She stood in the middle of the gothic-style room that was authentic enough to have seemingly been transported from the early 18th century. Floor candelabra and chandeliers shed their soft glow, muting the table, chairs, and large four-poster bed with dark shadows. The room was warm, a fire raging from within the grand stone fireplace, a soft, thick sheepskin rug underfoot. The bed took up most of the entire far wall of the large room, and was covered with satin sheets the color of deep crimson; a large black comforter graced the top.
She turned her head as she felt a strong presence behind, but a cool hand stopped her. The hand came to rest gently over her eyes and she felt her lids grow heavy. Instead of her body growing heavy, feeling as if sleep would overtake her, she felt her other senses as they heightened. She could smell the scent of burning wood as the smoke drifted lazily from the fireplace, and she could smell a faint scent of pine needles and raindrops, fresh as a spring shower, a hint of lilac tickling her nostrils. She could hear the creak of the bedposts as they settled, the roar of the fire as it consumed the wooden logs, the rustle of the sheets as they gently ruffled. She could hear everything. Everything except the sound of the mysterious stranger's breath.
Though her senses were heightened to new levels, she wasn't prepared for the feel of his hands as they traveled from her wrists, gently trailing up her arms to tickle her senses as he softly caressed her shoulders. His hands were cool, lifeless, sending tremors from the top of her head to the tips of her toes and to the floor beyond. She felt his lips brush against her neck but no air passed through. Instead, a lingering sensation where his lips had been distracted her momentarily, while the silk of her dress pooling to her feet brought her back. Her breath caught in her throat as the air chilled her bare skin, her bra and panties the only garments left untouched.
She let out a soft sigh as she felt his arms wrap around her, his left coming to rest under her breasts, his right, a single finger trailing down her stomach, past her navel, to rest at the tops of her thighs. The knuckles of his left hand brushed against her nipples through the lacy fabric of her bra, pulling forth a startled gasp. He thumbed it lightly as it grew harder and larger under his fine hand. He squeezed it gently, rolling it between his forefinger and thumb, a musical laugh echoing through the room as her breath began to quicken, and her legs began to shake. As his hands traveled lower promising certain delights, she wrestled feebly, surprised at the slickness that began to puddle in the cleft between her legs. She was rarely so easily affected, but something about the coolness to his touch, the anonymity of his presence, and the heat his touch called forth, succeeded in stoking her inner fire, until she was burning from desire. Ready, wanting.
She pressed herself back, until she was cradled within is his taller frame, wanting to be completely enveloped by his body, hoping the heat of her body would wan under the cool touch of his skin. He nuzzled her neck, breathing her scent deeply. As he slid a hand down, she inched her legs wider, beckoning him, welcoming him into her depths. And, when he touched her there, on her sweet spot, she exploded.
Sasha woke to the sound of intense pleasure, lusty moans and soft sighs filling the room with delight. It wasn't until she came to her senses and found her hand pushed deep inside her panties, dripping wet, that she realized the moans were hers. Disgusted, she withdrew her hand and swung her feet over the side of the bed, her cotton sheets sitting in a crumpled heap on the floor and there was a chill in the air as her sweat-soaked tank top cooled.
For the past week Sasha had woken up emotionally, and sexually, frustrated. A new feeling for her due to a series of vivid, and all too real, erotic dreams. She was more used to a lack of sexual arousal, still a virgin at the ripe age of twenty-four, having urges few and far in between. She had thought wet dreams only happened to men, but waking up to the sounds of her own moans, the intense feelings as she touched herself, nipples erect and sensitive, led her to believe the contrary.
It didn't help any that the man in her dreams seemed to have no face and no form. She could clearly feel the effects of his touch as his hands caressed her body, as his lips grazed her skin, but no matter how she tried, she couldn't see him. She knew nothing about him. And while he created a scarily potent reaction in her, especially for their interactions to be in dreamland, it was like lusting after a ghost. Something she couldn't quite understand.
Sasha breathed a sigh of relief as the sounds of Lia -- her roommate -- singing in the shower reached her, a much more agreeable sound to wake up to. She was confident Lia had no inkling of her situation, as she wasn't the type to keep quiet if something were bothering her. But Sasha couldn't count on that being the case for long. She needed to figure something out, and soon.
As she stood in the kitchen whipping up a quick breakfast, Lia entered jauntily, a towel wrapped around her slight frame. She had pretty red hair styled in a pixie cut, and beautiful green eyes. Sasha had thought the difference between their ethnic backgrounds -- her being Black and Lia being white -- there might have been some complications with their living arrangements, but they got along surprisingly well.
"Morning," greeted Sasha, smiling.
"Hey."
"Sleep well?"
"Yeah," replied Lia. "Until this morning."
"How so?" Sasha had the feeling she already knew the answer.
"Look, I'm all for you getting your freak on, but waking up to the sounds of your intense—whatever isn't my idea of a good wake up call."
"Oh," said Sasha, sheepishly. "You heard that?"
"You kidding? I bet the whole apartment complex heard."
Sasha sank into one of the chairs sitting around their tiny kitchen table. It was one thing to struggle internally with something you couldn't control, and another when your friends and strangers alike were cognizant of your troubles. Embarrassment welled up inside.
"Sorry," she mumbled.
