Tuesday, January 28, 2014

The dream of the men in the park

(The narrative thread, now exiguous, continues from here.)

This dream-story is one I made up after Charles and I had had to walk through a scary neighborhood late one night after an event in New York City.

I dreamt that I was out to dinner with my husband, and on the way home we were mugged by a gang of young men in the park. There were ten or twelve of them. They wore black pants and black shirts. They surrounded us.

One of them stepped forward, and looked at my husband. This mugger had a neatly trimmed black goatee and long hair, pulled back and tied into a precise, short ponytail. "Your wife is very beautiful," he said, in a surprisingly cultured voice.

My husband thrust me behind him, though now I was facing the men on the other side of the group. They looked at me with hungry faces. I was wearing a little black dress, and no coat, for it was a warm night. I hugged my arms around my chest, feeling terribly exposed.

"Yes," my husband said, "she is."

"Really," said the leader, "we're not common criminals--we've brought you here to make you an offer."

The dream got a bit confused, then--it wasn't my husband anymore, who was considering the gang's offer. Was it a policeman, who had come to help, but then been offered an enormous bribe to cuff me to a park bench and then go or stay as he liked? 

Instead of cuffing me, the policeman said, "No, it'll be more fun to hold her down--don't you think, men?"

The leader of the gang, who were now in business suits, took charge. "You're ours, slut, for the next few hours. You can get on your knees, or we can put you there." I looked to my police-husband, but he was merely observing, with a slight smile on his lips. The leader didn't give me any more time to decide, but put his hand behind my head and took hold of my auburn hair. "On your knees, slut," he said.

"Ow! Please!" I said--but really only because I felt like I had to protest, as I was pushed firmly down to my knees, there in the grass just next to the walk in the park.

Then, the sound that made my heart beat faster. Men unbuckling their belts: I didn't even know how many, because some were in the shadows. And then one of them, coming up behind me while my attention was fixed on the leader's strong hands, unbuckling his belt, put a blindfold over my eyes.

The leader--I thought it was he--put a hand behind my head again, and I could smell his sex in front of me. "Ah!" I said as I felt it brush against my nose.

"Be a good girl and open that pretty mouth now," I heard. At the same time, the one behind me--or maybe another one, raised the hem of my black dress.

"Look at that ass," he said--his voice was coarser than the leader's. "Such nice panties. It's going to be a shame to rip them off you."

I opened my mouth, to say, "No, wait," but at the same time I felt the one behind me put his hand in the waistband of the beautiful lace panties my husband had bought me the week before, and rip them off in a single violent gesture. I opened her mouth in a gasp, but the leader's huge manhood was in my mouth, now, while the one (or two? or three?) in back of me had their hands all over my ass, and between my thighs. My gasp became a gagging, wet moan.

The leader was either very generous, or very excited, for after five or six brutal thrusts into my mouth he held my head into his hips, and exploded down my throat, as I desperately tried to swallow. He let go of my head, and his place was taken by another man, with a smaller sex but a much more vigorous way of driving into my mouth. Meanwhile the ones behind me were urging my knees apart, and I could feel them against my thighs, ready to enjoy me from behind.

Meanwhile, more and more hands--and, now, mouths--found their way to the places on my body that burned the hottest. There was a warm mouth on each nipple, tugging and nibbling, and hands were running up and down the inside of my thighs. They had no interest, I realized, in making her feel good: they wanted to get me so hot that I would beg to be filled completely with them.

The one in my mouth decided he wanted to give me a pearl necklace, so he pulled out and took firm hold of my hair at the back of my head. Blindfolded, I couldn't see him, but I imagined what he looked like, the white fluid spurting, on my cheek, my neck, all over my beautiful black dress.

"Let's get that dress off her," said the leader. Someone in back pulled the dress off, over my head. I was naked except for my thigh-high stockings; naked in the park, being used by I didn't know how many men.

"Sam," said the leader, "you lie down on your back there. . . we're going to see what a slut she really is."

Part of me wanted to beg, but I thought of the men watching, of my husband watching, and my nerve failed me for a moment.

They weren't patient with me. They lifted me up, suddenly, and carried me a short distance. I knew Sam, whoever he was, was lying there, and I knew what was about to happen. "Wait. . . no. . . please. . ." I said, but now they were spreading my legs, and lowering me, my face towards the ground, and I felt Sam beneath me: he was a big, powerful man, I could feel, now. My hands touched his chest for a moment, but then someone else pulled them back behind me, and they were pushing me down, down onto him, and I had no choice but to receive him inside me, gasping at his massive size.

The leader was behind me; somehow I knew it was he, and that what he wanted was to be behind me, taking me this way. Suddenly, I was afraid of the fullness they were about to force on me, and I tried to struggle against them.

The leader laughed. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but that backside is just too nice not to take; especially with you riding Sam like that." He gripped my hips, while others were holding my arms, and started to push in, at the same time a third took his station in front of my face.

Suddenly I realized I was close to an enormous climax. . . 

And then I woke up.

I should add, I suppose, that Charles spanked me for ending the story there.

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