Detained in NYC
Copyright© 2025 by Midori Greengrass
Chapter 8
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 8 - An artist is caught up in the dragnet.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Ma/Ma NonConsensual Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Cuckold Wife Watching White Male Oriental Female Oral Sex AI Generated
Dreams near and far
Too much soul-searching by a man not accustomed to it.
Tommy dreamed he was in a white room on a made bed with white sheets. He was there with a woman and had put under the bed a bomb with a fuse which he had then lit. The fuse was thick and rough, like hemp or like the “dread locks” of a Jamaican singer. His partner in the bed expressed surprise but silently. Together they watched the fuse, a long one, burn toward its terminus. At the last moment, Tommy made up his mind to snuff out the fire, prevent the bomb from going off.
Tommy had had one strange dream after another the night after detaining the beautiful Japanese artist on suspicions of immigration fraud, ones he knew to be false.
Was the woman in the dream Sophie, his wife? Were the bomb and fuse representing his desire for Akemi, which might destroy his marital bed.
A second dream followed, remembered by Tommy just vaguely. He and his woman friend, unseen, a figure but a positive one, a force of beauty, not one woman but emblematic of many, had moved to a different room on a lower floor of the same house. The room was full of light, which made everything lovely and semi-transparent, poetic. Other people were in the house. It seemed they were guests there. He recalled no details except a potted plant on the windowsill by the bed, its green leaves suffused with sunshine.
Tommy was no poet. He didn’t get it. Where was this stuff coming from?
The cracked plaster ceiling above Tommy’s bed blurred into grainy shadows as Sophie’s soft snores filled the dark room. She slept warm and solid beside him after their quick, routine sex—a frictionless act that left him restless and unsatisfied. He’d turned away afterward, pretending to be tired. The city’s harsh sounds—sirens, shouting, car horns—had fallen away. It could have been three a.m. anywhere in the world—yet this particular silence was familiar, a constant background like his wife’s breath Tommy no longer noticed.
Now, Tommy pictured only Akemi.
Making love differently than Sophie. She wouldn’t rush. He imagined her kneeling between his legs in one of the abandoned offices at the detention center—some forgotten room sufficiently far from the common area, space the city noise didn’t reach at any time of day, behind thick windows on the high floor. Her hair, dark as shadows, swallowing the dim light. Those short strands brushed her jaw. Nothing like Sophie’s dirty-blond ponytail, beauty different from that of the woman he’d loved and married.
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