Jazz Dreams

Can you screw a dream? Can you lock it tightly inside your mind and hide it away in the secret creases of your soul? Does the dream call blindly when you aren't watching or listening and points its shaky finger at you, taunting, teasing you into weakness? Dreams are illusions that trick you and whisper to you until your blood boils wickedly, and you can taste madness in your veins.

I was bored out of my mind at the party. I didn't even want to be there, but I promised my friend I would go with her. I hated these Ivy League pompous bullshit gatherings. She was the Ivy League wannabe, not me. I was just an underpaid writer who had fled the West Coast, and was now working for a no-name magazine in the bowels of New York City.

I had wandered into a bedroom. My eyes drifted to the wall. I was looking intently at the picture of the jazz legends hanging above the bed. I loved jazz music. I lost myself in dreamy images that night and never resurfaced. My mind drifted to smoky clubs and sensual, whining saxophones. He surprised me with his smoky voice and I thought Mr. Charlie Bird Parker himself had risen from the dead. He was sipping scotch.

I noticed his full, delicious lips licking the rim of his glass as I peered behind me. The smell of scotch made my lungs burn. He was looking over my shoulder. I could smell the scotch on his breath. He had asked me if I liked jazz and started ticking off the jazz legends in the photo.

I had noticed him earlier leaning against an overstuffed leather couch with smug Ivy League defiance oozing out of him. I hate Ivy League pricks even more than I hate the smell of scotch. His skin was a smooth, rich chocolate brown. He towered over my petite, curvy frame. His build was husky and athletic. My mind flashed to his lips--wondering how his lips would taste as I licked off the scotch.

He took my wine glass from me without saying a word and disappeared. He returned with a full glass of red wine. I remember the color of the wine--thick, viscous blood red. I looked at him intently, and knew this man would rip my heart to shreds. His penetrating, liquid brown eyes boiled my blood. This man intimidated me. I wanted my dream images. I wanted to return to my jazz babies on the wall. I wanted to push the rewind button. I wanted to run from the room and disappear, but our eyes communicated everything. We both knew we had to fuck the shit out of each other.

The first time was pure, hard fucking. It was physical, animalistic heat that night. It was warm, brown strong hands grabbing my bare ass, my skirt around my ankles, panties down around my ankles. I can remember the feel of his thick, granite-hard brown cock thrusting inside my sloppy wet pussy. That's how it needed to be the first time with us. My orgasm was fierce as we exploded together whilst the tinkling of glasses and canned party laughter faded in the background of our minds. I remember staring at the picture when he exploded inside me.

He mesmerized me. He haunted me. He preyed on every weakness and I fought him. I pretended I didn't want him, but I could never resist him and always took it a step further with him. I always needed to push. I enticed him at the library, deliberately distracting him from studying. I needed to play the dominant bitch role with him. I whispered delicious, naughty words teasing him mercilessly. He punished me later at his apartment for my cock teasing. He left handprints on my creamy thighs. He took me roughly from behind until I wanted to pass out from the sheer torment and pleasure of his thick, bulging cock driving inside me. I can still feel the sting of his sexy hand spanking my creamy, full ass cheeks. I wanted more. I always wanted more with him.

Sometimes he could be so beautiful and gentle. I cried when he loved me purely when sexy, soulful jazz circled around us as we made lazy, long love. I loved him boldly. I hated every feeling that tore through my soul during those nights. I felt his power over me.

I was lazily flipping through the newspaper sipping my coffee when he arrived. I felt his eyes burn into me as he sat down opposite of me. I didn't even have to look up to feel his energy snake down my spine--to feel the heat of our whirling, consuming passion. I pretended not to notice him.

He grabbed the sports section with that cocky smirk on his smug face. He leafed through the pages lazily. I finally peaked over my newspaper and our eyes caught each other at the same time -- blue fire scorching brown heat.

I purred sweetly to him licking my soft, pouty lips, "So can I persuade you to take me back to your apartment and fuck me for the rest of the day? You know much my sweet, pink pussy needs to be loved by your thick, hard black cock, baby. Only you can make me cum. Do you want your pussy, honey?”

He grabbed the newspaper away from me and pulling me closer to him, he kissed me hungrily and whispered in my ear, "It's been too long since I fucked the shit out of my pussy."

"Oh, it hasn't been that long. I'm sure you can recall how delicious my pussy feels against your mouth or riding your rock hard cock," I teased as my lips nibbled on his cold ear lobe.

"Get your sexy ass out of that chair and come with me NOW," he commanded, dragging me out of the chair as I laughed and threw down the paper on the table.

We barely made it through the door. We were a tangle of arms and hands as we stumbled through the entryway. I was intoxicated and my brain felt fuzzy. Our mouths met roughly together.

He didn't waste any time as he pushed his right hand inside the front of my pants cupping my warm silk-clad pussy with his hand. His hand was gentle but his long, silky tongue was rough and hungry. He was moaning my name madly against my lips.

He slipped his hand inside the elastic of my panties and when he touched my aching, wet pussy, I whimpered then breathed out his name in soft puffs.

I backed up against the wall to steady myself and his long, piano-playing fingers filled me with an intensity that overpowered me.

"Please now, baby. Fuck your pussy. This is your pussy, baby," I begged.

"Not yet, you sexy slut. I want you to cum for me this way. I want your hot ass grinding into that wall with my fingers inside your beautiful, wet pink pussy and I want you to cum right now for me—that’s it, I want that shit. Cum for me NOW!!" he demanded as he drove his long, sexy fingers deeper inside me.

His thumb found my swollen clit and was circling it torturously. I could feel my climax building. I exhaled deliciously. My body exploded and I was wracked with an earth-shattering orgasm. My sticky juices poured out of me coating his fingers and running down my inner thighs and down my ass. My musky pussy scent combined with my perfume hung heavy around us. My body gave out and I slumped against the wall. His body was pressed against me so hard that I felt like he was crushing me.

He crushed me. The dream crushed me. He aches for my madness and I long for his sanity. I don't remember that picture anymore. Maybe it was Charlie Bird Parker or was it Miles Davis? It doesn't matter anymore. Dreams finally disintegrate and our stales lives shake us back to earth. We are left only with our jazz dreams.