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He had a sex dream about me once, he told me, a sex dream that ended when he woke up in a sticky mess, many decades past the time of life when this sort of thing is common.
I was flattered.
His dream was a recapitulation of an incident from a few months ago. We’d just gotten out of the shower after spending much of the night and the morning fucking ourselves sore. So sore, in fact, that we were supposed to be done, cleaning up and on our way to meet friends for brunch.
We were talking and drying off when I leaned over to give his soft cock just a tiny little good-bye kiss before he covered it over with clothing. That’s all I intended, truly. But the little kiss turned into a big kiss and the big kiss turned into sucking, and before I knew it he was leaning against the sink with one hand white-knuckling the towel rack.
The other hand was on the back of my head, pushing me down hard on him, which I love more than any respectable woman should. We were now deeply engrossed in a full hard wet deep blow job, and before three minutes had passed, the hand cradling the back of my head pushed me down so hard that I had to fight against the urge to pull away as he came shuddering and hot down my throat.
We both slumped to the floor, exhausted from the unexpected pleasure.
He told me later that it was the most intense blow-job he’d ever been given. It was such a little thing, just a tiny kiss on our way out of the shower. It was such a little thing, but it grew unexpectedly into something worthy of commemoration in a sex dream and placement high on his list of Best Ever Blow Jobs.
Sometimes that happens, right? An insignificant action—a lark, a fling, a fun little time, nothing more!—unexpectedly changes into something huge; without warning, without planning, without intention it changes.
What do we do when that happens? Do we fight against it?
Or do we just let it happen?



