The Dream Sequence
Etta is in a barn. Well, more specifically, Etta is in a sex dream, in a barn that she’d seen in Holland where she went to a professional exchange trip three years ago. It’s a sex dream! Logistics hardly matter.
She’s in a pretty floral dress, and Farmer Thorne is sitting in front of her on a hay stack.
“What’s going on?” Sex Dream Thorne asks, and looks around him. “Where..? And what the hell am I wearing?!”
He looks down at his chest bared in an unlaced front of a white pirate shirt. He looks like any harlequin novel cover, or a character from a TV show about Robin Hood.
Etta studies him. He’s much more lifelike this time. Couple times he was completely out of character in her dreams. He talked alot! And smirked lopsidedly. The latter turned out somewhat doable, during the kitchen table incident - but the roguish disposition and flamboyant passion displays of that dream on the deserted island, or the other one with the ballroom shag - those were definitely as possible as whistling while yawning.
“John...” Etta purrs and climbs closer.
“Miss... Ryan?” he asks in return, looking somewhat alarmed. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s a sex dream,” Etta answers lightly. Apparently, this one is a genre savvy one. Fine with her. “I get them all the time. You, me, ridiculous circumstances. Some scenarios are sort of OK, if my barmy mind borrows them from Olivia Dane novels. But sometimes they're totally bonkers. Like that one on a spaceship… I properly shouldn’t have watched Gravity before bedtime.”
Farmer Thorne looks even more disturbed now; and Etta decides that it’s surely her Id - or, maybe even Ego - that are turning him into a vulnerable blushing maiden in this dream. Before, he was all ‘Schturm und Drang,’ grabbing her, and snogging her, bending her backwards under an angle comfortable only in dreams and in old Hollywood films. She’s probably compensating for feeling intimidated by his stormy look when she was leaving his farm, and now he's blinking with a lost, confused expression on his face.
“John...” She brushes the tips of her fingers along the strong tendons of his neck, down, and into the thick coarse hair on his sternum. All in accordance with the requirements of the genre, of course. “There’s nothing to worry about… It’s just you and I here… You don’t have to hold yourself back...”
She’s talking like an appropriate character, but c’mon! A barn? Hay? And his hair is gathered on his back with a silk ribbon. It’s clearly a preposterous bodice ripping scenario.
“Um...” Apparently this Sex Dream John is just as eloquent as the real one. Pity. “It’s just freaky, you know?” He rubs the back of his neck, and gulps. Etta moves even closer, mesmerised by the bobbing of his throat. “I mean, I get them too… After that dress you had at the wedding… And the sparkly things on it...” He vaguely gestures somewhere in the area of his pronounced pectoral muscles. “But they are usually sort of… Just couple pictures…” Etta hums, and climbs on his lap. Oh look, someone isn’t fighting!
“That is interesting. What sort of pictures?” she asks, and finally indulges. Her lips press to the hot skin, just underneath his jaw, on the bottom line of the beard. Very, very nice graphics and tactile interface we’re having tonight, don’t we? Yes, we do; yes, we do.
Her hand in on the chest - where else? - and she can feel his heart booming under her palm. Additional points for realism to Morpheus tonight.
“Legs, mostly,” he answers, looking at her askew, like a terrified horse.
“That’s so cute,” she giggles, and moves her mouth up and to his ear. “And not true,” she whispers. The ear quickly gains a red tinge. “Confess, John. What is it that tickles your pickle?”
Etta is never, ever, ever that assured. Especially with men, of course; but in general she's of rather low opinion of herself. The curse of INFJ character, with 165 IQ. But it’s a dream, and he’s all hers! Let’s face it, we all know why they are in this haystack! Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.
“Is it my sense of humour?" she draws out. "Perky personality? Or... the bum?” He twitches underneath her, and she knows she hit the bull’s eye. Another gulp from him follows; and she can’t help it, and gently nibbles at the neck. She’s only returning the favour from back then, in his kitchen.
Clearly, he doesn’t mind! He’s just dropped his head back and squinted like a cat on a sunny patch.
“So, shall we?” she murmurs, and presses the hand into the sternum and pushes. Her prey flops back into the hay like a sack of… hay. Well, she isn’t writing an academic paper. It’s a bedroom fantasy. She’s entitled to a tautology.
To think of it, ‘hot’ would be the most repeated tautology here. Seriously, the man's hot in all possible senses. He’s a furnace. The skin is scorching. And he’s hot. As in mid-blowingly sexy. There's a small alarming moment - he is hot in a sort of weirdly realistic way this time, except for the ridiculous clobber. Usually, in her dreams there’s a sort of pleasant sparkly mist surrounding the participants. This time he smells, tastes, and feels very much real.
Etta straddles him, and starts on the buckle of his trousers - leather and tight, of course. No self-respecting woman would fail to adorn these thighs in her sex dream with anything less.
“I like your personality too,” Farmer mumbles all of a sudden, and Etta looks down at him in surprise. That is a very odd sex dream. Her hands are on his crotch, and he’s talking! At least, now she’s sure it’s a dream, because the real Farmer Grumpy would never. “You’re funny. And quirky. And geeky.”
Look who woke up to life! And no, she doesn’t mean his quickly - put in the words appropriate to the genre - swelling length. She means Sex Dream Thorne altogether.
He sits up in one swift fluid movement - what a sexy beast! - and the bright blue eyes are in front of her. And the eyebrow is cocked up! Hooray!
“And you do have a great ass,” he purrs, and Etta giggles.
“Perfect! And now...” She quickly kisses his smiling lips and pushes him back into the hay. “Let me have my fun, or I swear, by my pretty floral bonnet, I will end you.”
He guffaws and his large hot hands fondly squeeze her buttocks.
“A Firefly quote? What a woman!” His voice is low, and very, very aroused.
Hells yeah, it’s the sex part of the sex dream ahoy!
Sex Dream Thorne is a perfection. Firstly, now that his real life counterpart became her taste in men, this one is truly her cup of tea.
Etta congratulates her imagination that made very astute estimations from whatever data she’d managed to gather during their kitchen table rendez-vous; and now Etta is presented with a wide chest of just the right hairiness - once again, one can be referred to Gary Galavant for visuals, with additional approximate 30% of width and volume, consistent with the height of six four, and years of manual work, based on excellent genetics. There's a wide strip of black hair going down his stomach as well, and all of him is well defined but not buffed, and so very… perfect!
Secondly, the dream Thorne is a cheeky bastard. His hands are on her bum under the skirt, the thumbs are caressing her skin; and he’s just licked his lips, which, first, caused something to loudly pop in her head, and then a wave of heat to rush through her body head to toe.
Etta quickly unties the strings on his leathers trousers… and bursts into loud laughter.
“If it weren’t a dream, you’d give me a complex,” he jokes, and she lifts her eyes off a Calvin and Hobbes tattoo on his hipbone. He’s grinning impishly; and Rassilon help her, good thing it’s a dream! In reality she’d swoon, get flustered, and embarrass herself.
“What is this?” Etta points at the crisp black lines on the even tanned skin. It’s very well made, by the way, and altogether looks very tasteful.
“I was drunk, and it was a bet.” He chuckles low in his chest, and Etta giggles and brushes the tips of her fingers to the tat. The skin is smooth and hot, and she looks up and sees him smiling to her.
“I love it,” she announces, and his grin grows wider.
“Always happy to please,” he purrs, hiking up one eyebrow. Oh, she sincerely hopes so! “Do you have any?” he asks, and the tips of his fingers travel higher, in soft squiggles on her buttocks, and under her knickers. Why does she even have knickers in a sex dream? That’s so inefficient!
“No. I’ve always wanted one, but I sort of always lose my bottle… I’m a scaredy cat in general,” she answers in an apologetic tone; but then remembers he’s her sex fantasy, and will fancy her just as she is, like Mr. Mark Darcy. That’s a very reassuring thought!
She quickly unbuttons the rest of his shirt and starts insistently pulling at it making him sit up. He chuckles again and helps her, shimmying his shoulders.
“Your shoulders basically give me a crisis, did you know?” she informs him, flamboyantly sending the shirt flying behind her. His eyebrows jump up. Etta decides he might need a translation. “An orgasm. ‘Crisis’ is ‘orgasm’ in British slang...”
“I’m aware,” he interrupts. “I watch Top Gear. Just didn’t expect the comment.”
“Oh, but they are ace!” She rubs her palms to the scorching deltoids. “That shirt on the wedding… Just wow.”
He - just as they say in harlequin novels - tangles his fingers at her curls at the back of her head and pulls her to his lips. It’s just as good as in reality! And since it’s just a fantasy, Etta properly doesn’t hold back. He’s a delicious crumpet, and she’s having all of it!
He’s pulling the hem of the dress up, and she lifts her arms. While they’re taking the dress off, they have to stop kissing; and while her head is stuck in the silly entanglement of the colourful fabric, she feels his lips on her shoulder. That tickles! In the best possible way. Right, the beard! Her imagination tonight is doing 125% of the job on tactile details!
“So sweet...” he murmurs, and Etta feels all fuzzy and warm inside. Dream Thorne is just the right balance between a sweet talk and earnesty. What a dreamboat, all puns intended!
The dress is off, and Etta isn’t even worried about her lacking tits. A. He isn’t real, and thus, has no taste in chests. B. He seems to be complying with his primary function, and is paying them sufficient and clearly approving attention.
It’s surely the time for the knickers to join their friends, right there in the hay, when he pulls back at her hair gently, and looks into her face. The randy expression is somewhat dimmed by a small frown. What’s that about?
“That’s just unfair, you know?” he says grumpily, and Etta who was puckering her lips trying to reach his cheek pauses.
“What’s unfair?” she asks, and he suddenly boops her nose with his index finger.
“I’m kinda crazy about you, and you’re... weird.”
Well, that’s a bucket of icy cold water if Etta ever had any toppled on her! She stops purposefully twisting her pelvis in a hopefully stimulating way, and presses her hands into her hips.
He emits a low snortle, and then gently cups her face. He has very large hands, and they are warm, and Etta is weak! She should be pissed off - he called her ‘weird!’ - but instead she smiles idiotically, all loved up and giggly. But him claiming ‘he’s kinda crazy about her’ could be used as an excuse, right?
“Well, you’re a con artist, aren’t you? Or something else… Don’t know...” He gives her a studying look, and Etta suddenly giggles.
“You mean, the fact that I’m your - not blood - relative, and the whole inheritance business, and me popping up exactly when you needed a plus one at the wedding? To think of it, you only needed a plus one because I convinced your previous one to run away...”
“Yeah, that,” he answers, grinning as well now.
“Well, it’s just that the spirit of your great grandfather told me to!” She sounds defensive. “And then there was the letter from the future him and my Gran Etty, and the portrait of Mr. Thornton, and the letter, and this absolutely gorgeous ring...” Etta stops, because his eyes have just went glassy. “Yeah, you’re right. It all does look weird. But it’s all the conspiracy of Madame Katerina!”
He blinks, and shakes his head in some sort of exasperated amusement.
“That’s a freakish dream...” he mumbles, and Etta decides they are both morons. It is a dream! A sex dream! Then, where is sex?!
Etta carefully pats his shoulder - oh, the shoulder! - and he focuses his cerulean eyes on her.
“If it’s any consolation, I hate hiding it from you too.” She gives him a shy smile. “I’m sort of crazy about you too.”
There’s an appropriately touched expression on his face; Etta tenderly kisses his curled up lips, and decides one of them needs to take the reins. And since it’s her dream…
“And now, could we, please, shag?”
“I’ve never been asked that politely,” he laughs, and Etta grinds her hips into his erection. Oh, who needs him to talk when a low lustful moan can be extracted out of him?
And she doesn’t need to worry about embarrassing herself, holding herself back, or pretending she likes something she doesn’t.
“And we’re going outside,” Etta affirms, and he stares at her. “I’ve never shagged outside. I mean some of my mates said they did, during camping trips, but I’m a prude, and it sounds unsanitary, and all the bugs, and...”
Etta continues listing her concerns, while Dream Thorne picks her up under her bottom, and swiftly rises, balancing her on his arm. Swoon!
Outside, it’s sunny, warm, and smells like sun heated grass, and look! A conveniently placed blanket! Right there, under a large oak tree. Or is it a maple? Well, Etta is no arborist; and she’s already on the ground; and he’s pushing his trousers down - so who cares?
Shag outside is officially ace. Maybe, if Etta has her own home, she’ll fence one corner of a garden; and if she has a male in her life at that time, she will indulge. That’s a lot of if’s though. And she can hardly imagine the weather back home to be this balmy and sunny as it is in Manitoba.
He's amazing, by the way. He’s hot, heavy, just perfect between her legs; and there is some sort of healthy enthusiasm showing in all his actions. She hasn’t had that many partners to be an expert; and her sex dreams are usually sort of fuzzy; but this is great! That’s the real stuff! A normal, randy male, who just goes for it, and is clearly enjoying it! And his cock? Perfection! It’s long, thick, has a nice curve, and is aesthetically pleasing, which - who knew - is apparently an additional pleasure! She had a good look after the first round in the missionary position, and a quick wash in the nearest - conveniently placed and unrealistically warm - pond, when she decided to find out if oral sex can make him be a bit more loud. It can.
They decide to go for a cowgirl to conclude this wonderful quest, when there's some noise above her head. She starts laughing, for a second pulled out of the glorious ecstasy of her shag with Dream Thorne.
“Squirrels!” she giggles, and he opens his eyes. She leans in, and claws at his chest. He’s smiling to her, his thumbs tenderly stroking her hip bones. Oh these hands! What wonders he can work with these fingers! “They're shagging in the tree! Just like in real life!”
He guffaws, dropping his head back.
“They always do. I have a tree under my bedroom window.” He pulls her down into a hot deep kiss. “Remind me of you...” His voice drops into playful murmur, and Etta just adores him!
She giggles, and draws an eight with her pelvis. A very chuffed growl rolls somewhere deep in his chest.
“Because I’m randy and a ginger?”
“Because you’re fast and nutty.”
The joke is so horrible that Etta decides the man needs to shut his gob and just have sex. Lots of it. Over and over again.