Heather Pt. 01: Psycho Dreams

In her dreams, she is more.

Awake, she's average height and not more than pretty. Her best feature are the strange turquoise eyes, the near second her breasts which are a proud, firm C-cup. She has a cute face, and shapeless, shoulder-length chestnut hair. Her hips are too wide to consider her shape an hourglass, and it means her ass is big, too. Her limbs are long, forever knocking into things. It's different here. Her hair gleams, her body is full and womanly, those baby-deer limbs full of lithe, graceful movement. She's naked.

Shameless.

Her victim is a strapping male with long, dark hair. Typical female erotic fantasy material, except instead of ravishing the lady, his wrists are knotted above his head to a sturdy iron headboard. The deep brown eyes beneath that heavy brow are full of fear and lust; it's a hard draw of which is more present. Both please her.

She crawls over the blood-red velvet sheets to him, already flushed with desire, already thrumming with a sharply pleasant lust. She settles her thighs to either side of one of his, knowing he can feel the heat and wetness against his skin. He's tense. Good. She licks her lips and smoothes her hands over his chest, feeling the rippling texture of muscle beneath her eager fingertips. She stretches over and licks a long, lazy line up his neck, playfully nips his jaw, and then settles into a deep kiss. Her lips tease at his at first, and he's hesitant to let her in. He's taut beneath her, straining, and she can feel his erection strong against her hip. After a moment she becomes more insistent, pressing her tongue between his lips, using her teeth to pry them apart.

The moment her tongue darts to play with his, he is lost.

She can feel the surrender in the long shudder that wracks him, and then she's drowning in their kiss, breathing it, feeling the heat build so hot that it could burn them both down. It's not until she breaks it to draw actual breath that she realizes that his thigh is soaked from where she was grinding against it.

He isn't quite that desperate yet.

Yet.

She takes a moment to adjust herself, moving so she's straddling his hips and all that promising wetness is right over his aching cock. She doesn't touch him, no. She does something worse. She touches herself.

Her hands smooth over her pert breasts and cup them, offering them to his eyes as she strokes her thumbs over her nipples. They bead up under that light touch, and she squirms at the pleasure, rubbing her cunt against him directly now. He grits his teeth.

She pushes her hair back, and then lets one of those hands wander lazily between her thighs, the knuckles of it brushing over his shaft. It's enough to force the tortured groan he's been holding back. She grins like the Cheshire cat and dips two fingers inside- and damn, it's good. Her eyes shut and she enjoys the tease of fullness, circling her fingers inside of her, tapping that spot that makes her back arch. A whimper of pleasure escapes and that noise makes him shift restlessly.

When she opens her eyes, she can see the begging in his.

She can be crueler, still. She takes those dripping fingers and begins to paint his cock with the wetness, playing it along the very top, then drawing lines down the shaft. He cries out every time she touches them and yanks violently at the bonds, but this is her dream and he has no hope of escaping. She paints and teases and taunts until he's shaking, every single muscle standing out from the strain of being locked beneath her.

And then she lifts him up and slides him inside of her.

She's still for a moment, savoring the feeling of him filling every inch of her, but she's a restless creature. At first it's slow and patient, drawing the pleasure out for both of them until he's begging with his eyes for her to move, move, please move... and when they can't take it anymore she digs her nails in his chest and slams her hips down on his.

It gets wilder, faster. She never lets him fully escape her cunt, only sliding a few inches up or down for that delicious, damning friction, bringing them both breathlessly close to the edge before pausing just enough to yank them back. He leans up to kiss her, but she doesn't oblige. Her nails bite into skin until his face contorts with pain, but the pleasure is too good, too much. She feels like she could die of it.

At last he shouts and drives up his hips enough to sink all the way inside of her, finding his release. With that comes a warm rush that's not like any orgasm she's ever had- it's better. It's a hot meal when you're starving, it's tea when your throat is sore, it's a fireplace in the dead of winter, it's a warm bed when you're exhausted. It's every bit of salvation she's ever needed, and she loses herself in the feeling.

When she remembers herself, she gently gets up and grabs a velvet edge of the sheet to wipe herself, and then reaches up to close the eyes of her now-dead lover, letting him sleep it off for good.

***

Heather O'Neal woke up crying and wet beyond belief.

She reached up to dry her eyes before rolling over to check the alarm clock on her nightstand. It read 4:22 in blocky red light. That's AM, in the dead of night, well before normal people would wake up. Heather briefly considered addressing the aching need between her thighs, but who masturbates to murder? Psychos. She firmly told herself not to be psycho.

Psycho or not, she was awake, the way she always was after the Dream. She'd come to learn in the last three months that going back to sleep wasn't going to happen, so she got up quietly, careful not to wake her sister.

No luck. A sleepy voice called, "Heather?"

"Just going to get a drink." she replied in the dark, pausing at the door.

"You're up a lot at night..."

"Just a bad dream. I'm going back to sleep."

"Mkay." Melanie turned and got comfortable again, and it only took her seconds to drift back. Heather left the room and made her way down the cramped hall to the tiny, clean kitchen. She made good on her word to Mel and got a glass of water, and then sat down at the table to look through her phone and try to find something to occupy her until it was time for her nine o' clock EMT shift. She'd just settled into an old Stephen King novel when Mel came stumbling in, sleepy-eyed and messy-haired.

It always took Heather a little aback, how much Mel looked like their mother. Heather had taken after her own father, with only her mother's eyes to relate them (and the fact that she'd definitely spent nine months in that uterus). Melanie had a different father, but she'd taken strictly after Ginger. She had the same long red hair, pale skin, and vague smattering of freckles across her cheeks and chest. She was willowy like Ginger was, but a little taller, with those long limbs that fit her frame better than Heather's. Ginger, though, was a certified bombshell, and in Mel those dramatically beautiful features were softened and mellowed. Her hair didn't shine quite as bright, and her eyes were a dimmed shade of turquoise. Still, her loveliness was evident as she moved past Heather to get her own glass of water.

"I'm sorry I woke you up." Heather said lowly, not raising her eyes. Mel ambled back over and pulled up her own chair, settling down with a tired smile.

"It's okay. You haven't been sleeping well, and for some reason, I started wondering why and I couldn't get back to sleep."

Heather shrugged and sipped her drink. "Just bad dreams."

"No, I don't think so. You're having bad dreams every single night?" Mel cocked an eyebrow and tried to look tough, but it couldn't come across that way when she had such spectacular bedhead. Heather couldn't help but laugh, and then Mel joined her. It was a minute before either of the sisters could speak.

"Oh, laugh it up!" Mel said in joking accusation. "You don't look much better. What's going on with you?"

"I'm serious. It's a bad dream... a consistent one." Heather could feel the heat in her cheeks and she looked down at the scratched-up table.

"What happens? Tell me." Mel persisted.

"It's... like a sex dream? I guess? But it has the twist ending where the guy always dies after we... you know. Finish. It's pretty terrifying."

Mel's face twisted in thought, but not disgust, much to Heather's relief. "Maybe you need to get laid?"

"Melanie Jade Welfry!"

"Kidding, kidding. It's probably just all of those weird books you read." Mel rolled her eyes and got up to dump her full glass of water back down the sink. "Read something cheerful, see if it helps. Maybe something sexy where the guy doesn't die at the end."

"I hate women's romance. All the ravishing can be suspiciously rapey, and I don't know how the virgins are magically gifted in bed. That shit takes time to learn." She couldn't help it; she winked at Mel, who put on a pained face.

"Okay, I give. Don't start talking about your sex life."

"No, you owe me. Remember that time I had to help you get semen out of your hair?"

It was Mel's turn to blush, and she turned to march back into the bedroom. "Shut up, not fair. You promised not to bring that up, and it had -dried-!"

"Try finding out your little sister, who was -barely- eighteen, mind you, was giving a dude head behind a Best Buy."

"It was my boyfriend and the Best Buy had shut down, so we figured it'd be abandoned. I just didn't think about cleanup." Mel's voice drifted down the hall, and then Heather heard the door shut. A second later, another door opened, and their younger sister Stella called down the hall:

"Will you two shut up!? It's five in the morning. We're trying to sleep."

"Sorry." Heather called back, chastised. Soon the house was quiet again, and she went back to reading her novel. It was just a strange dream, she decided, now that she was soothed. Only a weird, psycho dream.