Page 16 of Our Sadie
Maybe because it’s a sex dream, and I’m surrounded by three men meant to satisfy me.
The dream customarily plays out pretty vaguely. Like, the people in the dream have bodies but no distinguishing or identifying characteristics. For example, there will be a male leg but no sign of a genitalia, a man’s jawline but not his hair.
I don’t know why it’s always been like this for me, but it has.
Then there will be lots of writhing and undulating and even the prelude to a euphoric climax that rarely manifests in reality. But I won’t see any familiar facial features. Not even those of my past lovers. And though I’ll feel when his cock enters me, I’ve never been privy to seeing the particular size and shape of it.
Even within the confines of my dream world, getting some hasn’t been that gratifying.
Until now. Last night’s nocturnal fantasy evolved into something far more interesting.
It included the rippled muscle of Zach’s bare abdomen, the one I witnessed when he demonstrated his pole dancing routine. It had the broad long-fingered hand of Dom clutching onto my breasts and cinching down on my nipples, and the unmistakable cock from the porn clip of himself that Jerome showed me jutting into and out of my center.
My pussy.
I found this both titillating and disturbing. Because all three of these men were there with me. Not individually taking turns, either.
No.
They’d all been fucking me at once. And that’s not something I’ve ever seriously considered.
But I am now, even though the notion of it is scary. Why? Because for the first time ever, I woke up in the middle of a fully legit orgasm. Not only that, my panties were so soaked they made a splatting noise when I tossed them in my hamper.
I didn’t even know such a thing was possible.
These men have utterly rocked my world without being aware of it, without even having actually done it. Yet I now know what it feels like to climax because of them. Because of their imaginary hands.
On their imaginary hands.
Knowing that these men are my employed contractors required to do what I ask of them makes it ten times worse. I mean, I can ask this of them if I so desire. And this morning it hit me just how much power I wield over them. Or can if I choose to.
Should I have that kind of power? Should anyone?
Yet at this point, maybe that’s not the right question to ask. Maybe the right question is if I could ever dare to go through with such a debauched—and admittedly alluring—scene with them?
Once my heaving breaths returned to normal, I’d stared unseeing at the snow globe on my bedside table. It was a present from Win from several years ago. Thoughts of her, of how proud she would be of me once she learned I didn’t let my fear override what I’m really craving had me climbing out from between my sheets.
And sure, what I crave is love. The honest, dedicated, I’ll-grow-old-and-gray-with-you kind.
But I’m the type of person who incorporates a backup whenever possible. What if in this situation, that backup becomes about physical gratification? In all its various methods? That way, if I can’t get what I want most, I can achieve the next best thing. I can have the runner-up. The ranking of salutatorian may not be as good as valedictorian, but it’s not bad.
Not bad at all.
The men are ranged around me at the table now, their gazes tracking every move I make. Hell, I could probably play airplane with my food, and they’d look just as fascinated. It’s almost funny. And men enjoy sex. They’ll get theirs no matter what, so why should I feel guilty for getting mine?
Even if me getting mine last night was a product of my own psyche.
I shouldn’t be embarrassed, so I’ll try not to be.
“Remember those dates I told you about?” I inquire of them.
“Yeah,” Jerome says, as Zach speaks up a nanosecond later.
“Absolutely.”
Dom, big surprise, merely elevates his chin.
“I want my date with you,” I flick a finger toward my quietest man. “Tomorrow. You,” I do the same to Jerome, “Tuesday, the day after, and you,” Zach is grinning at me like a cat who ate a canary. “Wednesday.”