MSD: Night Seven - His story
He hadn’t jacked off this much in one week since he had fallen in lust with that blonde chick from Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine” video, the one that flashed her extremely nice tits at the band. He had never wanted to be a rock star as bad as at that moment. But instead, here he was, with Bon Jovi on the radio and this dream re-playing in his head. The woman, she felt like she was really there when he dreamt of her, she just wasn’t next to him when he woke up. This afternoon, he had stopped to buy his mom a bouquet of daisies for her birthday, one for every year she’d lived. He had looked up in time to see her eyes, the mysterious changing blue-green color (they always turned green as she came in his dreams) flashing. Her eyes had slid him over and then were gone, the gold and red hints in her hair visible in the dappled sunlight. Seeing her, and it had to be her, had startled him so badly that he had just paid for his flowers and practically run away. He had still been willing his woodrow down as his and his mother’s lunches were being served. The idea that she had been so close, if it was her, really her… Why had he run away? And tonight’s dream had to be more that just late-night Chinese food revisited…
Open your eyes.
There she’d been, in a big, old claw-foot tub, big enough for two, surrounded by daisies, like that young chick in roses from the Kevin Spacey film, the one that won all the awards, American Beauty. Daisies were clinging to her, their scent reminding him of the field where he used to hide in the summer. She picked up a flower by its stem, licked the outer edges of the petals:
Where do you want me to put this?
She rose out of the tub, creamy, white blooms strategically placed, sticking to her skin. She pulled him to her, sank back into the tub, the crushed flowers giving off an intoxicating smell. Her teeth grasped his boxers and led them toward the floor. She looked up at him, a smile on her face:
Or maybe I should ask, where do you want me to put this?
She inhaled him, swirled her tongue around the head and took him so deep in her mouth she was using her tongue to lap at his balls. She pulled him into her throat, using her muscles to milk him, faster, faster, she moved up and down, her tongue never stopping, her breath hot and gasping. She was working him, so hard, so light, so fast, he didn’t have time to get ready, didn’t have time to tell her to slow down, he wanted to enjoy this, no time to tell her any of the hot phrases he thought she would want to hear, or should hear:
Come for me.
It had to have come from in his mind because her lips never unwrapped from his dick. He started to shudder, a short series, until it grew and grew, until he felt like the back of his head exploded out the end of his cock.
This was insane. He had to meet her, to touch her once in person, because she just had to exist somewhere…
