by the angle of her legs as he drove himself powerfully into her. She shook her head and rose from the bed.
She sat down at her little vanity and stared at the hollows in her cheeks and the dark circles beneath her eyes. Whatever was happening, it was affecting her health. She decided then that she needed to see her doctor.
Her eyes closed, and then she was back in her dream.
His hand was feather-light on the smooth skin of her thigh, brushing down toward the inside of her knee. His touch was no longer strange to her senses. A slight frown marred the smoothness of her forehead when the sensuous longings filled her belly. His mouth reached for her in the darkness, kissing her with intense longing and pent-up passion. She didn't want to feel this way, but her body seemed to have a mind of its own. His fingertips were cool on her fevered skin, stroking her softly while his mouth plundered the softness of her lips.
In her dream, she gave into her desire for his gentle touch. When he nudged her onto her stomach, she moaned and shifted softly in her sleep. He was a masterful lover, giving more than he took, and making sure that no inch of her was left untouched by a hand or lips. Melinda shuddered softly as his mouth traced a fiery path across her shoulder blades, branding her wherever his lips touched. His hands held her arms gently to her sides, as he licked and sucked on her sleep-warmed skin. Before the dreams began, she'd never known how sensuous it was for a man to play his mouth over the skin of her back and shoulders. She felt his rigid manhood brush back and forth over the gentle swell of her buttocks, leaving a sticky trail of moisture over her skin.
Her hips circled slowly, pressing her mons against the tangled bed-sheets beneath her. His hands were smooth and silky on her thighs as he kneaded the muscles that were tight with anticipation, making them relax and open for his fingers. He stroked her slowly - long, gentle slides of cool fingertips on excited flesh. She whimpered with need. He crawled over her supine form, straddling her hips and laying the thick firmness of his cock in the deep crevice of her ass. His cock was warm on her skin, and she loved the feel of his balls nestled between her thighs.
"You look beautiful, Melinda. Just like I remember."
She stiffened instantly. His voice was maddeningly familiar, yet try as she might, she couldn't place it.
"Who are you?" she whispered, "why is this happening?"
He answered by rearing back, pulling up her hips, and smoothly driving his cock deep inside her body. God, he felt so good.
He seemed to know just what would make her crazy, and he timed his strokes perfectly. He slid into her with agonizing slowness, letting her body adjust to his presence. His hips rocked gently forward, then back with infinite patience—as if he had all the time in the world to give her pleasure. Melinda moaned and writhed on the bed. Gentle waves of sensation washed through her body, carrying her along on their frothy crests.
Just when she knew orgasm was inevitable, his tempo changed and he pulled her back from the edge. She whimpered with frustration; she had been so close.
"Please..." she begged. Her voice was husky with urgency.
The distress in her voice seemed to excite him further, intensifying the strength of his strokes. He plunged into her, driving her into the firm mattress. Her eyes clenched tight, wincing as he dug his fingertips into the soft skin of her hips. This time, when he felt her muscles stiffen, he allowed her to succumb.
"Yes, Melinda...come for me." His words floated in her mind like the whisper of a breeze barely felt.
Melinda felt her body gathering for the sweet release it so desperately needed. Then it spiraled out of control, sending wave after wave of liquid fire through her veins. Desperate fingers gripped the sheets tangled beneath her wildly undulating body as he pummeled into her. She felt his body strain against her, and then a course groan reverberated in her head as he came. She once again lost conscious thought as her body responded to the pleasures he gave her, and she orgasmed again and again.
Her head snapped around to see him, to finally gaze upon his face, and just like every time before, the moment she turned to look at him—he was gone. The frustration stabbed at her mind and jolted her awake, only to still feel his touch, his body, his desire.
The morning went by slowly, and Melinda rolled up her sleeves, pulled storage boxes out of the garage, and finally packed away all of Adam's clothes and personal belongings. She allowed her mind to relive many of her fondest memories of their life together as she folded and sorted. Adam had been a sentimental man, and she found birthday cards, anniversary cards, and little mementos of their one vacation in fifteen years.
She gasped softly when she opened his nightstand drawer. There, in the very back, she found the tiny baseball mitt she'd given him three years before. They had been so excited about the baby. Adam seemed ready to burst when she'd told him that the years of tests and drugs were over; they'd finally succeeded in getting pregnant. When she miscarried two months later, they had held each other and cried for their lost child, and their battered souls. She
thought he'd gotten rid of the mitt, it was such a painful reminder. But Adam had just quietly put it away.
She wasn't even aware of the sobs that shook her shoulders as she sat holding the mitt against her chest. She cried for Adam, leaving this world with so much left undone. She cried for the children they would never have. And finally, she cried for herself, the loneliness welling up inside of her and spilling down her cheeks with her tears. Eventually, her tears subsided, and she lovingly placed the mitt back into the drawer.
She could almost feel the strength flowing through her as she taped the last box shut, and stood up to stretch the sore muscles in her back after hunching over the boxes all morning. 'I should have done this months ago,' she thought, 'maybe now I can heal.' Strangely, some of the grief seemed to have lifted, leaving her with a renewed sense of hope.
Around midnight, she dropped into bed, exhausted from the emotions of the day. Within minutes she was asleep, and not long after, fell into another variation of the now familiar dream.
The coolness of his fingertips brushing against her breast was her first perception. She looked up, trying to see his face, but the shadows once again conspired to hide his features. All she could see was the hint of his cheekbones and the darkness where his eyes and mouth should have been. His touch was slow, deliberate. He took her right nipple between his fingers and rolled it gently, making it harden and ache pleasantly. He drew tiny circles around her areola, causing it to pucker and tighten. She watched his finger as though it was the only thing left in the world; she couldn't have looked elsewhere if her life depended on it. His hand moved lazily down the slope of her breast, then along the slightly damp crease where breast met ribs. His touch was barely discernable.
The wet heat of his mouth descended on the rigid flesh of her nipple, and she shivered. Delicious tingles ran through her arms as he suckled her languidly. His every touch seemed to be in slow motion. Her hands found his hair, and slipped into the thickness, feeling the warm skin of his scalp beneath her fingers. She wondered for a moment why it felt so real, why HE felt so real.
Then all thought fled as she took him inside. She was ready for him, and he slid into her like a warm knife through butter. Only the wet sounds of his steady thrusts broke the silence. Words would only have intruded on the illusory encounter.
When she came, her juices flowed like thick honey. She felt him shudder as he joined her in sweet release.
"Melinda . . . " His voice was hauntingly familiar.
She reached quickly for the bedside light, but when brightness flooded the room, she was alone. Again.
She stared bleary-eyed at the alarm clock—4:53 am. "Screw it," she muttered, "this is getting ridiculous." She probably wouldn't be able to get back to sleep; she might as well just get up. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Her pussy felt full and still swollen with desire as she made her way to the bathroom. She got about halfway across the room before she felt the thick moisture rolling down the inside of her thigh.
"What the hell?" Her voice was a whisper in the room, but it sounded deafeningly loud to her own ears. She reached a trembling finger to the trail of sticky wetness and brought it to her nose. She smelled herself, but also the unmistakable scent of semen.
She didn't even make it to the chair before her legs gave out, and she sank to the floor. What was happening to her? She replayed as much of the dream as she could remember, trying to figure out if she truly was losing her mind. She concentrated on his voice, trying to remember it's cadence, but it was too foggy in her mind. She reached down and felt again the moisture that was smeared all over her pussy lips and the inside of her thighs. She actually felt like she'd just been thoroughly fucked.
She walked into the bathroom, turned on the lights, and gasped. Her image jumped out at her from the bathroom mirror. Her lips looked swollen and slightly raw, as if she were a teenager that had been groping and necking in the back seat of her parent's car. She stripped off her nightgown and studied her body with a critical eye, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Her breasts were full, and when she cupped their weight in her hands and brushed her thumbs slowly over her nipples, they felt tender to the touch.
She sat down on the edge of the tub, buried her face in her hands, and cried in confusion.
After her mind cleared a bit, she began to analyze the situation. It couldn't be just a dream; not with the way she looked, and the thick moisture that slid down the inside of her thigh, could it? She thought about all the nights she'd made love with the man in her dreams, and once again confusion pushed at her mind.
Maybe, just maybe, the dream lover really was pure fantasy—after all, her imagination had to be playing a cruel joke on her. She didn't really smell semen. That would be impossible. It was most likely just her body's reaction to a very erotic dream. The longer she sat and thought things out rationally, the more convinced she became that she was overreacting.
She shook her head wryly and laughed at herself. How silly she was. Of course it was just her libido raising its head; she'd been without a lover for six months. She was okay; there was nothing to be afraid of. As she turned on the faucet to the shower, she steadfastly ignored the slight tremor in her fingers.
Melinda had gone to Dr. Hastings for a couple of weeks following the unexpected death of her husband six months before. Adam had worked in the quality control department of a munitions plant. The main production of the facility was the firing caps that fitted onto some of the government's submarine missiles. Melinda didn't know exactly what he worked with; that information was classified. All she really knew—all that they'd told her—was that Adam had tried to help one of the crews remove a piece of jammed equipment. It blew up, and took Adam with it. Dr. Hastings had helped her deal with her utter devastation, and in desperation she made an appointment to see him later in the day.
"Hello, Melinda, it's good to see you again." Dr. Hastings was a good-looking man in his early forties. His salt and pepper hair was kept short, and not a single strand was out of place. "You look absolutely wonderful, I hardly recognized you when you first walked in." His eyes quickly took in the startling changes to her appearance since her last visit. Gone was the look of abject misery on her face, and her shoulders no longer looked rounded with sorrow, but his perusal didn't miss the faint shadows beneath her eyes, or the hollows that showed in her face.
Melinda smiled and blushed lightly at his compliment; she still wasn't used to feeling like she might be attractive to anyone other than Adam.
"I...I got my hair cut." Melinda touched the soft wing of hair that curved against her cheek. "I felt like I needed a change."
Dr. Hastings smiled at her approvingly, and ushered her to the big easy chair that stood in a small cozy corner of the office. He never sat at his desk while with a patient. He told her once that he wanted them to feel as though they were talking with a friend, not a doctor.
"What's wrong, Melinda...the last time I saw you, I felt that you were beginning to cope quite well with the accident. Has that changed?" He sat forward and took her trembling hand in his, stroking the skin softly while she gathered her courage.
"No, I am coping with the accident...at least I think I am. As a matter of fact, just yesterday I was able to finally say goodbye. This is something different, and frankly, I'm not even sure why I came. I guess I needed to tell someone what's been happening to me, and maybe you can help me put it into perspective." Melinda took a deep breath and blurted out: "I'm having these...disturbing dreams." Her voice shook slightly on the last word, and she felt the blood rush to her face.
Dr. Hastings seemed to immediately understand the source of her embarrassment, and looked straight into her eyes. "Sexual dreams? About Adam?"
Melinda blushed again and nodded. "Um, well, I'm not sure who they are about. I can't see his face, but they're...intense."
She tried to find some way to tell him about how real they seemed, so real they affected her physically, but couldn't find the right words. She sat next to him stiffly; wishing that she'd never made this appointment. She realized now that she couldn't tell him the truth, he'd think she had lost touch with reality, and she'd end up in deep therapy for years.
Dr. Hastings smiled at her. "Melinda, there is nothing to be embarrassed about. Sexual dreams are perfectly normal and healthy. Every adult has erotic dreams. I assume you haven't been active since Adam's death?" He waited for her nod before continuing, "You are a healthy young woman. It's only natural that your body's normal cravings invade your subconscious, and make their presence known in your dreams. Frankly, I'd be more concerned if you didn't have them. Desire is natural, and you needn't feel guilty."
Melinda felt relief flood over her when she realized that he didn't really take her seriously. She sat for a moment, making sure her relief didn't show in her voice, and said, "You're right. I guess I just needed someone to tell me it was okay. Thank you, Dr. Hastings, and I'm sorry to have bothered you over something so silly."
She rose quickly and offered him her hand. Dr. Hastings looked a bit bewildered at her abrupt about-face, but must have chalked it up to her warring emotions. As he walked her to the door, he told her, "Well, I'm glad I could help. It's good to see you feeling better, and the dreams really are a sign of healing."
Melinda smiled, nodded, and quickly left his office. As she entered the elevator, she started to laugh. She'd deal with whatever happened on her own.
That night, she decided to stay awake. She brewed a big pot of strong coffee, and curled up on the sofa with a notepad. Maybe if she wrote down everything she could remember about the dreams, they would start to make some sense. She filled page after page of notes in her flowing script, describing every touch, every nuance of the vivid dreams.
His voice nagged at her, worming its way into her mind. She knew she'd heard it before, knew that it was vitally important that she remember. But she just couldn't make the ephemeral threads come together. She sat for long moments, chewing on the end of her pencil, and just let her thoughts drift.
The sound of the pencil hitting the floor went unheard, as Melinda's head lowered, and her breathing evened out. Her body's need for sleep outweighed her desire to remain awake and alert.
His hand on her thigh was characteristically cool. She shifted on the couch and snuggled deeper into the cushions. Her thighs parted for his questing fingertips, and he stroked her pussy lightly, reverently. When his warm mouth touched her outer lips, she sighed softly in the quiet of the night.
His tongue played delicately across her rapidly moistening flesh, dipping and twirling. He spread her labia, and his tongue drifted slowly up the warmth of her slit, spreading her slick juice to cover the budding clit. Little flicks with the soft tip of his tongue had her moaning and squirming beneath him. The rigid length of his erection pressed against her calf as he rested between her legs.
He kissed his way up the curve of her mound and the gentle swell of her stomach before finally reaching her aching breasts. Once there, his lips tugged at her stiff nipples, pulling at them in turn while her hands tangled into his hair and pressed him closer. When his teeth closed firmly on the rigid flesh, her back arched involuntarily.
He entered her.
The first thrust of his hips buried his cock deeply inside of her welcoming body. She sighed with gratification as she felt him press forward, and her inner muscles caressed the length of his hot, hard cock. She clearly heard his moan inside of her mind as he pulled back, then drove into her again and again.
Their lovemaking felt almost like a dance—she moved in rhythm to his every stroke. His hips rose and fell in tempo with her thudding heart, bringing her closer to the edge of climax with every smooth flex of his buttocks.
Then she was lost. Sweet waves of blissful heat radiated upward from between her straining thighs, filling her mind with bursts of color as she gave into the need to be carried away. Her hands clutched him closer as her body arched into his bulk. Her moans of surrender were barely audible over the slap of his skin meeting hers.
He stiffened against her. His cock pulsed as she gripped him fiercely with her inner muscles—drawing his semen up his shaft into her steamy heat. She felt full.
"I love you, Melinda." His words struck fear in her heart as she finally admitted the truth.
Her eyes flew open and met the intense stare of her beloved, dead husband.
Time stood still. Her mind fought to deny what her eyes and body insisted was the truth. Adam. Hungrily, she searched his every feature: the deep brown of his eyes with little laugh-lines spreading outward, the strong, slightly crooked nose, and the achingly familiar smile—there was no denying it, this was her husband.
"How?" she breathed, "why?" Those two words held all the confusion, fear, and excitement that pulled at her mind.
His cool fingertips brushed a damp tendril of hair away from her face, and he smiled.
"My last gift, my darling. Goodbye." His voice was infinitely sad.
"But . . . " She struggled to hold onto her sanity.
"Hush, my love—You'll see."
She closed her eyes in confusion, and when she opened them again, he was gone.
He never again came for her in the dead of night. Night after night, she waited, hoping to have another hour with him, to ask him the questions that plagued her mind, but he remained absent.
After a year, she no longer expected to be awakened by the touch of cool fingertips on her over-heated flesh. She just didn't have time to think about it.
Baby Adam required all her energy.
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Return to Sauce*Box, Summer, 1999
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