Caller One of Forty

I had a dream about a renowned artist couple. It began in my parent’s bedroom, in the home I grew up in. The three of us stood by a mahogany bed frame, I stood between them.

He told me I would be fun to fuck. He repeated it over and over. “You’d be fun to fuck, girl. I can tell you’d be fun to fuck.”

For some time, the couple caressed and groped me. Our height difference was exaggerated, so, when I was pulled into her arms, my head rested on her chest, and she strained to support my forearms.

Nestled together like this, he entered me. I appeared limp and accommodating as he silently fucked me to completion.

When he was done, he left the room. On his way downstairs, he instructed her to prepare me for what would follow. Instinctively, I undressed.

She told me that he would prefer me to begin fully clothed. It was clear there was a countdown to his return, so I rushed to pull on a blouse and a pair of panties. I didn’t have time to put my pants back on and took a position at her feet.

She spoke to me about the restraints they would use. She explained the tape they prefer, how it hold securely without stretching or distorting. She described how I could please him. Her tone was gentle, but firm.

I understood that she was conscious of his return and being ready for him. His voice could occasionally be heard drifting up the stairs to the bedroom, checking in on us. Though he was no longer in the room, his presence could be felt.

There was a tenderness apparent between her and I. As she kneeled behind me I could feel the soft skin of her inner thighs on my bare legs. At times, her hands were restrained while she restrained mine.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. She told me I should answer it. With my hands bound firmly behind my back, I descended the stairs.

There was no sign of him in the living room where we had heard his voice minutes before. When I got to the entryway, the doorframe was empty. That is when I woke up.