FSE

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The dream always starts out the same. On most nights I'm somewhere where I know I would normally be; at school, with some friends, normal stuff, but it always has the same outcome. The colors are usually bright at first; red, orange, pink, lavender, real bright warm colors. It's only when I realize that there is an overwhelming male presence beside me that they start to shift. The reds turn to black, the pinks to grey, until I might as well be in a black and white movie. I'm aware of the hue of the objects around me, but the only things that stand out is the masculine aura around the dominant male and my quivering pinks between my legs.

I feel myself grow hot and nervous, sometimes I'm afraid and sometimes I'm not. I know when I'm in danger and know when it's just another jock from school, but that doesn't stop me from shyly grinning as the rasp of a copper zipper reached my ear. As with every one before him, the male is grinning like a fool, because this is either his millionth fuck this year or because maybe in my dream he's cheating on his own girlfriend with me. Regardless, he shoves his designer jeans down to his knees as a cold dirty hand reaches up my shirt to fondle a warm, tender, breast. I simply moan and hug my smooth thighs against his hairy ones.

By now I know I'm dreaming because this has happened so many times I can tell the difference from my waking life with my nightly dreams. I'm not a virgin, but I know I'm not the whore my dreams portray me as. I don't know if it's my unconsciousness telling me I need more sex or just my perverted fantasies finally coming to realization. I never think like this when I'm awake and in my right mind. I'm a different person when I sleep but it doesn't seem to stop me from longing for the growing bulge pressing against my stomach. So I continue to dream.

The male knows I want it; he can hear it in my deep breaths as he forces his mouth on mine, his razor sharp stubble scratching against my soft face like sandpaper. I'm not sure who pulls my skirt up, not really knowing where my hands were or which body parts his were groping. I still feel pressure on my left breast and assume it's him who pulls off my panties. It's the only thing that seems to be in color. My pussy radiates a dark shade of pink. It's so dark in fact that I can almost say it's purple. I just say pink because when the heat from the male's groin meets with mine it's the only word I can think of to describe the radiance.

He seems to be an expert because he knows the perfect depth that makes me wild. I moan out, not caring if any one hears and only thinking about the hot cock inside me. He uses it like a tool, a craftsman of sexual exploitation. If he wasn't probing my insides with quick sporadic thrust, he was massaging the engorged head against my clitoris; making my whole body numb and limp. I feel like a rag doll, apparently one a little boy steals from his sister and learns to masturbate with by grinding his adolescent stub of a cock against until he spills his syrupy load across the rosy face.

I'm aware of myself in my dreams, my true self. In these recurring, sexually explicit dreams, I still somehow know my true self and what I'm really like. I know I'm book smart, but not ignorant of the world around me. And every time a different male shoves his hot, dirty, cock into me, whether it be a jock from my school, a swinger from a club, or a back alley rapist, I know for a fact that it's just not something I should be dreaming about. I know it's wrong, on many more levels than you know. But what worries me the most is that when I'm on my back, uncovered breasts dripping with saliva, white hot pussy filled with cock and semen, I feel complete.

Only when the male is finished and thoroughly gratified does he pack his dripping junk back into his underwear before doing up his jeans. I feel his gaze probing my debauched sex, his smug grin drooling with satisfaction. He speaks a few things, mostly incoherent, but I get the just of his meaning by the tone of his voice. He tells me to look forward to the next time I see his face. I don't understand, I couldn't really make out his face in the first place so I didn't know how I could expect to see him again. He was a big guy, but there were so many big guys I knew in my waking life. I'm too sexually exhausted to focus on anything else, and I feel the tug of morning pulling me up out of the darkness.

My eyes shoot open in a blinding flash of white light and the imagery fades away as I reconnect with my waking life. But the lingering scent of sexual fluids [pheromones] is still strong in my mind, the gushing of cum from the mystery male, and the secretions of my dripping wet woman-hood. My bed sheets cling to my naked body and only the revolutions of my ceiling fan keeps me from trying to dive back into my dreams for a second round; I know it wouldn't work anyways as I only have this dreams before I wake in the morning. It's always the same and I've gotten use to them. They've become a part of my life and I've learned to live with them.

I lay and listen to the sounds of my ecstatic heart beat, my heavy breathing, and the throbbing pulse of blood as it fills my rock hard cock to near explosion; though I'm not so lucky. The tent in my sheets was dark and wet with the emissions of a wet dream, the sticky substance becoming colder by the second with each breath of air my fan blew upon my sweat soaked body.

I always seem to cum while I'm having my dreams; my nightly recurring dreams of being fucked by different guys as a woman. I use to consider therapy but was always too worried about being judged to make myself go. What if I was ruled insane or was labeled a freak? Normal guys just don't dream about being a woman. Normal guys down think about dicks. Normal guys...Was I even normal anymore?

I still have the hots for women, so it doesn't bother me much anymore when I'm in the men's room trying to sneak a peek at the guy next to me or if I'm in the locker room at school watching the other players take a shower. Of course baseball season hasn't started yet so I haven't been too naughty, but I can just see myself drooling for the start of tryouts when all the new freshman players have to get fitted for their new uniforms. Who knew a collage guy would have so many opportunities to see dick.

I lift the sheet over and off my body, tossing it over the edge of my bed where I can worry about washing it later. I stared down my fur matted chest to stare at my cock where moments ago a pussy had been. I sigh almost with an air of regret as my fitted sheet clung to my back. I lift my bulky form from my wet bed until both my feet touched down on soft carpet. I feel a little disoriented this morning, a little more than usual, but it's nothing a cold shower couldn't fix. My erection was another thing it could fix. I stare at it a little unhappily, as if I somehow longed for it to be a vagina. It was a ridiculous thought, but it made a bead of pre form on the tip. I wasn't sure how many guys could stay rock hard after blowing a load into his sheets, but I was one of them. It was troublesome at times. But when I had a chick in bed it could also be a blessing.

The hiss of cold water did the trick. I shaved in the shower, cleaned up my goatee, and rinsed off. By the time I was towel drying my short black hair my penis was its normal three inches and mostly hidden in a forest of black pubes; definitely a grower more than a shower I always said. I finish drying off; rubbing the towel through my even blanket of chest hair, across my slight beer belly, crotch, muscular legs, arms, and with a pair of white boxer briefs on I made my way to the kitchen to find something to eat.

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