He was in my dreams again. Always the same muscular body, lightly glistening as he towered over my naked form. Appraising me? Wordlessly judging me? Wanting me? It was hard to tell. His poise and the self-congratulatory manner in which he tugged my bonds implied satisfaction, despite the breath catching in his throat when his fingers brushed my yearning flesh. I squirmed. The sharp tang of his cologne mixed with faint traces of heated exertion and the distinctive undercurrent of my own involuntary arousal only made me want him more.
His face was in shadow as usual, a strong light casting halos through his dark hair so I never managed to catch a glimpse of his features. I both hated and loved kneeling on my haunches for him. He always made me do things. Despicable things. Degrading acts solely for his own twisted amusement while I was tied up; a helpless pawn in his kinky fantasies. Yet I adored feeling the path that every drop of hot, liquid honey took as it spiralled its way to pool between my spread thighs. Loved being controlled, used and treated as a mere object. An expanse of soft skin and a selection of holes, available and willing to accept whatever he wished.
While my magical, red-soled Louboutin heels often brought out Little Miss Wicked, there was something intoxicating about being out of control; one word away from safety, yet choosing not to exercise that right. Sometimes I wanted nothing more than to be told what to do, what to wear, what to touch, and when. To be at his total mercy until he was well and truly finished with me and we were both a hot, sweaty mess of entwined body parts and beautiful, sticky come.
I longed to find out who he was, but no matter how I wriggled to see, his features were always just out of sight. It was maddening, but maybe that was the allure: the exquisite draw of a faceless stranger somehow knowing my innermost desires and fulfilling them. Desires I didn't even know I possessed until he unlocked the filthy hunger in me. Whether my mouth was stuffed with my own sodden panties or stretched full of his wonderful dick or he was ramming it mercilessly into my bottom as he spanked my reddening cheeks and hurled obscenities my way for surrendering so readily to his whims, I would come and come. An unending flood of wetness that had no discernible source as I cried for more and took it.
There was no doubt I was his property, never sated, writhing, begging to be abused. While under his spell I wanted to please him, desperately needing release, elated yet fearful of what he might make me do next as he tightened the rope, snarled commands and teased my twitching body to what I wrongly assumed was the brink of its capacity for pleasure. He would always push beyond, serving the sadistic streak in him and assuaging my unquenchable appetite for deplorable acts of raw sex that would leave me feeling dirty, yet alive.
Palm prints smarted. Fingers probed. Teeth grazed erect nipples. Fires roared from my core to the farthest reaches of my body, and all the while I panted uncontrollably, wanting nothing more than the episode to continue indefinitely.
He never spoke to me like a respectable human being should. Never sought my consent. Never asked my opinion of whether his actions pleased me, nor whether he should stop or continue. My lust-filled yowls, breathy gasps and desperate encouragement were answer enough. Truthfully, I probably couldn't have spoken intelligibly if I'd tried.
Normal girls didn't have such animalistic urges, of that I was sure. Normal girls wanted the freedom to make their own choices, to decide their own destiny, not be shackled and have some… some man exert his authority and dictate their immediate future without so much as a hint of compunction. I was clearly very broken. Unhinged. Thirty-odd years of common sense behind me and I was reduced to this quivering ruin, unable to change course. Or unwilling to do so.
The rope clenched my skin, making more of me available for whatever he desired, presenting me like a wanton, naked gift to his hungry gaze and stinging blows. I started to whimper as the humiliating heat tore through me and the bonds chafed, knowing my response signalled more of what we both craved. He leant in close, grabbed my hair, hot breath rasping in my ear as fingers snaked beneath me to puncture my drenched temple. I quaked, wide open, owned, on the cusp of a shattering orgasm, grinding against his hand, which made his sudden exit all the more heartless. I cried out in frustration, swishing my head madly. Then he cranked the rope tighter. Tighter.
I was jolted awake by my body's safety mechanism when the circulation was cut off. Moments later a battalion of spiky ants began to march through my arm and I rolled onto my back, instinctively wagging to bring the appendage back to life. How long had I been out? Half an hour? An hour? Certainly long enough that the sleep trolls had begun to carpet the inside of my mouth. And sap gently oozed from between my legs, drying in the air conditioning that was set a trifle too harsh.
In the groggy, post-erotic haze it took a few moments to register the unfamiliar surroundings until the décor jogged my memory. The orange light shades, brown curtains and tweed pelmet that resembled something from a 1970s caravan jarred with the terracotta tiled floor, mismatched furniture, whitewashed walls and inventive wiring of the Portuguese hotel.
Alongside me lay Adam, his shoulder rising and falling in unison with gentle snores reflecting off the opposite wall. I marvelled the tone of his skin, a shade darker than mine, glowing in the daylight that seeped around the hastily drawn curtains. His back curved gracefully from the light brown close-cropped hair at the base of his neck down to thin hips and a pert bottom. My Mr. Sexy. I wanted to reach across and stroke his naked form to remind myself that he was indeed real. The last three years or so since we'd found one another had flown by. Wonderful times. Crazy times. Two people in love times, with no sign of the magic waning.
I smiled and shivered, briefly considering sliding across to nuzzle against his warmth and take the edge off, but it would be sure to wake him. He seemed so peaceful. Besides, there were other ways to keep warm, continuing from where my intense reverie had been interrupted.
Shaking my arm until the blood reached its operating pressure and the tingling faded I stared up at the bright white ceiling, trying to recall the details of my very vivid wet dream. I attempted to focus on the shape of my captor's body and played back latent images in the vain hope of uncovering his identity. Despite the physical differences, was it some projection of Adam? Symbolic of the trust I placed in him and his success at emotionally and sexually freeing me? Or was it some, as yet unfulfilled, fantasy I would feel compelled to play out for real to take myself to the next level in my seemingly endless quest for carnal enlightenment? Maybe I really was broken.
I struggled to grasp anything concrete as disjointed scenes and images spun inside my head and exasperatingly slipped away. Faint cracks fractured my memory like those still visible on the ceiling where the management had painted over them a few times already. Slapdash, like the rest of the place.
We were only three days into the holiday and I already knew I'd only revisit The Algarve at gunpoint. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with the place, it was just soulless and full of loudmouth British who seemed to think a holiday should be as much like home as possible, with better weather. No doubt pandering to the influx of guaranteed tourism dollars, nearby towns had been largely sanitized with Irish bars and traditional British pubs offering bland food and karaoke as standard. It honestly made me embarrassed of my heritage. Year on year the world seemed more homogenised as the corporations and global supply chains slowly took over, robbing travel junkies like myself of embracing true local culture.
I took solace in the fact that the place wasn't my choice. Adam's parents, perhaps beginning to come to terms with their mortality, had bankrolled it for a family break, with Adam's sister and husband making up the remaining numbers. Since James and I were extensions of the family through marriage and engagement respectively, we were invited by default. Funny, my dad always warned me there was no such thing as a free lunch. It seemed this axiom applied to holidays too.
Adam and I were due to marry the following summer so, in the eyes of the family, were endorsed to share a bed; though I did kind of miss the thrill of sneaking around and having to bite my lip when we made love at their house. Whether by design or providence, the three allocated rooms were scattered throughout the hotel, which meant there wouldn't be any cold stares over breakfast if I happened to get carried away in the heat of the moment.
Stirring briefly, Adam rolled onto his front, his breathing soon returning to a steady rhythm. I lay there, watching. Fingers of early afternoon sun penetrated threadbare parts of the curtain and formed irregular patterns across his smooth bottom and the wall. I had the sudden urge to roll on top of him, pin his thighs to the bed and spank those glorious upturned little globes. Had he been awake or dozing I'd have done it, because taking control would make him delightfully hard and, when I was sure he was whipped into a frenzy I'd surrender, letting him take me. Just like the man in my dreams.
My breasts caught my eye, nipples standing to attention at their apex thanks to the cool ambience and sexual flotsam still drifting around my body. Where the slopes formed a gentle valley, I could see past my slight belly to the tip of the dark Mohawk I allowed to grow, before it thinned to make way for the smooth surface of my nether lips, which plunged between my creamy thighs.
Beyond my still shapely legs I regarded my feet with their uneven steps from toe to toe. Just another one of many imperfections that Adam didn't seem to notice. Maybe he found the various flaws added to my uniqueness? Whatever his attraction, I sparkled inside at the thought of the regular up-and-down glances of appreciation he gave me every day. The pilot light in the pit of my stomach flared as I recalled the way his pupils dilated whenever he watched me, like it was the first time he'd laid eyes on me.
I loved my man. Being loved back unconditionally was so liberating, so fulfilling, so unlike anything prior. We might only be curled up on the sofa in front of a movie and I felt the luckiest girl in the world. Even more so when we pushed the bounds of our relationship in ways that continued to surprise and excite me. God, that tongue of his. So talented, and so long! Fluttering and flicking against my jumping clitoris, or probing without limits inside me. He could probably map every ridge and contour of my willing orifices from memory.
There was simply no substitute for that wide-eyed look of adoration, when all I could see of him was the top half of his face as he savoured every drop. The mere thought of him giving me that level of joy and reacting as if the pleasure was all his, was enough to turn me on. My skin flushed despite the air conditioning and I felt a churning in my midriff as mental imagery manifested itself in a longing that would require more than just my mind to satisfy.
Shuddering once more I settled my gaze on Adam, slid a little closer across the queen size bed, drinking in his body and faint musk reminiscent of patchouli and lemongrass, lazily tracing my recently working arm down over my belly. The trail it left was like sexual gasoline, the fire spreading. Dammit, why was he asleep? A girl has needs! Once again I considered waking him, a variety of wicked scenarios flashing through my head. Part of me figured he wouldn't object to the interruption if it was to service my yearning body, but I stopped myself and let him rest. Perhaps as I explored, he would wake up naturally and help himself to a dose of the flowing juices he so adored.
I'd wanted him all morning, which may well have been what sparked the dream. Whether lazing around the pool in sweltering ninety-degree heat or dipping in and out of the water to cool off, I'd appraised his svelte frame, geeky demeanour and that oh so cute grin that made his hazel eyes sparkle, imagining the mischief we could enjoy if nobody else was around.
Exercising restraint in front of his parents was torture. While they were liberal about our sleeping arrangements out of wedlock, we always felt it best not to push our luck. Far easier said than done, especially since sunshine elevated my sexual appetite. The closest intimacy we'd managed had been when he first coaxed me to the edge of the outdoor pool. Despite the ambient temperature, the water still felt icy and I made excuses about getting used to it while I pussyfooted around taking a new step every few minutes... until the bastard lunged and yanked me in. The frosty water enveloped me and when I came up spluttering I swore I'd get him, front crawling in pursuit to the deep end. To be fair, as my body acclimatised it was an invigorating swim.
At the far side he turned to face me and I wrapped my arms around his neck while he clung to the concrete edge. We kissed deeply and I suddenly wanted what I felt rising between our bodies from the top of his swim shorts. Desperately wanted to pull my bikini to one side and position myself above his hardness, grind lower to feel it bang against my clit and then on the next stroke thrust up inside me, urgent and insistent, the sunbathing tourists inconsequential to our primal needs. Instead we held the embrace a little longer then parted and frolicked in the water, splashing and shrieking like teenagers until our teeth chattered and we had to return to the sunbeds.
It wasn't until after lunch we had a chance to play, taking refuge from the formidable early afternoon sun in the relative cool of the room for a siesta. We showered to wash off that grimy sunscreen feeling and fooled around a little, soaping one another from head to foot, taking our time over proceedings. There was no better excuse for a kiss and a grope after the restricted activities around the pool.
Reaching up on tiptoe to kiss him as the water cascaded off his shoulders, he smoothed my long black hair and continued to run his hands down my hourglass to gently cup my round bottom. Predictably, he hardened against me. Having that power over him with just the simplest of actions, to fire him up through little more than being me, was an immense turn on.
The kiss was slow and sensual, yet passionate. Our tongues swirled and danced, bodies slick from soap and water sliding against one another, the contact adding further intimacy. Again, feeling his magnificent cock pressed between us, part of me wanted to jump up onto it, wrap my legs around his torso and feel him split me, plumbing my depths as I clawed his back and the water pounded my shoulders. I had so many impure urges when I was with him that I often wondered if I needed counselling. Some impartial third party upon whom to vent, in an effort to bring my tempestuous libido under control.
It wasn't the only thought stream that ran through my head. Another, sluttier part of me wanted to drop to my knees in front of him like a porn star and take him in my mouth until he shot his sticky load down my throat. But I also somehow wanted the afternoon to last forever. Loved the tension of taking it slow, building our desires until we could no longer hold back and had to ride one another to orgasm. Whether that act would take place in the bedroom or out on the more public balcony overlooking the palm-bordered gardens would not be a conscious decision. We would twirl, roll and crash against anything that would take our weight, completely lost in one another.
As the hot water sprayed and rivulets poured down my cheeks, I broke the kiss and looked up at him, settling for simply reaching between us and stroking his hard-on a few times, feeling it bob and sway at my touch. The way the chamois skin slid effortlessly and organically over the steely muscle made me shudder. He grinned at me, allowing himself to be fondled, and I knew he knew what was really on my mind.
With promise of much more to come, we stepped from the steamy bathroom, towelled lightly and lay naked, spooned on the bed for a few minutes to allow the air conditioning to finish the job. Now he was asleep and I was horny. I sighed gently and walked my fingers over my abdomen, aware of the stirrings inside that brought fresh dampness with them.
Although not suitable to put down as a pastime on a CV alongside conventional activities such as swimming and gym, masturbating was one of my favourite things to do when alone. Knowing my body as intimately as one would expect, feasting on torrid thoughts and fantasies as I stroked, pinched, rolled and flicked the myriad erogenous zones on the surface of my skin, brought on the kind of orgasms that every girl deserves to experience. The intense kind, where nothing else exists in the universe for those precious moments during release. Where mind and body fuse as warmth rages in all directions like a forest fire and the repetitive pulses through knotted insides ensure that wetness is delivered to temper the flames.
As I began to touch myself, the familiar sensation of bubbling excitement caught in my throat. My hands roamed up my taut belly leaving the soft hairs to rise in their wake. I shivered and continued up past my ribs to meet the twin mounds of my chalky 36Cs, the beginnings of the tan on the rest of my body accentuating their whiteness. Ascending the slopes, I gently tweaked the rising pink caps atop the mocha ring of pigment and bit my lip as I breathed in. Pinching the sensitive nipples again, I rolled them softly between my fingertips, at first imagining it was Adam kissing and nibbling them, then the lips, tongue and stubble of my mysterious captor grazed my chest. As if connected via radio control, my pussy responded, the entrance opening a fraction in preparation for action.
Physiologically I knew my tunnel would lengthen, labia would engorge with blood and open, extra wetness would form, and my clitoris would harden. That was all fine -- necessary and wonderful -- but I found the emotional response far greater. If I were a sociologist I'd probably discover it was what separated the genders. Men, it seemed, responded more to the physical and visual stimuli. But when I was turned on, my whole being was a beacon of sexual arousal, pulsing, glowing, yearning for the magical touches and loaded glances that would drive me to each successive plateau of desire.
Roaming south, my fingertips traced my ribs once more, then onward to the edge of my pelvis and down onto my thighs where I gently parted my legs, feeling the stickiness that glued the lips of my smooth petals give way. I slid my hand toward my centre, hovering over my mons and feeling the warmth emanating from within. So ready.
I paused. Something stopped me, I wasn't sure what. I held my breath, trying to get a handle on the interruption, body aching to respond to my touch yet suddenly second fiddle to curiosity. Was my super-sensitive hearing playing tricks on me?
No, there it was again. My heart rate quickened several beats at the squeak of a bedspring from a nearby room. I had a decision to make: stay next to Adam with the surety of orgasm and possibility of waking him for a wild screw, or give in to my vice. Was it a weakness to crumble, or did it show strength of character to walk away from the inevitability of short-term self-gratification to pursue something I found incredibly exciting, and use that as a springboard to achieve a more intense explosion later?
The third squeak decided it. Rolling gently off the bed I padded across the cold tiles of the room to face the mottled wall adjoining our neighbour, staring at it, contemplating my one true vice. ‘Aural voyeurism' I called it: the act of listening in to other people's intimate moments. Whether pianissimo or forte, it turned me on intensely and I sought every opportunity to share others' sexual gratification, basking amid the symphony of love with my hand shoved indelicately between my legs as I chased after their orgasms with one or more of my own. Twisted maybe, but part of me nevertheless. If I denied such urges, would I be less of a woman? Less human? Or would the urges find some other way to surface? Like in dreams, maybe?
A sigh from behind the wall ended my philosophising and I paced to the en-suite to fetch a tumbler then found a suitable spot in the entrance hall, just out of sight of Adam. Should he wake, I wanted plausible deniability. It felt deceitful to keep this dark side of myself hidden from him and there were so many occasions when I felt I just needed to blurt it out into the open. He was going to become my husband, and spouses didn't keep secrets from one another, did they? Or did they? I was fairly sure he'd understand, but each time I plucked up courage to build it into the conversation, I bottled. Maybe I wasn't ready to fully admit the level to which it defined me. Or maybe deep down I was just a coward. I pursed my lips. One day.
The wall was a little rough, as if it had been rendered with some low-grade ballast and then directly painted. That was sure to make it more difficult to obtain a clean sound, but the fact I heard the squeaks and that sigh so clearly without the aid of the glass meant there was little chance of the wall being anything more than three or four inches thick.
Before committing, I paused with the rim of the glass grinding against the uneven surface. I knew who resided next door as we'd exchanged a nod when returning from breakfast. By all outward appearances she was the archetypal moody daughter on holiday with her sun-worshipping mum and gran, for some reason choosing a family vacation over staying at home with her boyfriend and unrestricted access to the drinks cabinet. Maybe the lack of father figure had something to do with it. At dinner I'd noticed just a faint untanned ring as the only evidence of her mother's prior status.
Like all regular young women in our image-conscious, media-soaked world, this particular screenager spent much of the time when not in the pool absorbed with her iPhone, presumably communicating with friends or plugged into music. Her attire was always chic at dinner and verging on skimpy poolside. I swear I caught Adam surreptitiously checking her out over his sunglasses a few times as she stepped shimmering from the pool in that clingy black two-piece separated by an impeccably toned stomach. And if her mother was anything to go by, the good looks would continue well into her forties.
Of course I was jealous of her youth and the natural, effortless beauty I didn't have a decade further down the line from her. I'm not naïve enough to think Adam doesn't window shop, and if I was blessed with her perfect body I'd damn well flaunt it too. Maybe envy or the prospect of discovering the formula for youthful exuberance was part of the reason I pressed my ear to the cool glass: I wanted to check out the competition and find out what made her tick. Well, that was my justification to give in to those dark urges of mine.
In the early stages of listening, it was always difficult to conjure an accurate mental map of what was going on. The physical layout of the room was usually easy to visualise because it would be roughly a mirror image of ours. But the nuances and detail of what she was doing and how she was arranged could only be ascertained through careful interpretation of the sonic reflections that bounced off the walls and were channelled to my ear.
The first thing I noticed as I tuned into the room was that she was trying to be discreet, and not entirely succeeding. There were a few periods of silence punctuated only by the odd whimper and reluctant bed springs as she rearranged her position. Based on the fact her infrequent soft sighs were clearly heard, I pictured her on her back, naked like I was, legs gently parted, knees slightly raised from the bed, heels digging into it as her fingers played through the wiry, charcoal strands of pubic hair that covered her mound. I could always refine the imagery later, but that was a good start.
In my mind's eye, each little sigh or gasp was the product of her digits finding the tiny button nestled in her inverted vee and giving it a stroke. She'd rub her fingers either side of the little pearl, pulling back the hood to expose its shiny surface, then let the cover retract as she guided her fingers deeper between her impossibly trim thighs, seeking the start of her wetness. Droplets of moisture would no doubt pepper her bush, glistening in the afternoon light.
My makeshift speaker dutifully amplified a sharp intake of breath, and a lump caught in my throat. Intuition led me to believe she'd slipped a finger inside her wet estuary to test the waters and liked what she found. Maybe she was fondling her breasts too, tweaking her nipples alternately with one hand while she explored herself with the other. I couldn't help but join in, my spare hand massaging the soft flesh of my chest. It responded accordingly, the cap hardening as I pinched it, shooting hoops of electricity into my body.
She exhaled a couple of times, clearly aroused. It reminded me of a segment from Sadeness on the first Enigma album. And then there was silence. Had I spent too long procrastinating and missed the build up? Had she come? It was difficult to tell. I strained to hear, repositioning the tumbler, slightly disappointed that the exhalations could signal the end. Then I heard a faint clicking noise, a repetitive tap tap tap; perhaps contact with her wetness. I waited, playing various scenarios in my head, trying to work out in which position she was oriented and what she was touching. My free hand continued to glide up and down my body, lighting up whatever it touched as my imagination took hold.
The tapping was drowned by a loud couple wandering past our rooms, animated voices and heels echoing in the sparsely decorated corridor. I waited out the interruption and, when the din eventually faded, tuned in again, finding just silence from my neighbour save for the occasional creak from the cheap bed.
Then there was a vibration noise. I gripped the tumbler in anticipation of perhaps some action from a toy she'd brought with her. I never went away without mine, maybe she was the same. But the vibration was short-lived, followed by a void before the tapping resumed. It took a little while to dawn on me that it was fingernails against the screen of her damn phone. I rolled my eyes. Youngsters and their inseparable technology!
Presuming she was done and merely exchanging pleasantries with one of her girlfriends back home, I prepared to give up to go and finish the job I started earlier in my own bed, when I froze. With my ear zeroed on the glass for optimum sound transmission, there could be no other explanation for what I had heard, but my brain wouldn't accept it. It simply refused.
A few agonising seconds passed as I tried to convince myself that it had been a figment of my overactive imagination. I held my breath as I listened, just in case it was a reflection of a noise I had made as I readied myself to return to bed. She tapped her phone's screen again a few times then the sheets rustled as she changed position, shortly followed by the familiar sound of fingers in a sticky pussy.
The walls really were paper thin and the clarity the glass afforded was tremendous. I loved being this close to the action. It was the next best thing to being in the room with her, watching her stoke her fires, legs akimbo, eyes closed, mouth apart as she became lost in self-discovery.
