She visited me again tonight. Like she had done before. I think she has been here at least 6 or 7 times, but never on two consecutive nights. She may have been here more often, but in the beginning I did not really notice her. She was just one in a long line of women, who visited my dreams. And like the others, I may not really have noticed her at all. When I woke up, all I could remember about them was: Did they have small tits or big tits, hairy pussy or shaved? They all had open thighs and wet, willing slits to receive my cock without any comments. Actually rather monotonous, I should say, but apparently their arrivals were synchronised with my hormone production, and they never failed to satisfy my dreams and make me wake up in a sticky pyjamas and rumbled sheets.
One night I noticed her. As a woman, that is. She had a kind smile on her pretty face, and I judged her to be somewhere in her forties, which would make her about ten years my senior. For the first time I looked one of my nightly visitors into her eyes. Phew. She had large greenish-brown eyes with a slightly sleepy and highly erotic slant. A fine net of wrinkles seemed to make them wider. They were eyes to loose your sanity in. As she stepped closer, in my dream, I appreciated her body. Small tits with upturned nipples, which had no need whatsoever of the flimsy bra, which encased them. Her beautiful flat tummy was crowned by a prominent naked mons. All of it framed by a lacy suspender belt and black stockings. From there on I lost it, she became just another dream fuck, leaving me sticky and relaxed in the morning.
She visited me twice in that outfit: Bra, suspenders and stockings. That was highly unusual. My nightly visitors had been one night stands all of them, as far as I could say, but then again, I had only been interested in their tits and their pussies, and the number of varieties is not that huge.
On her third visit my Dream Woman wore a slinky, diamond-blue cocktail dress. God, she looked ravishing. That pale blue, shimmering silk, her almost olive-brown skin, greenish-brown eyes and her head of dark brown, almost black hair! What a tasty symphony of colours. And she talked to me! In my dream. "Hello, Gene, have you missed me?" She stretched her arms above her head and made a twirl. "Do you like my new dress? It's so thin I can't wear anything under it." And then she did what most of my other visitors had done: She lifted her skirt, straddled me, and enveloped my hard cock with her hot, tingling pussy.
I did not do anything to change things, but every time something was different. About a month ago she visited me, dressed in very stylish suit. "Hello, Gene. I've booked a table for us, and I hope you'll let me invite you to dinner." For the first time I noticed that her voice was deep and low. I was fast asleep, but somehow I had a very interesting and animated conversation with this beautiful woman about one of my favourite subjects: Beethoven's symphonies and how they are interpreted by different conductors, plus a host of other subjects.
Apparently she was a highly intelligent and educated person, and yet she surprised me immensely by the end of our meal, when her face lit up in a big, provocative smile, and she opened her jacket to show me her lovely, small breasts. She seemed not to care one bit, if the other guests or the waiters were looking. She covered up again, smiled and said: "And now, dear Gene, you are going to take me home and fuck the life out of me."
I am happy to say that I did so. She was hot, willing, wet and delicious. I woke up Sunday morning two hours later than usual, sticky all over and tired, and I could not remember one tenth of the things we did in bed. One thing I do remember, though. In my dream she had fucked me wonderfully wicked, but when I wanted a fourth round my cock refused to cooperate. She chuckled a little and smiled: "Take it easy, Gene, I'll persuade him." She warmed the head in her mouth for a while, and then she rolled back my foreskin and tickled the underside with the tip of her tongue. And last, but certainly not least, she put her pointed tongue to my asshole and licked it, stuck her tongue a little bit inside, licked again... and suddenly my cock was back to his old strength. For the first time since she came to me, she rolled over to lie on her back, spread her legs wide and invited me in.
I was really spooked. What the hell was happening to me? I was falling in love with a woman who did not exist, a woman who was at least ten years older than me, and yet I thought she was incredibly beautiful and sexy. She was bright and cultivated, and all the times she had visited me she had been warm and caring, she had been willing, wet, and a little kinky. And yet I did not even have a name for her. That Sunday morning I decided to call her Mary, when I was thinking of her, which I did more and more frequently.
And when she turned up this night, saying her usual "Hello, Gene." I answered: "Hello, Mary."
Her answer was a pearly, ringing laughter. "Oh, dear, I never told you my name? Don't you think 'Mary' is a bit too virginal for me? I should be sorry if that's the impression you've got of me."
"Heavens, no. I never thought of you as virginal. But I had to give you a name for the times I daydream of you."
"Thank you, dear Sir, that you daydream of me. That's a compliment. Then I've better tell you my real name. It's 'Alexandra'. And by the way, I hate when people call me Alex."
"OK, Alexandra it is. What have you got for me tonight"?
"I've got a bottle of wine and a few snacks in my car. And a blanket. I'd like to take you for a ride, and I'd like to fuck you out in the open on this lovely spring night, if we find a private place." As we crossed the valley, which divides our town into two, she pointed vaguely to the northern slope and said: "I live over there."
We were about 20 minutes out of town when she slowed down and took a turn into the wood. When she finally stopped, her car could not be seen from the road. "I know a place in here. Will you carry the basket, then I'll take the blanket and the lamp." She walked ahead of me down a narrow path, and suddenly a small opening appeared. She spread out the blanket and knelt to light up the small kerosene lamp. She patted the blanket with her right hand, so I set down the basket, and a little later myself.
"Please, pour us a couple of glasses of wine, while I get comfortable. You know, it's still too early in the spring for the mosquitoes to be out." She pulled off her coat, which left her pretty breasts to be seen behind a see through black shirt. Then she wriggled out of her skirt. No suspenders this time. A G-string and stay-up stockings. I was mesmerised by the beautiful sight. She noticed, and laughed at me: "I see you like what you see. You haven't even uncorked the bottle, yet." I hurried to open the bottle and pour two crystal glasses full. When I turned to hand her one, she had sat down on the blanket, Indian style, presenting me to the wonderful sight of the G-string disappearing between her pouted lips. She stretched out the other hand and said: "Let me hold yours while you get out of your clothes." When I was down to my Y-fronts I was going to sit down, but she stopped me. "Oh, no, I want to see if you like me. Get them off."
Finally we had both settled down. She raised her glass to toast me. I blew her a kiss over the rim of the glass. "God, you're so beautiful. This wine is a fine compliment to you."
"You don't mind I'm a bit older than you?"
"Heavens, no. You are prettier and bolder than any woman I've met up to now."
"Of course I am. I'm your dream woman, you know. I'm the sum of all the women you've dreamed of. Not the ones you needed just for a wet and willing pussy, mind you. I've got that, too, but I'm also the sum of the real women you dreamed of."
"Is that why I think I'm falling in love with you?"
"Poor Gene. You know that can't be, don't you? I'm your dream woman. I can see you are getting excited, but I think we should talk a little more. Move over here." She opened her legs and begged me closer. When I was very close she moved her legs up across mine, till my cockhead was pushing against the gusset of her G-string. Slowly she pulled the string aside and guided the tip of my cock into her opening. God, she was wet and warm. I had expected her to impale herself on me, but she stopped moving as soon as the head was buried in her warm cunt. Instead she threw her arms round my neck and buried her head at my shoulder.
It was the first time ever that I had been in that position: Sitting upright with the tip of my cock buried in a lovely woman. How on earth could that come from my own imagination?
"Gene, you have to forget about being in love with me. I'm only a dream. I'm the woman you'd like to meet in real life."
"Alexandra, you're the loveliest woman I've met, dreams or real life."
"I know. You've been too busy with just tits and pussy, dear Gene. That's why you have never fallen in love. Even in your dreams you just wanted a good fuck with no obligations. Isn't that true?"
"Sure. I've been much to busy building a career. You're the only woman from my dreams that I have noticed, and the only one I've daydreamed about. Not to mention the women I've known in real life."
"Well, have you any complaints about the sex? Were those nameless cunts any better?" She chuckled a little, and suddenly I felt the opening of her lovely cunt suck me, as if it was a mouth. A little later she fucked me with the tiniest movements ever, and yet she sent flaming waves of passion through my body.
"Heavens, no, Alexandra. You're the best ever."
"That's what I want to be, Gene, your best ever. Do you know why?"
"I want you to know what you should be looking for in real life, because this is the last time I visit you." She let go of my neck and pushed me backwards, till I was lying stretched out on the blanket. Without breaking contact with my cock she moved up to straddle me, her knees down on the blanket and her lovely torso and beautiful face towering over me. Then she started fucking me. Not like she had done before. This time her movements were languid and erotic. Slow, slow movements up and down. She supported herself with her left hand on my chest, while she masturbated herself. Did she have 3 or 4 orgasms? I do not know, I only know that each of them sent a gush of sweet-smelling juice down on my cock.
I wondered how she managed to prevent me from coming, but she did. After her last orgasm she leaned forward and tenderly kissed my eyes and my lips. "Goodbye, dear Gene. This was my last visit. Remember to look for me."
Her last words made me so sorry that I woke up. For the first time in ages I had a hard on. No sticky pyjamas, no rumbled sheets. But I was consumed by a feeling of sadness, so heavy that even my hard on collapsed.
I wrote down the account of my dreams, in an attempt to get over the sadness, which filled me. She never visited me again. For a couple of nights some of the women from the time before Alexandra visited me, but their mechanical 'fuck me and get your release' attitude did nothing to me now. I wanted Alexandra and no one else.
When three months had passed in this highly unsatisfactory way, I began noticing the women in my surroundings. At work, in the supermarket, at my local café. I have to admit that I really had not done this before. I mean, noticing them as women, not as available fucks. Also, I have to admit, it is a pitiful proof of my shallow attitude that I had been fully satisfied by the tits and pussies of my dreams and the empty one night stands of the fleshpots. Kind of like I had been in a prolonged puberty.
I felt drawn towards a couple of the women I met. They had one thing in common: They were older than me, they were bright and a lot of fun, but unfortunately they were both married and sent out not a single signal of 'come and get me'.
In my despair I took to roaming the northern slope of the valley, which cut our town in two. Alexandra had said she lived there. For Heaven's sake, she was a product of my dreams. How could I expect she existed in real life, too? But I didn't know what else to do. Every afternoon, when I had finished work, I roamed the streets of that neighbourhood for an hour or so, before I turned my car towards home. One night, returning from yet another futile ride, I passed what looked like the restaurant Alexandra had invited me to. Their parking lot was almost full, signifying that the restaurant might be, too, but I decided to try anyway.
"I'm sorry, sir, we're fully booked," the waiter at the reception desk said. When he saw how disappointed I looked, he added:"We have one seat at a table for two. If you don't mind having another person at your table, I might go and ask how the occupant of that table feels about it."
"I'd be most grateful."
He returned after a few minutes. "The other customer says it's OK. Please follow me."
We zigzagged through the restaurant to a table at the back window. My heart almost stopped. From a distance I thought she was Alexandra. When we came up to the table I could see she was not, but the resemblance was striking. Same age, same slender figure, a beautiful face crowned by a head of black hair, as opposed to Alexandra's deep brown.
I reached out my hand:"Good evening. I'm Gene Sliman. Thank you for allowing me to sit at your table."
She flashed me a bright smile. "You're welcome. It's not that much fun to dine alone. I'm Vivi Greene."
Heavens. She was so easy to talk to. When I had made my selection from the dinner menu, we joked that I had chosen the same as she had. When the background music started on 'Für Elise' it inspired us to talks about Beethoven (my favourite subject) and music in general. It turned out that she had been a professional pianist for 15 years, mostly in chamber music, but she had stopped 8 years ago. And of course I had to admit that I was a fairly good amateur violinist, but that I had never played professionally. She had dropped out of the music environment for a short-lived marriage, and she had found it difficult to get back in, professionally.
The next couple of hours flew by as if they were minutes. When we had had our coffee I asked her: "I'd really hate to think that this is our only meeting. Would you please allow me to book this table for two next Saturday, same time?"
"What a lovely idea. I'd sure like that."
Her sweet smile almost killed me. Just before we made ready to leave, I reached over the table, took her hand in mine and pressed a light kiss on the back of it. "Thank you for a lovely evening," I said, "I shall look forward to Saturday."
"Thank you. I shall do the same."
I waited for her in the hall, but I did not have to wait for long. Right on time I saw her emerge from her car. She looked ravishing, and when she had handed her short fur coat to the waiter, I could see that she was wearing one of my favourites: A slinky, shiny, olive green silk dress clinging to her slender frame.