Midnight’s inky stillness finally lets me indulge in this little fantasy of you.
What will you see when I let you unzip my dress? I wonder, picturing your eyes on me.
I close my eyes tight and there I am, standing right in front of you—arms akimbo, one knee pushed forward, all brazen confidence. That black leather dress I love so much gleams under the light you’re imagining. You’re dying to know how it feels under your fingers: cool, impossibly smooth, with just the faintest slick sheen.
I don’t say a word in this dream of yours, because you haven’t heard my voice yet. I just stand there, a little scornful, a little daring, using only my eyes, my lips, my body to push you, to make you give in to that burning lust I can practically feel rolling off you.
There’s a long stainless steel zipper running all the way down the front. In fantasies to come, you’ll rip it open like you’re starving for me, yanking the leather apart so you can feast on the bare skin underneath. But this first time, you take it slow—you fight to stay in control even though I know you’re dying to lose it. You reach out, deliberate, and pinch that cool metal tab between your thumb and forefinger, gripping it hard enough that the little logo bites into your skin. Then you pull it down, steady and firm, all the way to the hem that barely covers the tops of my thighs. That electric crackle of the zipper—I swear you feel it more than hear it, racing down your spine, tightening low in your body.
And the whole time, my eyes never leave yours.
The dress falls open, and you slide your thumbs along the inside of the teeth, the metal rough against your skin, the perfect contrast to how soft I am. I breathe a little deeper; you can see my breasts pushing against the leather, straining it.
You spread the dress wide. I swallow hard at being so exposed, but I keep looking right at you—proud of what you’re seeing, and I know I have every reason to be. You drink me in, completely bare for you.
You don’t try to take the dress off me. You just step closer, kiss me hard and deep, your hands sliding to the small of my back so you can pull my naked body tight against you. My nipples are so hard they press right through your thin cotton shirt, digging into your chest. My hips shift against yours, teasing, until I feel you losing that careful control.
In my mind, you push me back until I land sprawled across a big bed. You stand over me, stripping fast until you’re as naked as I am, then lower yourself over me—your mouth on mine, my neck, my shoulders, my breasts, trailing lower down my trembling body until your lips hover right at my aching, swollen sex. You breathe me in, the scent of how much I want you, the heat radiating from me.
When you finally slide your tongue deep inside me, I cry out—loud, desperate—my fingers tangling in your hair, hips grinding harder against your mouth. You cup my ass in your hands, lifting me to you like I’m something precious, and you taste me, drink me, until I come undone.
And while I’m still shaking, waves of pleasure crashing through me, you move up my body again. You push inside me—hot, hard, perfect—before the first orgasm even fades, driving me straight toward another. My legs wrap around your hips, heels digging into your back, urging you deeper, faster. My tongue finds your ear, teasing until I feel you start to shake.
When you finally come, spilling hot and deep inside me, it feels endless, perfect, no guilt—just us.
And then, like always, the dream fades, and I’m alone again.
I roll onto my side, staring at the empty wall, wondering—same as you probably are—whether one day this will actually happen between us.
