That Dratted Affair with the Dream Engine
Page 2
Just as her breath roughened into a new rhythm, she said, "No more." She grasped my hair and pulled me away, her cock springing from my mouth with drips of saliva. I cried out.
Annette pushed me back into the bed, and suddenly she was over me, limbs caging me, hot chest low over mine. "I want to save some for you," she grated, huskily, and kissed me on the mouth—sucking, pulling. The round tip of her cock poked, then slid, against the slick, voluptuous flesh between my legs. With some astonishment, I realized that I was very, very wet. She smoothed the stray, wet strands of hair from my forehead with her warm hands and said, "I want you to feel like a woman where it counts."
To accentuate her words, Annette dipped her hips and ground her cock against me. I had opened my mouth to say something, but only a wordless garble came out as the length of her slid deliciously over my folds, and I shuddered almost violently. She was smiling at me underneath the dark moustache and was thumbing my cheeks with the broad pads of her thumbs. Again and again, she slipped against me, drawing pleasure and desire from me in long strokes.
I had never— Oh, but I wanted—
"Annette," I said, a strained whisper.
She smiled, and kissed me, and slid against me. I cried into her mouth. My nose was filled with the masculine scent of her—the salt of sweat, the musk of man. When our lips parted, she pulled her head back to lap first one nipple, and then the other. "Are you ready...wife?" she—oh, he—asked in a throaty rumble.
His head rested just against my clitoris, causing a single point of white-hot need to kindle and grow. I could barely think for it. He tapped once, twice, with his cock. A wave of mindless lust screamed through me.
I bucked against him, seeking, thrusting, but he raised his hips so that he was ever just out of reach, only gently touching. Panting, I fell still.
"Tell me you want it, Jeremy," he said.
If I did not, I would go mad. I felt the edge of hysteria. I grit my teeth, then said, "I want it."
That wolfish upturn of his lips. "Be naughty to me, Jeremy."
I stared at him with wide eyes. I paused, then exhaled and whispered, "Fuck me."
His grin grew. "Yes," he breathed, licking my lips with a quick, lupine flick of his tongue. He pulled back, and when he thrust forward, his cock slid into me—stretching me, impaling me.
My breath caught and I stared up at him, slack-jawed. He hovered, unmoving, as he watched my face. Gaze fixed on mine, he drew back and advanced again—slowly, torturously. Again, he repeated the movement, while every muscle in my body tensed and trembled. Then, he stuck me with a quick, deep thrust. When he pulled back slowly, every nerve grabbed out for him. I closed my eyes and sighed, shudderingly. I opened them again to find him studying me. His eyes were hungry. He was playing with me.
I could not take it. "Fuck me," I grated. "Fuck me now." I grabbed his ass in my hands and pulled down on his hips, savagely.
With a grunt and a coarse laugh, he thrust deeply again, then again, and again. It stole my breath.
"Is this what you want, vixen?" he growled, and impaled me again. I couldn't speak to reply, only tightened my grip on his ass until he began fuck me—really fuck me. He thrust into me rhythmically until I shifted up and down in the sheets, the bed rocked, and his thighs slapped against mine.
His breath heaved like a bellows. Having found my voice, I cried out, long and loud. Above me, Annette grunted and pounded into me, his pace quickening as my voice deepened with desperation. I wanted him. I wanted him in me like this—deeper, faster, breath, sweat.
The heat between us grew, damp and tremoring. I could feel him grow harder inside of me, somehow more substantial. More imminent.
The hungry, burning need grew warmer and spread up my belly and over my thighs. Then, too, a tingling began, following wherever the warmth had gone, but slower and pleasantly ominous. I sensed an approaching brink.
"Say it," he ground.
The need demanded that I say the words. Gustily, I said, "Fuck me! Annette, fuck me!" Then, "I want you to come inside me!"
The tingling spread, and suddenly, it was all crashing over me and I was crying out and spasming beneath him. The muscles in my lower abdomen clenched and unclenched uncontrollably.
Annette howled and then went hoarse, collapsing over me. He panted, spent.
After a time, Annette rolled from me and lay at my side. One hand rested on my breast, petting and pressing idly. I was still almost painfully swollen, but already the desire began to stir in me again.
"I knew you would like it," Annette said, almost drowsily. His finger twirled around my nipple, causing it to pucker. Fires that had been banked began to slowly smolder between my legs. Lazily, lovingly, he began to squeeze my soft breast. He said, "We will have such a good time together. I know it."
Puzzled, I looked at him. He smiled at me, so very sweetly. He said, "This isn't just a dream, Jeremy. This was not the real surprise. Mr. Foster’s machine does more than transplant dreams. It can transport souls." He reached out to brush the backs of his fingers against my cheek, oh so gentle. The gesture was comforting, possessive, and sweetly...masculine. It both relaxed and scared me, but did nothing to my returning lust except fan the flames. He said, "The orgasm completed it, darling." Rolling onto his elbows, Annette leaned down to kiss me. His hand squeezed my breast again—this time, not lazily. "This is your new body, Jeremy," he said, smoothly mounting me again. "Surprise."
My eyes were wide. "No..." I breathed.
"Yes," he murmured. He was hard again. His cock pressed against my entrance, and I was already ready for him. It stifled every protest I'd had. I simply...wanted him. "Think of all the wonderful fun we shall have, my sweet. My wife."
He lowered his mouth to kiss me.
I came to. It was with a dry mouth, an aching back, and stiff limbs. My head was filled with cotton, and when I attempted to move, everything tipped and spun. I felt my stomach leap up against the back of my throat and struggled to hold it down as I rocked forward.
"Jeremy!" A body pressed against mine, slight and smelling of lavender. A slender arm hugged my shoulders.
I looked up and opened my eyes. "Annette?" It was her, dark curls framing her face. I struggled to make sense of my vision, of my world.
"It was just a dream, sweetheart." She kissed my damp forehead. Her eyes, when I met them, were clouded with concern. She said, "I was beginning to worry. When the recording ended and Mr. Foster disconnected us, we couldn't wake you. Are you all right?"
The stiff chair was real underneath me, its wooden armrests solid underneath my palms. My stomach had dropped back down to its proper place in my abdomen. I was breathing. My cock was curiously sore, and I was embarrassed to detect a sticky dampness in my trousers. But I was male. I was myself.
"Annette," I said, and my voice sounded so deep, so low in my throat. I licked my lips. I said, "Annette, no more surprises."
Her lips pursed into an innocent bow, and her brows knitted so delicately. "No, dear. Of course not..." she said, and kissed me. As she did, her hand touched my chest and brushed idly over my nipple. "...husband."
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About the author:
Christine Danse is a native Floridian, a rather rare species of hominid with an aversion to the sun and a love of air conditioning. She has been writing stories of fantasy and the paranormal since she was old enough to hold a pen, and she has been telling them even longer. She is particularly fond of shape-shifters and strange steampunk, although she has yet to write a story that involves both. (The excitement might cause her to spontaneously combust.) She lives in Ft. Lauderdale with her dog, Bait; her best friend, Rhianna; and the two talking cats from whom they rent.
Connect with Me Online:
Twitter: http://twitter.com/dansedesirable
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/christinedanse
My home page: http://www.christinedanse.com
My Tumblr: http://whispersfromtrees.tumblr.com
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That Dratted Affair with the Dream Engine