Dream
by Mark Aster

Thick dark-red carpets, quiet classical music, dim light, oak
furniture.  Julie walks across the room to the hostess, who
looks up and smiles.  "Table for one?"

The hostess is slender and dark-haired, her lips very red and
her eyeshadow perfectly applied.  Julie follows her around the
wooden rail, up two steps, between the tables.  Her short black
dress matches the decor, and her stockings make soft sounds as
she walks.  Julie watches the play of muscles in the backs of
her legs.

The air is warm and perfumed.  They walk under an arbor, hand in
hand.  The hostess's fingers are warm.  She stops and turns to
Julie.  Behind her head, framing her face, the thick green
leaves of a twining plant hang from the arch.

"That dress looks lovely on you," the hostess says.  Julie looks
down and sees that she is wearing the same short black dress,
the same sheer black stockings.  She looks at their bodies,
standing together under the plants, their hips close together,
breasts moving gently as they breathe.  The hostess's other
hand reaches out unhurriedly and touches her waist.  They kiss
softly, lips touching gently.  Their heads move apart, their
noses brush, and they kiss again, and the hostess's tongue
flicks out and touches Julie's lips.  "This way," she
whispers.  She leads Julie to a table, hands her the menu,
smiles, and walks off.  Julie closes her eyes.  She wonders
what the hostess's name is.  "I love you," she breathes,
feeling her lips moving against each other.

"My name is Michael, and I'll be your server this evening."
The young man is pretty and blond.  Julie smiles up at him,
but says nothing, and he walks away.  She opens the menu and
reads it, but the words are meaningless, and this makes her very
happy.  "Are you ready to order?"  Michael is back.

Julie stands and runs her hands up the sides of his face, her
fingers twining in his hair.  She untucks his white shirt from
his pants and unbuttons the buttons.  The skin of his chest is
pale and tender, soft over the muscle and bone beneath.  She
puts her mouth on one small nipple and sucks, her eyes closed
and her lips smiling.  Her fingers press against his sides.
She thinks it would be nice if he touched her, felt her breasts
through her dress, but he doesn't.  She undoes his pants and
lets them fall, puts her hand between his legs into that hot
secret place between scrotum and anus, and presses the soft
flesh.  His penis stands young and erect between his thighs.
She takes it in her other hand and strokes it, bends down and
licks the tip with her small pink tongue, squeezes it again
and kisses it and Michael gasps and comes, his semen missing
her face and landing in a shiny pool on the carpet.  She orders
her dinner, and he blinks and walks away.

The portabello mushroom is perfectly cooked; Julie takes a bite
and holds it in her mouth, filled with the dark musky taste of
its flesh.  She chews slowly, her eyes closed, sitting back on
the soft seat of the chair.  Touching Michael's body, kissing
his hardness, she had been composed and lonely, but now sitting
by herself at the table full of mushroom she feels a rush of
warmth deep in herself, and she spreads her knees apart and
squirms on the seat.  The chair presses against her buttocks
through her dress.  She swallows and sighs, and one hand falls
into her lap.  She notices that she has no panties on.

She swirls a tender piece of carrot in the sauce with her fork
and raises it to her lips.  Between her legs, her other hand has
slipped under the fabric of her dress, and as her teeth bite
into the carrot her fingers caress the smooth skin of her
thighs.  "My thighs," she thinks, chewing the carrot, "my
skin, my flesh."  She spreads her legs further apart, puts
down her fork, lies back on the chair.

The hostess is naked, lying pale and lovely on a long oak
table.  Michael's penis is hard again, and she spreads her
legs and draws him toward her.  Julie smiles, watching them,
touching herself with her fingers.  She shudders with delicious
envy as Michael's mouth takes in the hostess's nipples, one
after the other, slowly, and Michael's body rises and falls.
Julie's fingers open her vulva gently, and stroke the tender
moistnesses inside.  "Oh," she whispers, "oh you."  On the
warm tender hills of her breasts, she feels her nipples
pressing against the cloth.

Michael and the hostess make joyous love on the table, but
Julie's eyes are closed now.  She hears them gasp and groan
and kiss as her fingers move up inside her and she strokes
herself in a firm irresistable rhythm.  Her mouth is open,
her thighs far apart.  "Ah!" she breaths, and the lovers on
the table moan back.  Her hips are rocking now, her fingers
slick with her self, every friction against the swollen little
nub another nudge into madness.  "AHHH!" and she knows that
she is about to come, about to break, and she holds herself
there one more second, one more minute, and it feels so good
so good that she doesn't want to, to, now she is coming and
it feels so good she knows that now she can't help but
wake up...


Dream
by Mark Aster
The End