The Man of Her Dreams
He was a small man, perched next to a clay jug on a fallen log, sunlight streaming into the glade and lighting up his face and bare chest. He had a small pointed beard and powerful shoulders and he played his pipe with rapid clever fingers. She stopped and stared, catching her breath. His legs were hairy and naked and ended in hooves. On his head were the nubs of two tiny horns.
He noticed her and looked up, catching her gaze but not slackening his song. He stared at her appraisingly, then the corners of his eyes and mouth lifted. He had the face of a joker from a deck of cards, only less festive and more ironic. His eyebrows crinkled and his cheeks lifted as he played. His song reached a crescendo then died away. He took the pipe out of his mouth and took a deep breath, then gave another ironic little smile and pointed with his pipe at something in the water.
Stepping stones. She hesitated. It was a wise smile, one that seemed to know all her follies and to find them amusing. She felt herself blushing. But she moved to the water and crossed, hopping from stone to stone.
Then he stood up, and she saw that where his hairy legs came together there was an enormous, hugely erect penis. She felt faint at the sight of it and stopped moving, but couldn't look away. He came forward and took her hand.
"Wait," she said softly. She pulled her dress over her head and laid it down on the log, standing naked in front of him.
His mouth against hers tasted of wine and his beard smelled of woodsmoke. His cock pushed against her belly and she touched the tip of it with her hand. He shuddered at her touch and stepped back, leading her past the log to a bed of moss on the forest floor. She lay down on her back and he put his face between her legs, his lips and tongue exploring and teasing her before settling into a rhythm that echoed the song of his pipe. She closed her eyes and felt his tongue swirling around her clit, his hands squeezing her ass, one thumb straying to the lips of her cunt.
"Oh," she moaned. "Oh, that's..." She reached down and ran her fingers through his hair, found his horns. "Oh," she cried. "Oh!" Her hips lifted off the moss, thrusting her pelvis into his face but he didn't lose his cadence. "Oh!" she cried again and then pulled up on his horns. "Now," she said, urgently.
He scrambled up her body, his beard dripping with her inner moisture.
"Fuck me," she whispered. "Now."
He squeezed her breasts and pressed against her, his cock at the entrance of her cunt. She grabbed at his hairy back and ass. "Now," she repeated. He thrust and she gasped as she felt the shaft entering her.
But as his cock slid inside her, she woke up.
She lay there in her bed, her heart pounding. "Shit," she said softly. The dream always ended right there. She looked over to the other side of the bed but it was empty except for George the cat, hunched over thinking cat thoughts.
Julian had said he might come by after band practice but apparently he hadn't.
She slipped off her panties and ran her fingers through her pubic hair to her clit. But the dream was slipping away from her and she was distracted, wondering about Julian. They had a new singer in the band; Julian had mentioned her casually. Too casually? He used to like to come over after band practice and fuck, no matter how late it was, jazzed by the music and the company. But he hadn't come the past few weeks.
She glanced over at the clock. 5:49. Eleven minutes until the alarm went off. She closed her eyes and thought again about the satyr, his amused understanding face and amazing tongue. She came and came again and was resting in a pleasant erotic reverie when the clock beeped.
Julian called just before lunch. She frowned at her phone but took the call.
"Hey," he said. "How's it going?" He was sounding very cool, like a guy who knows he has stood up his girlfriend (was she his girlfriend?) but didn't want to mention it because it wasn't a big deal.
"Okay," she said. She certainly wasn't going to bring it up, it wasn't like they had an arrangement that he would come over, just that he had said he might and she had woken up wanting to fuck. "I'm at work," she told him.
"Oh, yeah," he said. "I know. I'm kind of," he paused. "I guess hung over. Went over to Ted's after practice and got pretty wasted."
Whatever, she thought. "Bummer," she said.
"Nah," he said. "It's not too bad. I've had worse." He chuckled. "So, hey. Um, tonight?" He let it hang there.
"I'm supposed to go out with some of the girls from work," she told him. "Andrea and Chloe and them."
"Oh, well how about after that?"
She didn't say anything.
"I could come by," he suggested.
Oh fuck you, she thought. "Maybe you should call before you come," she told him. "In case I'm not there."
"Oh sure," he said. "Makes sense. Um."
"Julian," she said. "I've got to go, all these people are lined up waiting to talk to me." She rolled her eyes. There wasn't anyone in sight.
"Oh, sorry," he said. "I'll talk to you later."
"Shithead," she said. But after she'd hung up.
An irritable unfinished feeling haunted her all afternoon. She kept thinking about Julian and the new singer and a bubble of anger would pop in her mind. Fuck him. Or had he really gone drinking with Ted? She didn't know. But still fuck him.
Even more distracting were little flashes of the dream she'd had. The hairy horned head between her thighs, the tongue lapping at her, circling her clitoris. The cock poised to enter her, pressing against her cunt. She wanted to go somewhere, get out of work and do something as crazy and exciting as fucking a satyr next to a brook.
She overheard two of the girls talking about a new movie.
"It's so sexy," one of them said.
"You should make Russell take you," the first one urged. "Tell him Jake wasn't keen on the movie but he loved the sequel."
"There's a sequel already?"
"The sequel's what happened when I got him home to the apartment!" Both girls collapsed in laughter.
A sexy movie, she thought. Without Julian. It would sure suit her mood.
The movie theater was almost empty. Nobody went to movies, even sexy movies, right after work. She sat in the back row all by herself, and tried to focus on the story. It was okay: a young girl, an older man, an English country house with a dungeon. The girl was pretty and she did orgasms well. The man had attractive smoldering eyes and wavy hair but his voice was a little grating. The heroine was naked now and blindfolded, writhing on a table while the guy touched her on her nipples and (just out of sight) her cunt with metal rods that were either warmed or chilled, each touch an erotic surprise.
She watched and thought again about her dream, about the heavy cock she'd felt against her belly. It was so real, so natural, so much better than a cold steel rod. She slipped a hand under her dress and into her panties. The girl on the table came again, shrieking that she needed him to be inside her. Close up of his belt unbuckling, then the two of them writhing together on the table, the girl still chained and blindfolded while he fucked her. Shots of blindfolded face passing from relief to joy to teeth clamped on lip to shriek of pleasure.
She stroked herself and closed her eyes. She remembered or imagined she remembered a sculpture she'd once seen, a satyr and a nymph fucking. The nymph was kneeling, leaning forward against a tree, cushioning her forehead on her arm, while the satyr took her from behind. One hand caressed the full breasts while the other reached down between her legs.
The nymph must have been bathing in the moonlight, she thought, when the satyr came upon her, must have dashed away the way nymphs do, not really wanting to escape. She felt herself getting hotter and wetter, thinking about the satyr's enormous hard cock in the nymph's cunt, imagining feeling his hands on her own breasts and clit, the two of them rocking against the tree. She slumped down in the seat and thrust her pelvis forward.
Then she felt a hand on her leg. She froze.
But the hand felt, somehow, friendly, not intrusive. It softly rustled her dress as it dove underneath, resting for a moment on the top of her thigh. She held her breath. The hand massaged her leg slowly and she felt the heat from the fingers as they circled her thigh and found her knee, then swooped up her inner thigh into her panties, to where her own hand was still resting on her cunt. It gently pushed her hand aside and found her clitoris. This is awful, she thought. This is fantastic.
Another hand reached over and started pushing up on her ass as if trying to get her to stand. It took a moment for her to understand, then she pushed off from the armrests and lifted herself. The hands seized her panties and pulled them off, pushing them down her legs. She took one foot out so she could spread her legs wide. Oh my God, she thought. Somebody is finger fucking me in public, in a movie theater.
The fingers continued their expert ministrations. She leaned back in the seat and did her own version of the movie girl's orgasm, her face contorting and relaxing and contorting again. It was like swimming at the beach after a storm had passed, waves following each other in and carrying her away. Oh my God. Oh my God. She whimpered as one more enormous wave shook her, then reached down and pushed the hand away.
What was she doing? How could she be doing this? She sprang up, not even looking at the figure sitting next to her, grabbed her bag and stumbled away along the row of seats. Her panties were still looped around her ankle. She pulled her foot out and ran away, leaving them behind, then ducked out of the theater and across the lobby into the women's room.
For a while she thought she was going to vomit with shame. What had she done? Who had seen her? She leaned against the sink, shaking. It was all that dream, she thought. It had infected her with an erotic fever. But even though she had just had an unprecedented series of orgasms (In public! With some stranger caressing her!) the fever hadn't died, she was still burning up inside.
She splashed cold water on her face and combed her hair. Jesus, she thought. I'm a mess. Hopefully, there wouldn't be anyone waiting for her out in the lobby, hoping to continue their encounter. She could deal with it, she told herself. Just walk away. But hopefully there wouldn't be anyone there.
But of course there was.
It was a small, heavily built man with a watch cap pulled down over a bumpy forehead, twisting eyebrows and a wise smile. She stared at him, unbelieving. This couldn't be - how could a satyr, her satyr, be standing in a movie theater lobby waiting for her? She couldn't see his hairy legs and ass, of course, because he was wearing clothes, but there was no mistaking the ironic amusement on his face.
Was she crazy? How could it be? Or maybe she was dreaming.
He walked unsteadily towards her and now she saw he was wearing boots over his hooves. He took her hand, kissed her on the mouth. The taste of wine, the fragrance of woodsmoke. She reached up and touched his cap, felt his horns under it.
She was feeling dizzy. This was very wrong. A satyr could live in a dream, could even fuck you in a dream, but this wasn't a dream.
"Are you real?" she whispered to him.
He smiled and kissed her again. His hand cupped her breast. It didn't matter, she thought. Either I'm dreaming or I'm not. If I'm dreaming it's a really good dream. If it's for real, it's even better.
"Let's go," she said softly.
In her kitchen, she felt less sure. He looked awkward and unhappy in his street clothes. She pulled his cap off and put it on the table. He looked better without it, his horn nubs were reassuring somehow.
"You want a drink?" she asked. He nodded. She got the whisky out of the cupboard,poured some out into a glass and passed it to him. He sniffed it and grimaced, then gave it back to her.
"Right," she said. There was a half bottle of red wine on the counter, left over from last night's dinner. She poured some into a glass for him and he swigged it, then sighed.
"I'll be right back," she told him. She went into the bathroom, put the whisky down on the counter and sat down to pee. What was she going to do? Did she really want to have sex with... well, was he a man? She didn't like to use the word "monster", it had such negative connotations, but...
Then she heard the music. The familiar, insistent rhythm. It really was him. She stood up and drank down her whisky, went back to the kitchen.
He had taken off the awful street clothes and was perched naked on a stool playing his pipe. His cock was erect. She wondered if it was a satyr thing, always to have an erection. He looked so much better naked, so much more natural. So much more real.
She went over to him and stroked his cock. He kept playing his pipe, but leaned back a bit, pushing his cock towards her. She leaned over and kissed his cock, took the tip of it in her mouth. It didn't taste any worse than any other cock, she thought. She swirled her tongue around on it and he stopped playing.
She stood up. She pulled her dress over her head, then unfastened her bra and took it off. They were both naked now. He hopped off the stool and came towards her, his hooves clip-clopping on her linoleum.
"Wait," she said. She went over to her purse and got out a condom and tore open the wrapper. She knelt in front of him and unrolled the condom on his cock. He stared at her and she guessed the nymphs didn't make him do that. "Sorry," she said. "That's how it has to be."
She stood up and went over to the door, knelt in front of it, leaning her head against it with her arm cushioning it, spreading her legs like the nymph in the sculpture she'd been thinking about. He lay down beneath her, his face just below her cunt and lifted his head up slightly. He planted his mouth on her cunt then went slowly upward. His hands reached up and grasped her back, squeezed her ass.
She slumped forward on her arm and lowered herself onto his face. His tongue was moving slowly, patiently, circling her clit. It was so good. One of his hands cupped her buttock, sliding its fingers between her cheeks. She was rocking now, pressing herself against his chin and face. "Fuck me," she whispered.
He rolled out from under her. In a moment it was just like the nymph statue, he was behind her, his hands on her clit and her breasts. His cock was pressing against her entrance and she pushed back, reared back into him.
Then he was inside her. It wasn't a dream.
He paused for a moment then his hips began to jump and his cock pounded into her with a ferocious rhythm. "Fuck me," she cried. He was lifting her up now with each stroke and she felt his nails digging into her thighs. Suddenly he came with a guttural moan, and collapsed onto her, his cock throbbing inside her for what felt like five minutes.
She wiggled her hips. She hadn't come this time but she felt satisfied for the first time that day. "That was really nice," she whispered. She moved forward and felt his cock slide out, then rolled over on her back, still underneath him. His face was beautiful now, not ironic and not amused. He leaned down and kissed her. She felt his cock on her belly, still erect, still hot. She reached down and cupped his balls, then stroked his hairy ass.
He would stay the night, she thought. George the cat wouldn't be happy but he wasn't even happy when Julian stayed over so the fact that this was (face it!) a bona fide monster shouldn't really make a big difference. She wanted him to fuck her again, she wanted to be on top with him inside her. She wanted to sleep with him beside her because she knew that in the morning he would be gone and that she would always wonder if it had all been a dream.