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Page 5.
Chapter 4. Got His Point
 I was sitting at this outdoor bar in a park—in a dream, of course—sipping coconut milk through a straw from a porcelain shell. All I wore was a little paper napkin on my lap. Luckily I was a curvy, athletic, tight brunette in this dream, and my edges didn't hang over the leather-chrome dinette stool. The seat was one in a row of about twenty such stools bending around a boomerang-shaped surface covered with everything you'd expect to see on a bar, from nuts to cherries, a jar of pickled weeners, and a bowl of sheeps (those are chips imported from strange lands).
A chunky, pink man wearing nothing but a red bowtie sat on a suitcase, stroking his bass fiddle nearby, accompanied by a young blonde with thick eyeglass lenses on keyboards, while a crew-cut wrestler type gyrated over his drums, cymbals, and high hat with steel brushes making chook-chook-chook sounds, ka-djing, ka-djong, very jazz. Come to think of it, none of them wore anything but matching red bowties.
And, getting right to the point, neither I nor any other occasional indulger at the bar wore anything much as we sipped away and listened to music and enjoyed the sound of birds in nearby trees, a bubbling fountain, and a llama tied to a palm tree.
Speaking of palm trees, the waiter and the waitress, every time someone ordered another glass of coconut milk, would go with a pail and milk the nearest coconut palm tree. There was a whole herd of these palms over on a meadow under a Manhattan-like skyline. Some of them mooed as if we were in a dream. Which we were, of course.
Just then, a tall, knife-slender, gorgeous man in a tuxedo entered the park. He was achingly beautiful, with fine light-olive features atop a long neck, bony gleaming cheek bones, and large dark eyes like brandied coffee just wanting to be drunk out of. He had an expression of mystery, of night, of savage desire. I bet if I could lean over and run my nostrils lightly along the muscles under his shirt, he would smell of forest and wolf. He might even growl deeply at my attentions. When he smiled, as he undid his bow tie and threw it fluttering away over his shoulder, his teeth were like sugar and I wanted to slide my tongue in there to find his tongue. Our tongues would howl together in the moonlight. Somehow, I knew his name was Daniel. Guys like that are always named Daniel, which is a male name as smooth as a cream aperitif. Drink two or three of those and you could pass out backward on the lawn, losing your napkin for all to see your all and then some.
Daniel dropped his black tux jacket on the grass as he made straight for me. I gathered that, since it was my dream, I owned everything in it. At least, you'd hope so. I was to learn differently. You don't own it, you're just in it. It is a world all in itself, with its dangers and passions. It has its intriguing people and exhilarating events. You're just in it, which makes you a citizen of it, which means you own a piece of it and have a right to be there. You take what you can because you are meant to have it.
Daniel looked mysterious, haughty, almost heartless until I saw his crying need to be loved. He was a stallion (not a centaur, and not for real, just a manner of speech) fighting at the bit every inch of the way, but snorting and tossing its head and yearning to be tamed. And I was going to be the one with the lasso in that dream.
He tore his crisp white shirt off and dropped it behind him as he approached me with steely, wiry bare arms that rippled with muscles and sun-bronzed skin. Oh my was he bronzed. That boy must spend his week days surfing or lying on the sand. I couldn't wait to ask him as he came near. He unbuckled his belt, yanked it snake-like out of its loops, and tossed it over one shoulder as he strode toward me.
He mouthed my name, drinking the air around the syllables: "Carmella." My name always changes in dreams, but that is one of the more common ones. I am different in most of the dreams, which makes things more interesting. When I am Caramel or Carmella or Carmen, I am a caramel-colored Latin woman with dark glossy hair falling in rich waves over my shoulders. As I reached up with one hand to brush my hair from my eye on that side, which is a signal to a man that I am open to whatever, he raised a perfectly manicured beach boy hand palm up as if offering himself to me. As he stepped right up to the bar beside me, and signaled for a coconut milk to a young woman in a red bow tie who was just returning from the coconut herd with a full bucket, he slid his strong hand down my back and gave me shivers of delight and anticipation.
My worst nightmare just then was that I would wake up before his other hand could do whatever it planned with me. I was so ready. I was about to get his point.
I didn't wake up, but kept blissfully snoring away in the real world while having adventures in this lovely dream. We can only guess what happened next because the catch is, of course, you never remember what happens in your dream. Even if you think you do, you don't. Or you may bring back a false memory, just to keep you in the dark (so to speak). You get the point.
What happens in your dreams stays in your dreams.
I was to learn a great many things. We never stop learning, especially in the dream world.
The flip side is that you remember nothing about your waking life while dreaming, which is a total blessing about 99.99% of the time because nothing can be quite as intoxicating as a deep dream with a handsome surfer in a tuxedo. Or if you are that guy, your dream will have someone like me that you can chase after down a sandy beach under a strangely deep blue sky full of night stars and maybe a full moon. You get my drift.
I am telling you this from further up the time line. I know more now. I know it's strange, but time flows in all directions here sometimes. That's what I mean about being careful and having boundaries. You can get lost in your lost. But back to the past, and Fanna, and my training wheels.
The one thing you must realize is that your dreams are not all play. I am working most of the time. That's what I do. I'm one of those talented men and women who live exceptionally vivid dreams. We don't just float around in that other world, like 99.99% of all people do, catching a glimpse here and there of something so fantastic and different that sometimes it's terrifying, sometimes it's wonderful, and sometimes just cream & scream. It's a mission and someone has to do it. This is my story. Or rather, these are fragments of what happens in my sleep. Who knows, they may be hiring. If you have this talent, you too may be assigned to nocturne missions. Or you can enjoy hearing about some of my adventures, my drift, these night city blues (the theme of another story upstream).
So this perfectly manicured beach boy slides his tanned hand down my naked back, very sensuously, and my napkin flutters away, leaving me naked. From the look in his eyes, I looked mighty rumba just then. I sort of melted, or I let my will melt like a candle in his heat. He took me in both arms, and swung me around to the tune of, oh I don't know, what is that, a merengue or is it a more sensuous bossa nova or a samba or even some of that crazy Turkish pop. I find myself stepping along as if I had been doing this all my life. We are a team, he and I. Left, right, left right, turn, turn, left, right, left right, turn, turn…
I could do this forever.
But my new partner has other ideas. I can feel the hunger and the heat steaming from his chest.
There is vapor rising around our bare feet as we go step, step, turn, turn, left, left, right, right, back and forth, almost a tango with more bango…
I cannot stand any longer the swift glide of his palms up and down my bare skin.
My own heat is suffocating.
His hand finds its way, edge up, into the tenderness of my most private sex. My cunt is on the hunt. His cock is erect, and I reach for it with a trembling hand. I want to suck that thing and fuck it at the same time. Maybe in dreams you can do the impossible like that.
Having his cock and eating it too.
My center is on fire. My navel belches cannonades like a ship of the line. Every muscle in my body quivers with the rising heat, the tide, the first of several orgasms, each ripping me more until I am helpless.
His strong arms deliver me gently and gracefully onto my back and I only want to await his attack.
He descends on me, still dancing, and glides over me like a cloud casting its shadow. He's going to rain on my charade. I'm going to sprout like a flower. Oh god, am I wet. I reach up with both arms and pull him down. I am stronger than he thinks, and he is a little bird in my arms. Until he catches his equilibrium, slams my hands down on either side of my head, and stares me down like a cobra. He is the master, and I am just plaster. I hiss at him, pinned as I am on the grass. I am a serpent, wanting to be fucked. Take me if you are man enough. His eyes are like coals, his look fierce as a car's front grill coming at me ninety miles an hour.
I am too weak to raise my hands. They lie by my ears, while I toss my anguished face from side to side. The master slams one powerful hand under my left thigh and raises my leg. With his other hand and right knee, he opens me up to his assault. That cock comes at me like a war hammer. Its little hole is already wet from gunfire. We are both damp with longing, with yearning. I swear I am growing deaf with that Mediterranean music rumbling in the air.
I could have gone slow. I could have enjoyed a lot of sensuous necking. I would have liked to suck on him and make his cock so hard and tight that he doubled over. I would have enjoyed a real slowhand on my clitoris, making counter-clockwise circles like he knew what he was doing. He was racing too hard, and he took me with him. I was crying out for more before I even felt the massive thrust of his rod pushing me open. It is the moment when you are terrified that he will rip you. But I was so wet I must have been runny. Plus I sobbed with passion so that my bladder cried in powerless dribbles, like oil trickling out from a new find. Ramon—all men like this are named Ramon—lifted both my legs by heaving his hands under my knees. He pounded me so that my poor torso rippled with contractions and spasms. I wrapped my palms around his ass and tried to pull him tighter, but it was like reaching into a revving engine. It's lucky he didn't take my fingers off, the way that ass blurred. Looking over his shoulder, I could see the buttocks blurring in the air.
I grew weaker, slumped with my legs spread and knees pointing away from each other. That turned him on all the more. His movie star face, like one of those gigolos who prowl up and down some beach in Brazil, alternately doing tricks—eating knifes, swallowing fire—or winning martial arts bets with dark-skinned sicarios—or racing motorcycles, whatever—his handsome olive features showed a passion for me that made me want to take him home with me. I knew it would be like trying to tame a wild coyote. He thrust his tongue in my mouth. I felt his tongue hot and wet in one ear then the other. I felt his teeth nibbling at my nipples with gentle fury and downy intensity. He wanted my milk, and I wished I could spray him from my heart and soul. He sucked at me while I held first one tit, then the other, which ever he wanted, I was his servant, his slave, his girl, and I just wanted to please him so hard that I almost sobbed. I thrust my huge brown nipples at him. The sight drove him crazy. His eyes became wide and his mouth chuffed as if he were running miles. I begged him to take me, shake me, rake me, fuck me with that long steely shaft until, yes, he exploded in me. I could feel the gunshots. It was as if he'd been shot several times. Only he was doing the shooting. I yelled out loud for him to shoot me like that, rock me, blow it out and make me crazy, and so we came together. He spasmed, I spasmed. We yelled as we came together. We clung to each other like two drowning swimmers on a raft in a sea storm. We clung to each other for life, for sanity, for passion, with all the intensity in our cries and yells. I hugged him and pressed him to me like a baby when he collapsed on top of me. He was spent. He was limp. I reached down and fingered that mighty cock that now rested on my inner thigh, that soft wet place covered with his cum. I massaged it as if to say well done. Thank you. His little buttocks and those strong ass muscles were still hard as horn. I massaged him gently, and he sniffled appreciatively. He had it out of his system, and now we could go easy. I rubbed the head of his dick against my clitoris in contra-clockwise motions, enjoying the wet lube on my still throbbing little head down there. It was his head against mine. Two heads are better than one. Rubbing his glans against my hoodie made him perk up again. I could feel the steely cords in his powerful arms as he raised himself up to work toward the next orgasm. I felt myself grow, hard, my own hidden iceberg of joy radiating upward across my gut as the little nub stiffened with yearning. I cried out weakly as I felt him arch against me with new energy. Just that alone pushed me over the top again. He knelt between my legs and pushed his newly engorged yacht slowly up my boat channel. As I welcomed his force and size spreading me in our mutual wetness, I fanned my clit furiously and propelled myself to the I don't know how manyeth earthquake of spasms twitching me with joyful electricity. I felt a mighty cry rise from my gurgling throat.
And then I woke up.
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