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For me Sunday morning is all about masturbation. Others spend it in church, I let my fingers do the walking, and today I had good reason to. I don’t know what I’ve switched on up top, but I’m not complaining. Sex dreams have reigned for two consecutive nights (or mornings).
The brain has an inbuilt editor; logic hides away, and the Id comes out to play, heading right into that pleasure zone. So I’m ushered straight through the departure gate, and arrive on the other side, only to have a couple of sour looking femmes ask me ten million questions, eyeing me like I’m a terrorist:
“Where’s your photo ID?”
Then it hits me. Where is my ID? I know that it’s not going to be easy. The first female, a hardened veteran, screws up her face and sweetly tells me that I won’t be going anywhere, while the second regards me with a sneer.
“In this country, you’re supposed to have photo ID,” said the first airport officer, a woman in her mid to late thirties, boasting a tight perm circa Eighties. So I tell her that I’m aware of that, it’s just slipped my mind.
The other woman laughs. “Slipped your mind?” They both laugh, and I feel like I’m the new girl in high school.
They ask me where I’m from
“Yeah but you’re parents aren’t from here,” said Miss Perm, her eyes smiling at her cohort.
I shrug and casually reply. “I may be an adult but I am not as old as to have a coiled perm from the seventies.”
The comment throws them, but they’re sluggish, quite comfortable in their seats behind the desk, and I make a run for it, turning the corner to see a maze of white doors. So I’m opening, it’s like a movie moment where one confronts a couple of locked doors, only to stumble on an unlocked door. I push through, no time to look behind me, and end up in another bare interrogation room, race out of that, to turn yet another corner, and it feels like I’m running in circles, only to end up in a staff bathroom. I look for a place to hide, dreading the usual toilet cubicle, and stealthily walk past the shower, briefly admiring the wet male body. I step into a cubicle, too afraid to close the door, and peer from the gap. A second man enters, completely naked, and walks, cigarette in hand, toward the cubicles. I’m rooted to the spot. It’s too late to close the door, and he stops in front of my cubicle, curious and well aware of my predicament but he remains silent. His awareness of my vulnerable state dances in his eyes, and I go first, telling him that I have to get out, while admiring his tight butt.
The scene changes, and we’re huddled in the cubicle. I’m on the seat, getting naked for him, and he’s kneeling on the tiles, cigarette in hand. I then give him a guided tour; his free hand roams up and down, rubbing and pinching every bit of flesh on my torso for a little while. I’m writhing about on the toilet lid, legs apart, and clamp down on his two fingers as they begin to fuck me. The fact that he’s a stranger, that I’m using the moment to gain freedom fades to the background. He’s all the way inside, and my hips become possessed by my own greed to conclude the moment with a climax. His tongue interrupts the proceedings, casually licking me in a straight up and down line, and I help him clear the – hairless path – by prying myself apart to the tune of my breathless grunt.
I’m not a great conversationalist in the sack; in my wakeful state I’m big on actions speaking louder than words but in this scene, I transform into a torrid little whore.
I tell him to eat me, to stick his tongue inside my cunt and swallow in the ‘open up and say ahh,’ kind of way, before grinding my pussy against his mouth. Seconds pass, and my enjoyment is interrupted by his cock. He slides it in for a short fuck, and I pretend to enjoy it, until he pulls out and comes on the floor. I dress, and find that the front, right leg of my jeans has a gaping hole, from thigh to foot, that’s only held together by threads. I opt for a brisk walk, just in case, and find myself in another maze, turning into more corridors, entering more doorways, finding myself in another location within the building. I see another man, this time dressed like a clown in red polka dotted overalls, and he walks through a gap that looks like a set of jaws that open and close repeatedly. I race over to where he stood and see him standing at the other end of the room. I’m about to walk through when the jaws close, and as they close halfway, I see the clown jump high, to return to the same spot, but sinking into the floor. The wall in front of him opens, as does the wall near me, and people race through, to run past me before the jaws snap closed. Really strange, but it’s a whacky dream. Shit does happen.
He walks out, and I run in, knowing that’s my only way to get out of the place. I take his position, bend at the knee and spring upward, for him to reappear behind me, this time naked except for his face paint. He licks my naked back and I shiver as I feel him near the back of my neck. I’m distracted by his warm breath against my skin and his musky scent. Then his hard cock squeezes between my thighs and plunders my pussy. It’s as though an invisible pair of hands are holding me in place as this clown-lothario fucks me senseless. I sway, my thoughts dissolve and all that remains is the thought of my pussy being hammered by an energetic cock and just as I’m about to climax, my feet sink into the floor on my return, except the door’s not opening. I try it again, nothing, and at this point my frustration’s soaring. I can’t do it, gravity isn’t helping me any and despite my state of sexual arousal, I begin to panic.
That’s where I wake up. I ended up finishing the job a little later with a trusted phallic toy because the dream didn’t fade into the background.
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