Dream or vision

You keep her bound until there is nothing left in either of you.

The first stretch is all focus—your cock driving into that slick, already-used hole while the belts hold her open and the Sharpie brand sits wet and dark above where you disappear into her. She comes again with her wrists behind her back and nowhere to go. You follow, grind it deep, stay inside, start moving before you have even fully softened. The pet talk stays in the air without needing more words. Every thrust is the answer to brand me. Every load is the point.

Somewhere after an hour the bindings come loose.

Sweat and struggling and the cheap leather giving up. One ankle slips. Then a wrist. Neither of you stops to retie anything. The single-minded focus does not care about furniture. You keep pounding her cum-filled cunt like it is the only thing in the house that matters, her legs hooked around you now because they can, her marked mound smearing faintly against your stomach. She is past language. You are past pacing. It is just wet, exhausted, relentless coupling until your cock finally fails to finish and her body only twitches instead of clenching.

You both fall over sideways.

The last useful act either of you manages is dragging the blanket up over sweat and ink and the mess between her thighs. Sandra’s face finds your chest. Your hand finds the word you wrote, thumb resting there without thinking. Sleep hits like a light going out.

The belts stay in a heap on the floor. The table downstairs stays unwashed, and neither of you is awake to care.

You dream of fucking her.

That is not strange. You have done little else for nearly two weeks. The dream just takes the volume knob and snaps it off.

It feels like months. You fuck your loving, dangerously perverted girl through a loop that will not end: knocking her up, watching her swell, watching her give birth, and then she is back in your hands milfier, hotter, thicker, curvier, and you start again. Children and the making of them, over and over, her body ripening with every cycle like the dream is trying to give you a vision of the future, the one your waking life has already agreed to. She smiles at you in it. She asks for another. You give her another. The spiral does not get old. It gets greedier.

You wake up still doing the motion.

Your cock is already inside her. Sandra is on her side, back to your chest, making small sleeping sounds that are not quite moans and not quite words. Her body is accepting you even unconscious—slick, easy, hips giving a tiny answering rock that belongs to the dream as much as to the room. For a few foggy seconds you do not know which world you are in. Then the guilt arrives, sharp and sudden. You did not ask for this version. You do not want to wake her by using her.

You stop. You start to pull out.

That is what wakes her.

She makes a displeased noise, still more asleep than not, and shoves her ass back onto your cock in sleepy protest like you have stolen something she was using. The wet heat takes you to the hilt again. She settles, already dropping, already gone, a faint satisfied hum leaving her throat.

You cannot help it.

You do the same. You stay buried, arm around her waist, forehead against her hair, and let the last of the dream bleed into the dark. No rhythm. No intent to finish. Just joined, both of you sliding back under, her branded skin warm under your hand, your cock held in her sleeping body like that is simply where it lives now.

The house stays quiet. The loop in your head fades. What is left is the real girl, the real bed, and the two of you passing out the way you fell—still connected, still too far gone to pretend you were going to sleep any other way.