The Fire That Wouldn’t Die
I was on fire.
The heat wrapped around me slowly, treacherously, like something alive slithering under my skin. It wasn’t the stuffy air of my apartment. It went deeper. It slid down my stomach and settled between my legs, throbbing.
I felt two large, hot hands—hot enough to leave a delicious burn—grab my waist firmly, slide up my ribs, and squeeze my breasts with a hunger that made me arch my back. A heavy, burning body pinned me to the mattress. His wet tongue traced a path down my neck, moved to my breasts, sucked one nipple hard, then continued lower until it stopped exactly where I needed it most.
When his tongue pressed against me, I let out a hoarse moan. He licked slowly, bottom to top, circling, sucking gently like he was savoring every drop of my wetness. I was soaked, pulsing against his equally hot mouth.
“Fuck…” I whispered, my voice shaking.
“I’m going to have you,” he murmured from between my thighs, his deep voice vibrating right against me. “I’m going to possess every inch of you. Down to your soul.”
I grabbed his horns, pulled him harder against me, and spread my legs wider, desperate. The weight of his body pressed down on mine. I felt the thick, pulsing head of his cock pushing at my entrance, stretching me open, sliding in inch by inch. Pleasure crashed over me in intense waves. My body trembled as he filled me completely. His hands gripped my waist hard, the rhythm speeding up. My mind dissolved into a thick fog—there was only him, the heat, the wet friction, and the orgasm building like an avalanche.
Just a little more. Just one more second…
And then, like every other night, the dream dissolved into smoke.
I woke up with a jolt, heart pounding, breathing ragged. The sheet was tangled between my thighs, my nightgown hiked up to my waist. Between my legs, I was still throbbing, wet and frustrated. The clock read exactly four in the morning.
Outside, life went on as usual: a dog barking nonstop, some asshole on a motorcycle revving his engine, and all the typical noises of a standard São Paulo suburb.
“Damn it… that fucking dream again,” I sighed, rubbing my face. “I really need to get laid.”
I got up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. The dream had been so intense my legs were still a little shaky. It had been happening since the middle of the week—the same dream every night: a gorgeous guy, perfect body, model looks… and, weirdly, horns. He’d show up in my room and fuck me senseless. I had no idea why I was dreaming about a demon railing me every night, but the lust was real. Overwhelming.
It had been a while since anyone real had touched me like that. My last relationships were such a string of disappointments that I’d decided to take a break.
I crawled back into bed. After all, I was on vacation from that unbearable job as the perfect secretary to an arrogant boss, and there was no way I was waking up early for something as stupid as a dream I was pretty sure was just my very conscious desire to ride someone hard.
