I am dreaming about an epic blow job.
We’re in the throne room of the palace—don’t ask—and I’m the king and she’s the jester. Her jester clothes are a skintight green and purple and red leotard that leaves nothing to the imagination, not the outline of her nipples, not the crack of her ass, not the texture that betrays the crisp curls of pubic hair on either side of the pretty vee where her leotard cups her in front. She is turning gymnastics tricks on the marble floor of the court hallway, her jester cap pinned to her head so she won’t lose it while she tumbles and dances like a cheerleader. I catch her and put my hand at the join of her thighs. She is so hot there it scalds my palm. Damp, too, through the layers of thin fabric.
She kneels at my feet and pushes up my robes. I’m commando, of course. The Commando King. I said, don’t ask.
She takes me in her mouth, all tight, wet heat around my dick, the world’s most skilled tongue curling around my head, slicking from root to crown. Soft resistance, perfect suction, enough depth to buck without hurting her.
I wake up with my dick down her throat. She’s naked, not wearing a jester costume at all. I know this because I’m clutching handfuls of soft, satin flesh in my hands, my fingers greedily gripping her breasts.
“Fuuuuuuck,” I groan as she releases me and climbs up my body, mounting me and sliding down so I’m seated fully inside her. She’s even hotter there, and every bit as wet.
She rises up and plunges down, finding a steady pace, but it’s the worst kind of tease, the way she’s fucking me—smooth as silk, the angle too perfect. I’m gliding through her slickness, but there’s not enough friction to send me over the edge, just enough to make me crazy from the way the tension winds and winds and winds. I get closer and closer to coming, but something keeps the orgasm maddeningly at bay. There’s something warped in my sense of time, too. It goes on and on and on, and I lie there and feel more and more desperate, until I realize—almost like I’m finally really waking from the dream—what’s wrong. I need to thrust; I need her to resist me; I need to be the one who’s driving this train.
“I gotta be on top.”
She shakes her head, still fucking me, her head thrown back a bit now, her breasts tilted upward, the nipples proud peaks. And okay, maybe I lied. Maybe I don’t need to be the one driving. Maybe I just need to watch her face, pleasure flirting with pain, eyes closed for a moment.
But I can’t take it. It’s too much, too fine, too close, too complicated, too perfect and elusive, and now her eyes are fixed on mine, so intently that I have to look away so I don’t lose myself there. With a groan, I flip her onto her back and thrust as hard as I can into her, twisting my hips against her at the end of that stroke, and the next one, and the next.
Her groans weave between my grunts. Her name slips from my lips, mine from hers, the names like a chant, the grunts and groans like a drumbeat, and it’s all counting out the rhythm of my strokes, urging us on, until we’re moaning our release in unison.