“Asleep in the Dream of Life” is a story about a young woman’s detached obsession with rape fantasies.
“Asleep in the Dream of Life” originally appeared as “Dreams” in Dirty Girls: Erotica for Women; edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel; published by Seal Press, 2008.
and under its original title in Dirty Filthy Lovely : Dark Erotica by Marilyn Jaye Lewis; published by Renaissance eBooks SizzlerEditions, 2010.
This story contains sexually graphic scenes of questionable consent and will not be suitable for most readers. (Approx. 12 pages.)
Asleep in the Dream of Life
Veronica is asleep in the house of love. Lights off, always, 24/7. Even while her eyes are open, even while her lips move, soundly she sleeps. Roused only to a semblance of action by the pictures that are in her head. In cars, restaurants, bedrooms, bars; Veronica sleeps on.
Always, she’s dressed in black. Daytime, nighttime–only the fabric differs. Her nightgown is black satin. Her underwear, black silk. Dresses, pants, sweaters, skirts: cashmere, cotton, mohair, wool. And clean–she is so incredibly clean. She smells like roses that are made of soap. Everywhere, all over her body. Roses that are made of soap.
In a car, she’s game for kissing. She’ll kiss like mad in a car, concealing the part of her that wants to keep going. Go further, the quiet voice urges him although the actual words never leave Veronica’s lips. Never form a sound on the air that an ear might hear, committing her to her desire. For sure, that could wake her. So she relies on chance.
A hand between her thighs: “No,” she says. A hand on her breast? “No.” But she’ll keep kissing. Go further, the silent voice urges him. Try again.
If he’s too polite to try again, Veronica says goodnight.
They are almost always too polite to try again.
Here’s an example of what she dreams of: A car. Four doors, metallic crème. Parked right there on the street, it glistens after the rain on a late autumn night. He opens the back door this time and says, “Get in.”
She’s game. This is roomy. This is unusual. She’s in a black wool skirt. Not too short, but tight. It hugs her curves but doesn’t cling. It keeps her ass untouchable. Undeniable, yes, but still untouchable. A black sweater. A pullover, cashmere, blanketing her breasts in softness like warm black snow drifts. They are hard to resist like this, her tits. The urge to touch those blanketed mounds is nearly overpowering. Even to the eye of a quickly passing stranger, those tits are too inviting. There are the black stockings that stay put by themselves. They would feel smooth as silk if a hand were to touch the length of her leg. Caress her thigh where the heat rises. Her high-heeled pumps are shiny patent leather. In she scoots, across the back seat she slides. Closer to him. Impossibly close. This is what she came for: to kiss for a while.
At first, it’s the usual. Kiss, kiss. No, no. But he persists. A hand on her thigh. This is perfect, she thinks. We’re going places tonight. Her legs part, she dreams on. The hand inches higher.
Anyone might see them. Any face in an upstairs window in any house on the lonely street. At first, she’s mindful of this. It informs her sense of propriety. She won’t part her legs too much. For the moment, he gives up. His hand finds her breast instead. Squeezes the fullness of it tentatively while they kiss. The cashmere is soft as kittens or baby lambs. Soft and warm like snuggling bunnies. The lacy bra he can feel beneath the sweater is almost too promising for words. It’s packed tight with her tits, he can tell. His cock stirs like mad inside his trousers.
“No,” she says. Thinking anyone might see this hand caressing her tit. “If we weren’t so out in the open…” she says, her words coming out of her like soft breaths of innuendo, of everything she doesn’t say.
“If we weren’t so out in the open–what?” he inquires. “What would you do? If this were a dark car on a back road where no one could see?”
Not even me, she hopes. Keep it dark. I don’t want to see myself give in. “You never know,” she challenges him–practically saying, “try me and see.”
“Just one little picture,” he persists, his hot mouth kissing her neck, her ear. His hand back at her tit. “Paint one for me–a picture of what you agree to in the dark when no one can see.”
There would be a struggle, for one thing. There always is in her dreams, otherwise it’s not satisfying. She doesn’t like to agree and give in, but she likes to feel her thighs forced apart, held open. She likes to feel the force of his thick cock shoving in. She likes to be pinned down in the back seat and forced to take it in front of everybody, all the eyes on the lonely street. Just take it. Use your imagination and take it from me.
He waits on her reply. When no words come, he scores. It’s his point. As her punishment for not answering him, his hand doesn’t leave her tit. In fact, he squeezes the concealed flesh more roughly through the cashmere sweater. His mouth finds her mouth again, latching on aggressively, nearly devouring her tongue, his mind sucking up her very thoughts amid the stifled protests in the dark car.
His hand goes up boldly under the sweater now; it’s too exciting. The feel of padded lace, those warm waiting mounds. He wants the bra shoved up, the flesh out–the titties right there where he can see them, stark white against all the black. Everything black, black, black. Save for the white tits with their tender nipples out there in plain sight, aching for a mouth.
If this were a back road with no houses and no faces in upstairs windows, he’d tell her to pull it up. “Go on,” he’d tell her, “pull it up. I want to see.” Making her lift it up herself, that sweater. Reveal the bra finally. The black padded lace that clasps in front. The soft white mounds bulging in the cups and almost spilling out. “Undo it,” he might say, seeming a little bored with her, lighting a cigarette while she does it herself: pulls up the sweater, nervously unclasps the bra. Until there she sits, waiting for his attention. Shivering. Tits bared in a dark car.
No. Erase that. There are two of them now, two men in Veronica’s dreams. Too rough, very insistent men. She wears the same outfit, though. It’s the same back road and dark car. But one of the men has her pulled up onto his considerable lap in the back seat, he’s pinned her arms behind her while the other man yanks up the sweater, flips open the clasp on the bra. Her tits spill out, milky-white, embarrassing her. The nipples stiff, too vulnerable. It’s humiliating, how they hang there in the air as if they’re up for grabs, her tits. Her nipples get even stiffer. She squirms in the big man’s lap while rough fingers tug on her unprotected nipples. The more she squirms, the harder the cock gets, the cock bulging underneath her now, dead center under her cunt. Still, she squirms. She must. Her nipples are being tormented. It’s merciless, what the other one does to her tits, what he’s forcing her to endure with all his twisting and tugging.
On she squirms, knowing that she’s grinding down on the big man’s lap but not able to do much about it. “Oh man, she’s a hot one,” the big man offers out encouragingly. And then both her wrists are held together in one of his huge paws and she feels his other hand fumbling underneath her.
“No,” she begs uselessly, knowing his cock is coming out. Feeling his fat fingers shoving aside the soaking crotch of her panties.
It will go right in, his fat cock, and give her secret away, just how wet she’s gotten. She knows it. She wants it, both of them at once. Being this wet will prove it to them at last. It will not be long before she’s on all fours them, right there on the back seat. Her skirt shoved up, the panties shoved down. A fat cock stuffed in her cunt and a cock stuffed in her mouth. It’s a back road, a dark car. Who’s going to know?
You go, Veronica.
* * *
When Veronica is alone in her huge empty house, sleeping upstairs in her bedroom–the larger room, there on the left at the top of the grand stairs; the room whose bay window looks out on the flowering crab apple trees, even in the dark of night. When she’s sleeping alone up there, she sleeps fitfully, startling easily, waking at the merest sound. On those nights, her dream goes differently.
Let’s check in on her sleeping brain. Ah. It’s the phantom intruder dream, as usual. It goes like this: Her intruder is careful to be exceptionally quiet. He doesn’t want Veronica awake until the final moment, when it’s too late for her but perfect for him.
Sometimes Veronica wakes with a start and sits up in bed, knowing that he’s made his way into her room but it’s too dark to see him. She clutches the blankets tightly to her. The thin straps of her black satin nightgown slip wantonly down her shoulders. Her dark hair tumbles in soft waves around her face, her full lips parting as if she might scream. Terror becomes her. Her breath catches in her throat.
How lovely, he thinks. His cock stirs.
He’s here for Veronica’s cunt. No other woman on the block will do. He’s been here too many times to count, always finding the iron gate unlatched, the door unbolted. He easily makes his way in the dark, up those grand stairs to her room.
He likes it best, though, when she remains asleep until the moment his hand clamps down on her mouth. That startled gleam in her eye, the moonlight streaming in and illuminating her wild look. That, he likes best. But for that reward he needs to be extra, extra quiet.
It goes one of two ways when the phantom intruder slips into Veronica’s room: either he accidentally wakes her or he doesn’t. If he wakes her and she does the sitting up, startled, terror thing, he waits silently, patiently, and watches her torment. Just watches the terror build.
It’s okay for him to breathe. The subtle sound of breathing adds to her confusion: Can she actually hear him breathing? “Is someone there?” she calls out.
Someone’s here, all right, but he keeps that little surprise to himself. He refuses to answer no matter how many times she asks the same question. He can’t be fooled. The element of surprise is everything. Without it, the night’s ruined.
He has infinitely more patience than she does. At last, she lies back down on the bed, her pretty head falling deep into the feather pillow. But she’s not relaxed. She doesn’t nestle cozily. No, she lays rigidly, ears straining in the silence. Someone’s there. She’s certain of it.
Not again, she thinks, her mind racing feverishly. It does a rapid checklist: Did she latch the gate, bolt the door? She can’t remember. Her heart is pounding too wildly. It won’t allow her an accurate accounting of such trivial things.
Black gloved fingers shoved up her cunt, though, that she remembers. Being told to turn over. “Spread your legs and turn over.” The gloved fingers wedged in her hole make the movement difficult. “Do it. Now.” Now it is, then. Over she goes. On all fours for a couple of gloved fingers up her cunt. It doesn’t seem probable and yet…well, the memory is vivid, crystal clear. The fingers stuck up inside her, probing her hole rudely while she faces the other way and keeps her legs spread. It felt humiliating.
That was the night she stopped sleeping so soundly. From that night on, she never slept quite the same.
And now here she is, disbelieving it could happen again when in truth, it’s happened too many times for her to count.
He’s not wearing the black gloves, though. Not this time. Tonight he’s chosen something more obvious, the ubiquitous latex. He stands quietly against the wall, in the shadow of her towering antique walnut chifferobe, watching her in the dark. He’s breathing steadily, biding his time. After all, the hard part is over–getting into the house in the first place. He’s here, he’s ready. It’s going to happen. Poor Veronica.
The intruder wonders how he will take her this time. It’s not as if he plans every move beforehand. Certain things, yes. He already knows he will require that she do certain things. For instance, when she’s tied face-down across the bed, her head hanging uncomfortably over the side, he will jerk her head up by her hair and force her to beg him to allow her to suck his cock. Really beg him, too, to put a lot of feeling into it. He’ll make her repeat the line over and over, until she gets the pitch just right and makes the emotion behind her plea seem genuine: “Please, let me suck it.” That’s how it should sound.
He might press his warm cock against the soft skin of her face, letting her get an unmistakable feel for its overall size, for how hard he is. He might even imply that if she doesn’t ask to suck it in the most desperate, needful manner, it’ll be going up her ass.
She’ll know what that means, it happened last time. He’ll grease her up back there. Then slather his cock with the slickest lube. Since she’ll be tied down by then she won’t exactly be able to resist him, will she? His slippery cock will push right up her asshole. It will go right in, regardless of his thick size because the lube is made for that. It makes anal effortless–even for the novice. There she’ll be, tied down, spread open and taking his cock up her ass with ease. And he’ll give it to her in no uncertain terms. Steady in, steady out; each thrust will go in deep, ensuring she grunts enticingly, creating the humiliating impression that she likes what he’s doing to her back there…
Well, to avoid all that (perhaps) she’ll beg in the most convincing tones to let her suck his cock.
He might let her, he might not. It’s the begging that he’s after. Truthfully? He can get his cock sucked anywhere, and by women who are a lot more experienced at it than Veronica is.
* * *
It might not seem like it at first, if anyone were to walk in on Veronica at this juncture–still dreaming and tied face-down across the bed, her legs forced open invitingly, the intruder with a sizable handful of her hair, jerking her head up awkwardly and insisting that she repeat the same line, “please let me suck it,” over and over. It might not seem like she’s adept at it, and yet Veronica is an expert at begging. She can sound plaintive and desperate. Or she can sound ravished by the bottomless depths of her own sexual need. It depends on the circumstances, obviously.
For instance, that craziness in the car with the two men? It brought out a veritable panoply of begging styles in Veronica. Starting with the run-of-the-mill “no, don’t.” With her sounding timid and frightened, too vulnerable–that part where her sweater was shoved up and her tits were out? Then it gradually shifted to more of a whimpering “no no,” accompanied by that useless feeling; the fat cock about to go up her cunt and discover her wet secret. She was saying no, but her heart wasn’t in it. Clearly she’d given up moments before the word had come out of her mouth. Resignation. A what’s done is done type of situation.
Where she really excelled at begging, though–that happened after she was left to her own devices with those two men in the back seat of that car. By then, the big man whose lap she was adorning had his fat cock jammed way up her hole. Gravity being what it is, her own weight had caused her to sit right down on his shaft and it went all the way up. In moments, the cock was wedged up her cunt almost painfully, it was really shoved up there. If it weren’t for the considerable distraction being caused by what the other man was doing to Veronica’s tits, she might have noticed that the cock inside her was too big, that her cunt was stretched tight, filled to capacity, and that she was in pain. But as luck would have it, her focus was elsewhere. She…well, first, the story of Veronica’s tits. They’re large and all natural. They hang enticingly on her slender frame. When the nipples are erect, it’s impossible not to want to grab them–even for Veronica, in fact. She loves her tits and can rarely find the self-discipline to leave them alone. Her nipples are plump, so easy to tug on, and unusually responsive. She can come from pulling on her own nipples if she keeps at it long enough.
So she’s at a bit of a disadvantage now when it comes to thinking straight. That relentless tugging on her tits is making her feel like coming and not alerting her to the seriousness of the massive cock up her hole. Her begging style shifts noticeably to an urgent “oh god,” moving quickly into “yeah, oh yeah,” which only makes the guy tugging on her tits stop everything to hurriedly get his cock out of his trousers. He seriously wants to fuck her mouth and she’s all for it.
When his cock is out, she leans all the way over and practically plants her face in his lap. Mouth open, the cock goes right in.
Finally, the big guy lets go of her wrists. He’s suddenly overwhelmed by the specter of Veronica’s ass lifting up out of his lap, his cock still wedged in her cunt but starting to squeeze out. He wants a better angle. Not to mention that he wants to see everything. He flings open the car door and the overhead light goes on. The sight is beyond belief. Veronica is on her knees, ass out, legs spread, her face down in the other guy’s lap. The big man shoves up Veronica’s skirt–a tight fitting black wool number that takes some shoving to get it past her considerable hips. Then he tugs her black silk panties, the crotch soaking, down her thighs. They stop halfway, though, because her legs are spread.
That’s a hell of a sight–that one right there. Veronica’s pussy lips are slick and fat and swollen, almost hairless. Her cunt hole is pouting open, having been so recently impaled on a cock too large for the hole to comfortably handle. It is such a gorgeous sight: a slick, sopping cunt, fat with lust, spread and just begging to get stuffed again. But before shifting positions completely, before getting on his knees and really fucking her, the big guy spreads open Veronica’s ass and seriously tongues her asshole.
At this point in her dreams, Veronica is delirious. It feels incredible, that tongue poking into the opening of her asshole. A muffled and very desperate begging ensues–sounding like, “mm hm, mm hm,” as her mouth rides the other guy’s cock, her spit drooling down into his hairy crotch.
She is very worked-up. Her sizable tits hanging down and colliding with the cool leather car seat with every downward movement of her eager mouth as it sucks in the stiff cock. She is ready for some serious fucking now. When she comes up for air, she’s begging the big guy behind her, “fuck me, christ, fuck me.” And that’s when the big man feels nothing less than compelled to comply.
So…there’s the key difference. How Veronica begs and whimpers when she’s really wanting it, versus how she begs when she’s overwhelmed in a not so good way, i.e., the intruder in her bedroom and that whole scene. By the time the intruder has got her tied face-down across her own bed, she’s already been zealously fondled in all her private places– even, in some places, rudely probed, as usual. It’s been humiliating. She’s been stripped, of course, right out of her black satin nightgown. She doesn’t wear panties at night so she is stark naked in pretty much the proverbial heartbeat, leaving her nothing but oodles of time for begging and carrying on.
However, the intruder is unfazed. Her begging only registers when he has specifically asked to hear it. Otherwise, her pleas fall on deaf ears and he keeps to his agenda, loose as it is.
Tonight’s invasion had started out on shaky ground. At first it seemed as if Veronica would never calm down enough to drift back to sleep. What would be the next best tack to take if there were no element of surprise to rely on? Was there one? The intruder didn’t think so. He opted for waiting as long as necessary. When at last it seemed by her deep, steady breathing that she was finally safely back to sleep, he crept over to the bed. This is where his patience really paid off. The creeping–he’s totally soundless. And then the very slight, very careful sliding of the satin blanket , the satin sheet, it falls free of her shoulders, down past those promising breasts. It requires even more patience to lower the straps of her nightgown, luckily they’re loose-fitting straps. It doesn’t take long before Veronica’s tits are completely exposed. All the while she imagines she’s sleeping; that she’s blissfully unaware of it, this free show she’s providing to a total stranger.
The moonlight filtering in the bay window provides just enough light to discern those all-natural beauties. She’s lying slightly to her right side, so the weight of the breasts squeeze them gently together, providing an attractive cleavage and giving the impression that the breasts are a lot larger than perhaps they actually are.
There are the plump nipples–so suckable. The intruder knows from experience just how susceptible to torment those nipples are. His gloved finger trails lightly over first one nipple, then the other. He repeats this feather-like, weightless caress several times, until the nipples stiffen undeniably. When fully erect, they protrude well over a quarter of an inch. Easily plucked. A single forefinger and thumb could readily grasp one of those stiff, protruding nipples–the left one, say–and lift the full weight of her heavy breast by it. However, doing it and not waking her are two very different things.
The intruder leaves her nipples alone for now and concentrates instead on sliding the satiny blanket and sheet down the length of Veronica’s torso. The black satin nightgown offers no friction whatsoever. The sleek blankets practically tumble off her, it is so effortless.
The sight then is too priceless. Veronica’s nightgown has worked its way up around her hips and her legs are slightly parted. She’s exposing herself. He retrieves the flashlight from his pants pocket. It’s tiny but its beam is powerful. He trains the beam of light between her bare legs, seeking the jewel. And there it is. Her clit. It’s right there. He could reach out and touch it if he felt like it. Veronica keeps her cunt almost hairless. There’s nothing hiding the tiny nub. It pouts out from between the smooth nether lips. It is too tempting, the urge to touch it, or to run a gloved finger down the length of the inner lips. But he is on a greater mission. He leaves the clit for later, for when he can give it more thorough attention.
The clit is the key to it all–when it comes to a girl like Veronica, that is.
One time, he had her in a collar and leash. A collar snug around her neck and the leash tied securely to the bed post, giving her no leeway. She either sat still on the bed or choked herself. He pulled a pillowcase down around her head before turning the lights on and raiding her stocking drawer. All her stockings were black. Black, black, black. Some smooth, some lacy, some fishnet–but all black. With one black stocking, her wrists were bound tightly together in front of her, bringing her boobs together in a tempting proffered pose.
He took full advantage of that attractive offering, grabbing her tits in fistfuls and squeezing firmly. He’d worn black leather gloves that time. Her stark white boobs bulging in handfuls in the black gloves looked almost too enticing. He squeezed them more roughly, then tugged at those fat nipples and listened to her muffled groans.
That time he kept the pillowcase on her head almost the whole night. Even though she looked ridiculous in it, he loved how she looked with the lights on. He’d used other stockings to secure her legs, to keep them open wide. A stocking tied around each ankle, then tied tight to the metal bed frame under the box spring. Her knees bent, thighs spread apart. She could not have looked more inviting if she’d had a sign around her neck reading: Take it–Free. She looked uncomfortable as hell, but nonetheless very inviting.
He sat on the bed, facing her. Making himself comfortable between her spread legs. He pulled those hairless lips open wider, forcing the clit to put in a reluctant appearance, to come out from under that protective hood. He could see everything when he held her open like that: the shy clit, the tiny pucker around the piss hole, and of course, the cunt hole–it positively gaped in this position. No virgin she–he knew that already, from the best kind of experience.
What he couldn’t get at was her anus, because in that position she was sitting on it. It didn’t matter, though. He only needed her anus for those times when he wanted her complete attention, to drive home a point of some kind. And it worked well for that. He could get her to blurt out all sorts of unexpected promises when he had his fingers probing in the tight hole or, god knows, his cock fucking it. Mostly, he came for Veronica’s cunt, though, and in that position, for that whole night, he had it in spades.
Tonight there was no collar, no leash. It was going to be a bit of a high wire act–getting her under his control without the assistance of something to choke her. But he was game for the challenge. There was still so much to learn about her and her journey up this ladder of sheer victimhood.
He put his flashlight back in his pocket. He had an idea.
He undid his pants and let them fall. He stepped out of them, out of his boxers, too. His cock sprang free in the dark. He was so hard it was aching. Truthfully, he’d been hard for hours already. He pulled his shirt off over his head and then went quietly around to the other side of the bed, to where Veronica’s dreaming head lay softly on the feather pillow. Lightly, he ran the head of his aching cock across her lips. He did this several times, letting his warm flesh just barely graze her while he teasingly toyed with one of her plump nipples. His hopes were that she would begin dreaming she was in bed with a lover, a favorite date, a boyfriend–anyone but the intruder.
Soon, she moaned sleepily and her tender lips parted.
He gently but firmly pushed his cock past the parted lips. Nothing too drastic yet, nothing too suspicious. Just a steady in/out to get her saliva going while his nimble fingers taunted her stiff nipple.
His ears filled with her delicious moans. He could see plain as day that her legs were wider apart than they’d been only moments before. She was getting aroused. It was the perfect dream. The phantom intruder dream always worked well for Veronica.
Before she could move too far out of that dream state, however, he grabbed both her wrists, forcing her arms above her head and he straddled her, planting his weight down on her chest. She was awake then. Wide awake, with his thick cock stuffed in her mouth and the thin straps of her nightgown cutting into her raised arms. Her huge tits were still hanging out, keeping the gown from fitting correctly. The whole scene was confusing to someone who’d been sleeping so soundly.
That’s when the panicked squealing started. He had to get her past those unattractive sounds.
“Veronica,” he warned her calmly. “Stop it. You know what happens when you get me angry.” For emphasis, he stuffed his cock further down her throat, cutting off the annoying squeals.
When her body began writhing, he pulled his cock out of her mouth entirely, easing his weight down her body, until her exposed tits were salaciously pressed against his chest and his cock was resting against her mound.
She was quieter now, breathing heavy and whimpering softly, which only got him more excited.
“Let me get in there, Veronica, come on,” he coaxed her. “I only came for a quick one this time. Give me a quick one and I’ll go away.” He was lying, of course. He was prepared to spend the night violating her, but this was all part of the element of surprise. “Come on,” he urged her. “Let me in there. The sooner I get in, the sooner I’m out and gone. Come on.”
Veronica’s whimpering continued. His grip on her wrists was too tight. But the thought of him gone appealed to her. She raised her legs for the intruder, spreading wide, her pelvis angling a bit and helping his cock find her hole.
It couldn’t have been more perfect. Her cunt opened around his cock and let him right in. He fucked her slow and steady, going in deep. Keeping her off guard with his continued lies.
“That’s right, Veronica, just like that. Open up and let me fuck it. Give me your cunt for a good fucking and then I’ll be gone.”
He leaned down closer to her, his scratchy face against her tender cheek. His lips near her ear, he encouraged her quietly. “That’s right, just let me fuck it, just like that, give me your cunt. It likes a good fucking, doesn’t it, Veronica? I can tell by how wet you are already, your cunt likes to get fucked. Isn’t that right?” He pauses a moment. “Veronica–isn’t that right?”
At last, she breathes a quiet, “mm hm,” her entire body taking in the full effect of the steady, slow fucking.
“I thought so,” he whispers back. “You have such a naughty cunt. The memory of how much it likes to get fucked keeps me up nights. You want to go deeper, Veronica? You want to get your cunt fucked good?”
It takes a moment, but there is another breathy “mm hm” as Veronica dreams on.
c- 2007, 2018 Marilyn Jaye Lewis