corridor dream

I am walking down a long, curved corridor, with many doors. I feel like I’ve been wandering for hours through these hallways. I am naked but I don’t realize that at first, then I notice. I am desperately horny, needing to fuck, to drink cunt, to smell cunt, to masturbate. I walk past the endless doors not knowing what’s happening behind any of them. As I approach one it quietly opens and Jane steps out, closing the door behind her.

She is dressed in spring clothing, light and colorful, and her face is pleased and confident. I glance at her with my desperate eyes, asking, and her face warms into a delicate smile: yes, she’s been in there making love, and she’s satisfied with deep giving and receiving. I can see that expression of fullness and contentment in her face and her eyes, and how she holds her hips. There is a direct giving in her gaze, an acknowledgment she knows that I need.

I’ve been wandering the halls searching as she has been exchanging with her lover, whoever it is, I don’t know, I only know it’s someone she cares for deeply and she’s feeling filled up with that love. She is aware that I have been roaming alone and naked, and I feel her empathy for me, her recognition that my experience is necessary for me, as necessary as her’s is for her. There’s no superiority coming from her, only happiness, and I recognize my need to feel smaller is all my own.

As I gaze on her, her beauty comes into its dimensionality. I can see every beautiful detail that I had not noticed. I want her. I want to smell and hold her like I never have; to feel her warmth and be held by her and finally relax. As I feel that, her expression changes slightly, empathic, offering a moment of comfort for my understanding what’s not going to happen.

I know she needs to go, that she’s going somewhere. My cock is hard and pointing out toward her, craving her. I lick my hand. As I do I notice that my face is coated with dry semen, many layers of dry semen. It must be caked; I know she can see this and still the expression in her eyes is only empathy. I feel my mouth coated in my dry semen as well. The sensation of her seeing this and knowing it, accentuated by the gentle embrace of her eyes, sends a rush of grief/passion/love through me and I moan and well up tears.

I am aware the contrast between us, she is feeling gathered and loved and whole. I am exposed, with nothing, my mouth sticky, my face stiff and sticky, and I look at her as I masturbate. She doesn’t judge me for this, though I’ve said I would try not to masturbate to her. As I do, my knees bend slightly and I am aware of the cool floor beneath my feet. I moan and I hear my moan echo through the corridors, past the doorways, and hearing the sound of my voice deepens my need to orgasm. I try to hold back at the same time.

I am caught between holding back and letting go. She knows this, she relates her understanding with her eyes. I know she knows what I’m experiencing and I moan again, this time louder. With this, I sense activity behind every door, there is some deep and exquisite exchange happening in every one of these rooms. One by one the doors drift open. I feel the potential to enter any one of those spaces, to face and explore the unknown that each represents.

I want to show her what I do one last time. I want to show her while she is here to see, even though she knows. I am embarrassed…deeply and beautifully, a necessary feeling, I know that anyone can emerge from one of these rooms at any moment and observe this scene. As I think that, the expression on Jane’s face reminds me that it’s okay, they already know.

Then I feel my thirst. I feel the hot ball of myself filling up rapidly, and my corresponding thirst, in that distinct, urgent way associated with Jane’s lovemaking as I gaze at her sweet face and the way her dress clings to her breasts, and her hips and then back at her eyes.

Seeing her hips I thirst for her, I want to lick along her hairy slit. I want to press my lips onto her vulva and suck gently, clasping her, and I know I never will. I then understand that her lover has spurted into her, she’s full of his semen, mixed with her own moisture, and that’s what I want, what I want to smell and what I thirst for, it’s her, as she is now, and I know I will not. At this, I feel myself begin to surrender.

What drama, unfurling within me.

My knees bend and I know that I’m about to let go. I so desperately want her approval as I show her my face. Then I see something in the corner of my eye. I turn my head and there’s a mirror, going from the floor to the ceiling and very wide.

I don’t know how I missed this before. With all of my will I turn toward the mirror, and then submit to how good it feels. How good it feels for her to see me and to see myself. I moan openly. I moan for anyone to hear. I have the sensation of being fucked, as if some invisible penetration is going to help push my semen up and out. I watch this happen. I watch my face before my eyes, it’s old and tired, and then young and handsome and then feminine, for a moment I look like Jane and then I morph into myself as I grunt; I watch my mouth and chest and body grunt and throb. The invisible penetration pushes me deeper. I am ejaculating profoundly, knowing no resistance, no withhold, this is the deepest release of my life.

I have the sensation of Jane pinching my nipples hard as this happens, focusing the pleasure with an edge of pain. But it’s not her, it’s a memory or…I don’t know. I am pulsing and moaning. I raise my left palm to the tip of my cock just in time for a flood of semen to fill up my hand, some of which spills onto the floor. I watch all of this, astonished as I see my face, and then as the pulses subside I raise my hand to my mouth and lick and fill my mouth, which sets off another surge of ejaculation onto the floor, as I swallow.

I stand there looking at my wet face, the old semen now wet again as I swallow again, openly gulping, the sound filling the corridor of open doors. I am alone. Anyone could emerge at any time. The tension is beautiful in a way I’ve never felt before. I look down at the mess I’ve made on the floor and I know what to do. I lay down, and look up at myself to see the vision of doing so, allowing my body to relax against the cool, smooth surface, and I touch the liquid with my tongue, ready to receive.

I do. I lick it up gently, meticulously and lovingly. I wish there was more. Then I turn to look at the mirror. I notice that there is a trail of still-wet semen dripping down the glass. I lean in and watch my face as I lick it off, though I notice I make more streaks than I remove. I also leave handprints on the glass. The more I try to clean the glass off, the more of a mess I make. There are obvious tongue streaks. I know there’s nothing I can do about this. I am leaving artifacts of what has happened. Anyone who walks by will see them, and somehow, I think they will know that it’s me. I make a conscious choice to accept this.

I look at the smears on the mirror, staring at them, studying them and then my focus changes: I see myself looking. I see my face, I notice that I am there, naked, sitting on the floor of a long, curved hallway of many doors.

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