Letter 45 – A Dreamy Dinner with a Handsome Detective, and a Gun in My Lingerie Drawer
“And what is the hero? Primarily one who has conquered his fears. One can be a hero in any realm; we never fail to recognize him when he appears. His singular virtue is that he has become one with life, one with himself. Having ceased to doubt and question, he quickens the flow and rhythm of life. The coward, per contra, seeks to arrest life’s flow. He arrests nothing, to be sure, unless it be himself. Life moves on, whether we act as cowards or as heroes. Life has no other discipline to impose, if we would but realize it, than to accept life unquestioningly. Everything we shut our eyes to, everything we run away from, everything we deny, denigrate or despise, serves to defeat us in the end. What seems nasty, painful, evil can become a source of beauty, joy and strength, if faced with an open mind. Every moment is golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such.” –Henry Miller, The World of Sex
I’m writing this letter on April 5, 2012 at 2:43 p.m.
I’ve been painting since 5 a.m. this morning. For many weeks, every minute of my day seems to be consumed by painting and creating new art work. The isolation is starting to get to me. I normally don’t mind my solitude. But, after many weeks of it, I am itchy for the companionship of others. I wanted to write a few paragraphs to you, before I have to clean up, pack up my things at my loft, go home to the suburbs, and get ready for another burlesque show. I have a few hours before Mr. C will be picking me up from my loft to bring me home. On Friday night, I will finally be surrounded by other human beings for a few hours! I am hoping that we will bring in a large crowd, even though it’s “Good Friday” and Easter weekend. I’m going to need to return to my loft right after the show and start painting again. I’m behind schedule. The tiny details in this portrait are time consuming and require slow precision. I’m also running out of paint, and can’t work on the portrait until I find time to purchase some more. I anticipate a trip to the art store this evening, on my way home.
I’m grateful that I’m only performing one number tomorrow night – magic with the Illusionettes. Hopefully, my rehearsal time will be minimal. I have a new dove trick I want to perform, if I can learn to do it in a short amount of time. I feel confident that I can do it. I hardly have the energy for anything more. For many weeks, I’ve been working relentlessly on art work, and on most nights, after a long day of painting, I am completely exhausted.
I had dinner with my husband, Mr. C, the other night. We ordered pizza and ate at the loft, nearby the fireplace. It was nice to spend time with him! During my long hours of painting on the day we had dinner, I was listening to the audio book by Stuart Woods, Kisser – a Stone Barrington Novel. I love Stone and his sex life! Mr. C reminds me a lot of Stone, only Stone is a lawyer, who used to be a cop, and Mr. C is a Private Detective. As we talked over dinner, I felt sleepy, my mind drifted in and out of a variety of dark fantasies about me and Mr. C – the Private Detective. A myriad of pulp-fiction detective novel covers flashed before my mind’s eye; where the damsel in distress is bound and gagged by dark, evil villains. I yearned for Mr. C to take me to the bedroom, tie me up, and force me to have continuous orgasms. Maybe that would shock me into a more awakened state. However, nothing kinky ever happened, because Mr. C had to return to the suburbs soon after we ate dinner, to take care of our four small dogs. Unfortunately, responsibilities come before orgasms.
“I should get going,” Mr. C said, giving me a long, firm kiss upon my lips, rubbing his strong, virile body against mine, his red blooded body heat radiating from him with erotic intensity. When our lips part, I exhale a soft, deep, throaty growl, wishing that we had the time to play. Lust filled my large, almond shaped eyes, observing him stride with confidence into my bedroom and open my lingerie drawer. My eyebrows rise with curiosity. I thought maybe I was going to get lucky.
“Is that a gun in my lingerie drawer, Mr. Detective, or are you just happy to see me?” I asked seductively, when I intently observe Mr. C withdrawing his gun, which has been tucked in between black lace panties, red, black and white garters, and several pairs of sheer black, classic, back – seamed, thigh high nylons.
Mr. C smiled wickedly at me, knowing that he would pique my interest if he hid his gun is a very provocative place. “You didn’t know that this gun has been with your lingerie for a few days? I left it here on Sunday before the birthday party.”
“Look at me,” I replied, insinuating my paint apparel; faded, paint splattered jean overalls and a dirty, white t-shirt, “Does it look like I have been wearing lingerie?”
We both laughed. I kissed him one more time, long and hard upon his lips, before escorting Mr. C out the door.
I painted for several more hours before going to sleep that night. As my paint brush stroked upon canvas, I thought about that gun being in my lingerie drawer and how carnal it seemed to me. And when I slept, I dreamed a very naughty, pulp-fiction dream.
Naughty Detective Dream….
I struggled with all of my might, to free myself from the thick rope which binds my wrists tightly together. My arms are stretched taut above my head. The rope is firmly tied to a long, thick, sturdy, wooden beam, which helps support the ceiling above a dark, dirty, moldy smelling basement. I attempt to scream, but no sound exits my mouth, beyond the cloth gag which has been jammed tightly in between my teeth, pushing my curled tongue to the far back of my mouth. My body wiggles and writhes, desperate for an escape. My mind, body and soul is terrorized by my dark, dreadful thoughts of what may occur next as the rope burns deep into the delicate skin on my wrists, from my panicked tussle to escape.
“Somebody please save me!” I screamed, frenetically inside my mind, desperately hoping someone can hear me, telepathically. I pray to the Gods above for a miracle, even though I am an atheist. At this point, I don’t give a fuck! Please! Somebody help me escape like Houdini out of this fucking jam!”
The last thing that I recalled, before I awoke deep within this dream, still helplessly trapped inside this nightmarish, pulp fiction realm, is that I was exiting the back door to the nightclub where my burlesque show performs, loading out my magic tricks and costumes to the car, alone. It was after 2 a.m. My face ached from a large grin. My eyes sparkled with delight. My spirit buzzed from the energy we received from the large crowd, who attended this evening. We had an amazing show! I was feeling high, walking with a light step, in silence to my car. I unlocked it with my small remote on my key chain, when I heard someone approach me from behind me, the footsteps sounded heavy and loud. Unexpectantly, I felt a prick of pain in my upper arm, as if a bee had just stung me, which I knew was impossible, because it was early spring in Minnesota.
All of a sudden, I am startled by a loud explosion. Every muscle in my body jolts with alarm. My eyes can’t see a thing! I am blindfolded by a dark, thick, scarf which smells like expensive men’s cologne. It was a familiar scent. Only I couldn’t recall where I had smelled this cologne before.
“Was that a gun shot?” I thought, dread trickling like ice water in my pulsing veins, suddenly recalling where I have smelled that expensive cologne before. It belonged to Salvador! I heard a heavy body thud to the floor and footsteps racing towards me. What the fuck is going on?!” I screamed inside of my mind, panic and rushing blood pounding in my ears. My legs attempted to run, my arms still bound tightly above me, stretching as far as they could go, without ripping my arms out of socket. It was no use. I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t hide.
“Are you okay, Doll face?” I heard a man’s deep voice ask, which sounded like it was fueled by an adrenaline rush; his breath panting hot and fast upon my neck, which caused a stir of arousal and goose bumps to invade my body. Even though his words raced near my ear, they held a certain kind of confidence that offered me a sensation of comfort and safety.
I nodded my head, my body trembling with shock, horror and uncertainty. A great sense of relief washed over me when my gag was removed from my mouth. My tongue felt thick, dry and swollen. I tried to reply to the voice of the man I could not see, but no words would escape my mouth. I was having a difficult time comprehending the events that were spinning madly around me, like angry, buzzing hornets. Everything was happening so fast. I felt so groggy, dizzy and discombobulated.
“Your okay, Doll face…your okay.” I heard this mysterious man’s voice soothe me, removing the blindfold from my eyes and his right hand shining a small flashlight upon the huge body that lay dead in a large pool of blood. A sickening, metallic odor permeated the air, which made my stomach roll with nausea. “I shot the motherfucking bastard dead. See?”
The blindfold, which had just been removed, had been tied firmly around my head, squeezing my eyelids tightly to my eyeballs, for a very long time. At first, my vision was blurry. All that I could see was a large, fuzzy, black mass upon the floor, several feet away from me. It didn’t move. There was a cold chill in the air, as if the spirit if this dead creature still crawled on an icy breeze. My nipples were stiff as small diamonds. I desperately wished that I had worn something more than a small, tight, black velvet dress. One of the thin spaghetti straps had broke, probably when I was being transported to this mysterious place, and dangled from the back of my dress. And, for a reason I cannot distinguish or name, my dress’ imperfection annoyed the hell out of me. I felt pissy with agitation.
The muscles in my arms continued to be stretched taut above me, which increased my irritation. My body was pulled long and firm. So much so, that I was almost standing upon my tip toes. My vision cleared and I saw the outline of a stranger’s handsome face, inches in front of me, still breathing rapidly. His hazel eyes pierced through me, fluttering my heart, and a hot rush of electricity zapped my soul, my nipples and my clit, rapidly arousing me. His dignified, tiny stubbles of silver whiskers mixed charmingly with his five o’clock shadow. My knees felt soft and languid when I heard his heart beat fast beneath his long, black leather coat. He stood so close in front of me, our energy interfusing together. The smooth brim of his black leather fedora brushed against the black, silky bangs on my forehead. The shifting movement of my hair tickled my skin. To my surprise, I wasn’t afraid of him. I felt a familiar, magnetic bond with him, which made my heartbeat quicken at a faster pace. As if we had met in another lifetime. His warm presence and my precarious situation stirred something deep within. The danger and mystery felt like a drug racing like greyhound dogs inside my bloodstream.
“Thank you.” I whispered, impulsively leaning into this stranger, pressing my body firmly up against his strong, lean body – my mouth welcoming his kiss. It felt as if his lips were perfectly made for kissing mine. I parted my lips slightly, passionately slithering my eager tongue with his. The smell of desire overwhelmed the smell of death. Every cell in my body awakened, as if danger, mystery, and a near death experience had been an internal alarm clock.
When our lips parted, I asked softly, staring inquisitively into this mystifying gentleman’s eyes, “Who are you?”
“My name’s Wesley St. James,” he replied, his voice low and quiet. My body swooned when the back of his fingertips lightly caressing the side of my face, which relaxed and comforted me. “I’m a private detective. I’ve been following you and Salvador Veneto for several weeks.”
“Why?” I asked him with wide, speculative eyes.
“Salvador’s a dirty rotten piece of shit! He’s big time trouble. I’ve been tailing him for several weeks. I was hired by a mob boss from Chicago, who goes by the name, Louie Giovanni.” The Detective paused. A short span of silence permeates the air, before he continues on. “I’ve been a fan of yours for a very long time, Miss Merlot” He confesses. (My stage name in this dream is Mimi Merlot) I blushed in the dark, feeling heat rising into my face, causing a feverish sensation. “For the past six months, I’ve attended every one of your shows. I like watching you perform magic, but, I enjoy observing you perform burlesque even more.” The handsome Detective’s lips curl upward with a seductive grin, his white teeth glowing in the dark.
“Salvador Veneto is a gangster – a lethal man. He’s a notorious mobster from Kansas City, who’s been hiding out in St. Paul for quite awhile. But, I bet you already knew that, Doll face.” I gasped with alarm when I felt his right hand firmly entangle itself into the long strands of my thick raven hair, pulling it down hard, with a stern, vehement force. A cold shiver of fear danced down my spine. Uneasiness trembled right below my skin. I couldn’t utter a word. My distress was paralyzing. “I should inform you that one of his dumbass goons tranquillized you tonight and brought you here. I heard from one of my low life informants, that he was going to have his way with you tonight and then kill you. But, lucky for you, my fuckin’ gun said otherwise.” The Detective flashed me a wicked grin; his eyes penetrating through me, searching for the truth. “Do you know why Salvador wanted to kill you?”
I must stop this letter for now. Mr. C will be picking me up soon. I will write as soon as I can and tell you the rest of my naughty dream.
I’m resuming this letter on April 8, 2012, at 11:11 a.m.
Hi Henry! We had an amazing burlesque show this past Friday night! I’m still flying high from the show’s success! I genuinely love all of the talented performers. They are phenomenal! I am very lucky for their loyalty and respect! It’s Easter Sunday and I’m at the loft painting again, still trying to finish this last portrait and deliver it to the gallery ASAP. I have been painting almost non-stop ever since I returned to my loft after the show. Unfortunately, I am unable to spend time with my family on this holiday. I have to keep working until I finish this last portrait for the gallery showing, which is in a few weeks. I have put many long hours and days into this last portrait. It is very detailed and time consuming.
When I first began as an artist, I would rush through my paintings, eager to start another one. Over the years, I’ve learned that quality is better than quantity. I generally follow my intuition when I create. Over the past several years, I have been inspired to be very detail orientated with my work, which I am grateful for. But, sometimes I am frustrated with how much patience I require, as well as a steady hand. To overcome this, I have learned to submit to each creation, stroke by stroke with my paint brush, and not think of the larger picture. The process is much easier this way.
Mr. B is coming over later this evening. I have not masturbated for several days. I have no energy or strength in my right hand after a long day of painting. I am anxious for this evening. I cannot wait for orgasmic release!
Back to the Naughty Detective Dream….
I remained silent, my body quaking with fright. I didn’t know how to respond. A dreadful sensation chilled my soul. I could not believe the words this gentleman, who claims to be a Private Detective, is telling me. I knew Salvador. I knew him very well. Why would he try to kill me? Did he find out? Oh my fucking God! Is that Salvador lying face down in a pool of blood several feet away from me? Every inch of my body trembled even more, realizing the jeopardy I almost had to face with the dead notorious gangster. Can I trust this enigmatic man, Detective Wesley St. James? I have to. I have no other choice. There is no one else here to save me.
All of the muscles in my body loosened, when I felt the back of Wesley’s hand stroke softly up and down upon the inside of my upper arm. His warm, delicate touch is relaxing and arousing. I hardly knew this man, yet, my cunt wanted desperately to fuck him. Why am I such a slut, Henry?
“It’s okay Doll face, the fucking bastard is dead. You aren’t in any danger…unless you want to be…” he spoke, reassuring me, grinning wickedly, trailing his hand to the side of my face, and caressing it with a gentle, yet, firm and confident hand. Instinctively, my face turned, resting into the palm of his hand, welcoming his touch. My blood simmered hot with sexual stimulation. My fear was dissipating. My nether lips thickened. My nipples stiffened even more. My carnal juices dripped like hot nectar. I enjoyed the thought of being in danger with this confident man who knew what he desired. I’m also exhilarated and relieved that Salvador is fucking dead!
The scene of this dream fades out of my head, and another scene enters…
I’m now at a remote, northern, Minnesota cabin, nearby a very large lake. I can hear motor boats speeding upon the water, waves splashing upon the shoreline, people laughing and talking from afar, and a dog barking in the distance. My arms continue to be bound with rope, with my arms still stretched firmly above my head, just like I was positioned in my last dreamscape. However, there is no dead body on the floor nearby and a sickening, metallic smell in the air. My legs are spread far apart, held in a splayed position by a long, wooden, spreader bar. My body is completely naked and vulnerable. My sex is wet and desirous. My body trembles with anticipation and trepidation.
Wesley presses his lips hard against mine. A warm wave of erotic energy rolls southward, low in my belly. A horny rush of heat permeates my pelvic region, my blood’s sizzling hot and racing to every inch of my cunt, stiffening my clit as if it were a tiny penis. My tongue greedily entangles with his, tasting his robust flavor, inhaling his virile breath. The Detective’s hand wraps tightly around the back of my long silky hair, tugging it firmly backwards, shoving his ravenous tongue deep towards the back of my mouth. I’m devitalized by his intoxicating kiss, the relaxed weight of my body is stretching my arms even more taut above me, the black leather cuffs biting into the delicate skin around my wrists. I can hear the cabin’s old wooden beam above me creak loudly, and the sound of the warm, crackling fire, which dances with long, glowing flames, in the nearby fireplace.
I shiver when I feel the coldness of metal slide upon the front of my chest, in between my heaving breasts. The algid tip of a gun’s muzzle skims lightly over each firm peak of flesh, circling around my erect, fomented nipples. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were Salvador’s secret Mistress? Did you think I wouldn’t know? I am the best fucking PI in the Twin Cities, you stupid, silly, naughty bitch.”
Instinctively, I wanted to knee him in the balls. My eyes narrowed into tiny slits of pissed off anger. How dare he talk to me like that! He didn’t scare me – not yet anyways.
I gasped a loud when this asshole detective pulled my hair harder, tipping my head back further. “I didn’t love Sal!” I protested. “I don’t even know you, Wesley St. James. But, I know that I love you.” I softly uttered, hoping to dissuade his anger. My temper faded and calmness took its place. I did not understand why my mouth impulsively expelled the words I felt, so intensely. I should have spit in his face, not tell him that I love him. What the fuck was I thinking? My mind could not comprehend the language of my heart.
I must stop this letter for now, Henry, and start painting. I’ll try and write again soon.
I’m resuming this letter on April 18, 2012 at 9:30 a.m.
Good Morning Henry! I am so sorry that I haven’t had the chance to write sooner. I finally finished the last portrait. The art reception is this upcoming Sunday afternoon. I finished it late this past Saturday night. Afterwards, I went home to the burbs and rested for a few days, doing nothing but watch television on my big screen television. I have fallen deeply in love with a new television series, Smash! I watched over a dozen episodes this past Sunday, completely intrigued with this new theatrical drama on NBC. I find it interesting to observe that even the large Broadway productions have their share of negative drama, divas, sensitive gay producers, undermining and sneaky characters, unnecessary, catty drama and back stabbing. As well as hours of time, talent, hard work, determination, sacrifice, blood, sweat, tears, and extremely low budgets. I also enjoyed the scenes of NYC. I miss New York! This series was just the thing I required to rest and recharge my mind, body and soul. I returned to my loft this morning, determined to finish this letter to you.
Back to the Naughty Detective Dream…
I felt a great sense of relief, observing the Detective put the gun down upon a nearby, scratched up, antique, wooden end table. It’s true. I didn’t love Sal. I never did. We had a financial arrangement. A burlesque girl doesn’t live off of what she makes on stage. My costumes are expensive! Now, I loathe Salvador Veneto even more, because he was going to kill me, for stealing one teensy weensy diamond from him several weeks ago. What was a girl like me to do? If you put something shiny in front of my eyes, I’m going to have an incessant urge to want it and possess it. How in the fuck did he find out? It doesn’t excuse me for not telling Wesley about being Salvador’s Mistress. How could I tell him after he saved me from that Italian monster? I was ashamed that I ever fucked Salvador – who was a mean, ruthless, low life, Son of a bitch!
“I’m going to have to search your body everywhere for that stolen diamond.”The Detective whispered ruefully near my ear. The heat of his breath stimulated my senses. The muscles in my cunt voraciously contracted, and opened like a starving mouth, anxious for the search to begin. “I know that you sold that diamond to Johnny Veneto and fucked him!”
“How in the hell did this Detective find out about the stolen diamond and Johnny?” I wondered and then grumbled to myself silently. “He can search me all he wants. I don’t have it! I sold it for a new fur coat. A hot diamond can’t keep me warm in Minnesota. If I would have kept it, Salvador would have surely found out. I thought that I was being discrete, selling it to a past, rich, young lover. I had no idea that the man, who I used to fuck, and who never told me his name, was Salvador’s nephew, until a few days ago, when I saw him at Salvador’s office, before Sal and I went to lunch.”
“You’re lucky that I’m a private detective and not a detective with the St. Paul precinct.” Wesley spoke with sly assurance. His thumb and forefinger pinching my left nipple, twisting and pulling until I saw sparks of white light dance before my eyes. The erotic sensation burned like a mad fever upon the erect tip of my nipple and then shot straight to the glossy, rigid tip of my clit. “If I was, I would have to arrest you. But, since I don’t play by the rules, I’m going to torture and tease you slowly, sinfully, seductively, for many, many hours. If you please me, submit to me, all of yourself to me, I will let you go, and never say a word to the law. You will become my sex slave for saving you from Salvador’s wrath. Understand Doll face?”
I felt magnetized to this handsome, rugged man, who smelled like sweat, cologne, and black leather. I nodded my head up and down, slowly, acknowledging the Detective’s request, as if I had been caught deep inside a magic spell. I knew from the moment I met him, I would do anything he asked of me. I generally never do that with any man. I am a very independent, strong, confident woman. At this moment in time, lost inside my torrid dreamscape, I felt like I would do anything, just to feel his hands touch me between my firm thighs. I ached to be stroked and to feel his fingers curl, wiggle and thrust deep within me.
A warm, sensual shiver ran down my spine, like bathwater from a shiny, silver spout, feeling the Detective’s hand skim downward upon my skin, touching between my widely splayed legs, teasing, tickling and lightly stroking my swollen clit. Suddenly, his hand slapped soundly upon my tender, heated flesh. My head tipped back, my mouth opened wide, greedily gulping in air, savoring the shocking sensation. A long, salacious string of moans escaped my mouth, and then floated upon invisible sound waves in the air.
For reasons unbeknownst to me, I felt an unexpected flash of anger mixed with a surge of defiance. “I don’t have the Goddamn diamond! I sold it weeks ago” I seethed, my eyes narrowing with insolence, my black, dilated pupils burning into the Detective.
“You’re a fucking liar, you conniving bitch!” Wesley St. James churned. His lips curled upward wickedly, his white teeth flashing in the dim light so sadistically, he made me shudder with horror. My body jolted, twisting to escape the several, harsh strikes of his strong, virile hand upon my overheated cunt, which now rained with torrential lust. The pain was like a drug, zipping euphoric endorphins into my feverish, blood pumping veins. My heart beat so hard and fast, I could hardly catch my breath. I felt dizzy, intoxicated and ravenous.
Suddenly, the scene of my dreamscape shifts again…
I’m running in the twilight, upon a quiet road, underneath a vivid blanket of stars. The moon glows bright and is almost full. The night radiates an eerie energy. My heart thuds fast, hard and loud, below my heaving chest. My chilled skin glows a yellowish hue from the bright headlights of an oncoming car. I feel a warm trickle of blood drip from my mouth and swollen lower lip, down the curves in my long, lean neck, staining my small, firm, perky breasts. My thighs flash in the glowing beam of headlights, my legs swaying languidly beneath me. I’m wearing black silk panties and a matching silk camisole. One strap on my black silk garter is broken. My silk stocking is falling below my right knee, but I pay no attention to the awkwardness of it. My other silk stocking is ruined by many rips, tears and long, never ending runs. It’s also stained with blood coming from my knee, which I wounded when I fell upon the dark, cold pavement. I try to cry out in fright and agony, but there is no sound. My hair is a messy, tangled, bloody mass of black. I have a small wound on the back of my head. I bumped it hard upon the thick trunk of a tree, when I stumbled upon a fallen branch, many miles ago. My pulse races in fear and the rush of blood pounds in my ears, for I do not know if this car, coming fast towards me, is going to stop, or if it belongs to the people who are chasing me. I exhale a long sigh of relief when I see a dark car rapidly pull over to the side of the desolate road, and the shadow of a familiar man, exit it.
Suddenly, my world goes blank for a few minutes. I must have fainted. When I regain consciousness, I am cradled in the arms of the Detective and placed gently into the back of his car. I know that I am safe and I fall back into a world of unconsciousness.
Hours later, I awaken, vulnerable and naked. I do not see the Detective. My dreamscape has shifted again. My arms and legs are restrained by leather cuffs and strong rope, upon a large, decadent bed. I see my ruined lingerie tossed in a pile upon the bedroom’s hardwood floor. My eyes focus in upon the beautiful woman who is sitting next to me, wiping my forehead with a damp, white cloth. Soon, they dart nervously around the room, which was richly decorated, attempting to figure out where I am. Across the room, another beautiful woman reclined scantily clad in black satin panties, and thigh high nylons, upon a vintage sofa made of blood – red velvet. Her large, exotic, dark, sapphire blue eyes, half closed, slumberous and full of passion, stared back at me with erotic tension. My eyes drank in her perfectly pointed cones of firm, tender flesh, as if twin peaks of perfection. Her lips painted scarlet red and full of pout seduced me. I yearned to kiss her, yet, I didn’t even know her. But, how often do dreams make sense?
It was as of those two alluring woman were simply mirages. They vanquished into thin air and now the Detective is removing the cuffs from my bound limbs. His warm, vital body bent to massage my ankles where the black leather cuffs had been, brushing against my smooth, satiny thigh. I began to sob, my body trembling with fear and relief.
“Thank you,” I managed to utter. My mouth is dry and my throat is parched. “You saved me once again.” I smiled, my eyes glistening with gratitude. “Did I really want to be saved from those two gorgeous women?” I thought – A faint hit of mischief replaces the grateful glint in my eyes.
The Detective’s strong arms embraced my shoulders, drawing my silky smooth, pliant body toward him in a firm, passionate embrace. His lips descended down upon my moist, red lips, which parted to hungrily receive his kiss. When our lips depart, the Detective grinned, reassuring me, “Don’t worry,” he exhaled. “I’ve searched this place. There is no one here to harm you. You’re safe. Understand?”
I nodded my head, acknowledging his words. All of my worries and cares vanquished like a thief in the night, as I press my body hard against the familiar Detective. I passionately kissed his lips again, thanking him for saving me. Suddenly the Detective leaped to his feet to meet an unwarranted intruder, unarmed, thrusting his body forwarded to grapple with unexpected danger. My body jolted with alarm, covering myself with the plush, white Duvet, hiding my eyes with my trembling hands.
There was a roar from the Intruder’s gun – the shrill wine of slug ricocheting against the left bedroom wall. Everything appeared even more surreal! I screamed, but it didn’t feel as if that scream was coming from my mouth.
Once again, my dreamscape shifts and I discover my soul existing inside another hallucinogenic, noir world.
I am now sitting at a small table which is elegantly covered with white linen, dressed in an expensive, short, form-fitting, red cocktail dress. My plump breasts peak out from the rich, beguiling material. My deep brown, almond shaped eyes, flirtatiously glance at the Detective, who appears so handsome, sitting across from me, wearing a sharp, black suit and a matching black fedora. The scent of his musky cologne intoxicates me. We aren’t in a modern world – we are in a place that existed long ago, only I cannot determine the timeline of this dreamscape. We are lost in a classic era that belongs to no one else, but us.
“Come with me, handsome.” I utter to Wesley, my lips curling upward with mischief and undeniable lust. My low, quiet voice is laced with red hot seduction. “Let me show you to your room, Detective.”
When the Detective settled into his room and finished bathing, he lay naked upon his bed, his eyes observing the moonbeam that danced in through the window and crept across the floor. His eyes were closed and he was lightly slipping in and out of dream, when I softly knocked upon his door, and let myself in when I heard no answer, wearing a sexy, scimpy negligee made of sheer, filmy, black material. My swaying hips and seductive curves slinked through the dim lit room, towards him.
My body leaned over his, my long hair tickling the Detective’s handsome face, when I pressed my lips lightly upon his forehead. I shrieked with surprise when, as quick as a flash of lightning, the Detective pulled me down upon him with his strong arms, my body crushing tightly upon his, our faces close, our breath intermingling, heavy, lustful and panting. Abruptly, as quick as a frog’s tongue snatches out to catch a nearby fly, I pin the Detective’s hands above his head.
“I know that I’m not as strong as you, but, for this moment, let us pretend that I am in charge.” I said, flashing him a wicked, playful sneer. I could sense he did not like this idea, but was willing to entertain my fantasy. Only in dream would this ever happen between Mr. C, aka Detective Wesley St. James and I.
I leaned down to kiss him, biting upon his lower lip, exhaling a low, throaty growl as I released it. My hands roamed his body, rough, demanding and impatient. My horny need to fuck the Detective hummed, vibrating restless, greedy energy. My teeth scraped down his muscular, pale skinned body. His ginger hair sprinkled with aging silver, glimmered in the dim light. His bedeviled eyes were telling me that he’d allow me to take charge, for now, but to know that he remained in control. Or so he thought, until my mouth swallowed his rigid cock, working him hard and fast. I could see him resisting the urge to explode.
“No coming yet,” I ordered, “not yet.”
My teeth scraped back up his trembling body, my hand replacing my mouth, gripping, stroking, and fondling his hardness with my agile fingers and my hot, sweaty palm. I grinned, straddling his body. Soon, my wet sex engulfed him with great desire and urgency. I leaned down to kiss him. My tongue pushed its way into his mouth, exploring every inch of it with avidity and rapaciousness.
“Now,” I commanded. “Come for me now, my darling…come for me now.”
Right before our bodies convulsed, peaking with orgasmic release, I hear an annoying noise….beep…beep…beep…beep….what the fuck is that? I ponder, looking around the room. But, the noise isn’t coming from anything inside this erotic dreamscape. Unfortunately, it was my alarm clock, in the real world, awakening me from this lascivious dream.
When I awoke, the morning after Mr. C and I had dinner at my loft, my cunt was saturated with my carnal juice and my clit was glossy, hard and highly stimulated. My body was face down upon the bed and my legs were spread wide. My hand swiped at the snooze button on the alarm clock, and then reached into my nightstand drawer and took out my Hitachi Wand. I plugged it in, rolled over in bed, pressed the intense vibrator to my clitoris and made myself come. MMmmmm! What a way to start the day!
I hope that you enjoyed reading about my naughty dream, Henry. It’s getting late and I should end this long letter. I apologize for taking so long to write it. I’m glad that I’ve found the time to finally finish it. I have truly missed writing to you!
I must say goodbye for now. I have to take a long, hot bath. Before I go, I want to tell you that I’m anxious for this evening. Mr. B is spending the night. He’s been out of town on business for a few days. The Detective, aka Mr. C, has been extremely busy at work – a new case. Lately, we haven’t had the opportunity or time to fuck. I feel like a pressure cooker ready to explode! Especially, after writing this letter and having that naughty dream. We tried to make a sex date for this past Saturday night, but Mr. C had to work and couldn’t get out of it. This is why I have husband no. 1 and husband no. 2. I’m determined to get fucked tonight! I’m such a needy slut Henry! I’m just not content if I’m not sexually satisfied.
“Of course, in writing, I think, one writes to discover himself. In this thing (watercolors), I’m just playing – I attach no importance to what I do in painting, not at all. I’m just having a good time. And, I think that this is a very important part of life – that people learn how to play, and that they make life a game, rather than a struggle for goals, don’t you know.” –Henry Miller, This is Henry, Henry Miller from Brooklyn