Greg is asleep

You were exhausted as you dragged your bags into the house, and were surprised to find it surprisingly put together. The living room was still full of boxes, but your furniture had been arranged and looked more complete than you had hoped. With a sinking sense of drunken guilt, you realized that Greg had probably spent the whole evening on the house, alone.

You checked your phone again, noticing a number of texts you had ignored at Aimee's place:

06:15: "Just got home, you ok?"

08:34: "Got a call from Aimee, see you tonight!"

10:41: "House is in good shape, I'm exhausted. We need to talk tomorrow. Love you."

Shit. At least Aimee had confirmed you weren't dead somewhere. Feeling low, you left your bags in the living room and crept to the bedroom. He'd done almost all the preliminary work himself, alone.

You found him **** in bed, and heard only a faint muzzy grunt as you crawled in bed before you passed out.

The first thing you noticed in your dream was the smell of roasted coffee. You were in UnderGround, the coffee shop where you'd first met your husband. Vaguely you remembered telling Aimee about this the day before.

There was Greg, sitting at the corner reading a dog-eared copy of Dune. You remembered it sticking in your mind: he had spent weeks making his way through that book, and you'd eventually sat next to him and shown him your own well-read copy. There'd been some lame joke about how the "Pumpkin Spice must flow!" and then he'd asked for your number. It was his nerdy humor that had caught your interest, even if he wasn't in the greatest shape.

Smiling, you stood up to walk over to him like you had in your memory, but you teetered unsteadily on a pair of five-inch heels before you plopped back into your booth. That wasn't right... You'd been wearing old sneakers before, since your job had a loose, west-coast dress code.

You glanced down at yourself, a growing sense of wrongness building as you took in your appearance. In your memory, you'd been wearing your typical "every day" outfit. A loose hooded sweater over a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. You'd had a scarf, your book bag, and sneakers.

You still had the hoodie, but now you were wearing it over a tight blue tank top, midriff exposed to show a small navel piercing. You had a push up bra that made your small chest look more impressive, pushing your breasts up and together into inviting cleavage. Below it, you wore a skirt that came down to mid-thigh and a pair of leggings that looked painted on. You made a face at your booted heels, undoubtedly responsible for your failed attempt at standing. You looked up, catching your reflection in a napkin holder, and saw permed dark hair and deep red lipstick on a face free of acne. You looked great, but none of this matched your memory, or wardrobe.

It was surreal, but this *was* a dream after all. Wardrobe aside, you were still back in one of your first memories with Greg. You stood up again and tottered over to his stool, sitting next to him at the window, intent on reliving that memory.

"Hey there," you said, catching his eye. "Whatcha reading?"

He looked up, and you felt a familiar flutter as he made eye contact with you. Then the flutter changed as he took in your appearance, running his eyes from yours down to your chest, where they paused briefly, and past your butt, and down your legs. You felt a heat building between your legs under his gaze and your breath came faster. You felt a flush of arousal under his gaze, as though his hands were running over your body, and your breathing quickened.

*It feels so good when men look at you,* that voice chimed in, *but you could feel even better.*

In your memory he'd been warm and friendly, and had talked about his book for a few minutes, asking for your number as a nervous afterthought. When he replied this time though, everything was different. "Oh, just a science fiction book. What about you?"

You followed his nod toward your book bag, which you noticed for the first time was practically empty. The spine of your copy of 'Dune' peaked out, but your hand reached past it as you fished out a light bodice-ripper novel. "It's called 'Crimes of Passion!' It's about this girl who meets a dashing police officer. He shows her how to use his handcuffs... and his baton." You had no idea what you were saying, but the more you said it, the better his eyes felt on your body. "It's my *favorite* book, if you know what I mean."

He started off grinning, then realized at some point that you were serious, and his grin changed from conspiratorial to patronizing. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then a strange expression (could it have been disappointment?) crossed his face. He checked his watch and started to get up. "That sounds... great. I might have to check it out. I've gotta start my shift, but you enjoy your book and have a good one."

You felt a crushing wave of disappointment at the obvious rejection. He hated your book! He was supposed to ask for your number! This wasn't like your memory at all.

The voice in your head spoke again, *Forget him. He was just some nerd, and was probably looking for some smart, stuck-up bitch. What you need is a man who appreciates you for what you are.*

That wasn't right. You *were* smart! Thinking about it though, you realized that *this* version of you... wasn't the same. You certainly weren't an idiot, but you felt an uncomfortable fuzziness in your head as you tried to recall where you were the day before, or what your did for a living. This dream-self was somebody else.

You sat at the window a few minutes more, before you felt that heat of attention run through you again. You breathed slow and deep enjoying the erotic rush, feeling the wash of warmth that started in your chest and flowed down, settling on your butt and feeding back between your legs. You enjoyed the sensation for a moment, then looked up to see a young man getting out of a pickup outside. He eyed you through the window as he approached, bringing another rush of warmth and dizzying arousal. He looked more rugged than Greg, more fit, and wore a leather jacket over flannels and jeans on a lean frame. He looked a bit wild, his face showing the shadow of a distant shave. What caught your eye though was the way his gaze stayed glued to your body as he stepped into the shop.

*Now THERE is a man who understands you,* said the voice. *You play your cards right, you could still have fun today.*

He walked past you to order a drink, and as he looked away you felt the wave of need recede a bit, your head clearing. This was all wrong. You were nothing like this woman!

He ordered his coffee and turned back, sending that tingling feeling through you again as he approached. Your smiled up at him as he gestured toward the seat next to you. "Is this seat taken, or are you here alone?"

"Oh, I'm alone for now," you smiled back, "take a seat." You patted the stool next to you, inviting his company.

The man spun the stool around, shifting it closer to you in the process, and eyed the barista who was making his drink. You turned toward him and followed his gaze, feeling the heat receding from your body as his attention shifted to her.

You noticed, for the first time, that the barista making drinks was Aimee. That wasn't right either... she wasn't a part of your memory. Still, she looked hot. Sweat beaded on her brow and defined her breasts in the white apron she wore, and a pair of small shorts offered teasing glimpses of her butt as she bent over the machine. You didn't blame the stranger for looking. You wanted the man's attention back on you though, and could think of a way to get it. "I'm Stefi," you introduced yourself, "you come here often?" You moved your shoulders back, presenting your chest, hoping for more of that rush under his eyes. Why had you used *that* name?

"Juan," he said, offering a hand. "Never been here before, just stopping by on the road." He eyed your boobs - breasts - and you melted in the glow of arousal.

*When you show off for men, they look at you more,* said the voice, *it feels good, doesn't it? This guy won't ask you about books.*

"I'm in town for a show, actually," he continued, eyes flickering between your chest and eyes, "System is playing tonight. I've got a spare ticket if you're interested." He seemed to notice your apparent approval of his attention, and idly rested a hand on your knee.

Fireworks went off in your head and you licked your lips, nodding faintly. "Music is good," you said dumbly, willing his hand to stay there forever, "When's the show?" He grinned back at you and rested more weight on your knee, and you unconsciously leaned into the pressure.

*Who cares when the show is?* The voice said, *This guy is hot AND into you.*

"Show is at six, Stefi" he said, smiling confidently "I could pick you up, or we could chill at my hotel room to kill some time..." There was no secret in the way his voice trailed off.

Your words left your mouth before you could think, "Your hotel sounds *fantastic.*" Five minutes later you were both in his car, your husband and the coffee shop forgotten. Heavy rock blasted from the stereo, and your breath came quickly as you found it impossible to focus on anything but his hand on your thigh.

*Isn't this better than some nerdy cop asking for your phone number?*

You were getting better with your heels by the time you arrived at the hotel, and you giggled as he steered you through the lobby and into the elevator, his had resting possessively on your ass. Then you were on the hotel room itself, and his lips were on yours, and you lost track of everything else.

The two of you were against a wall, your body pressed into his, your tongues dancing against one another as his hands slipped under your skirt. This was going so fast! You needed more.

Blindly, you reached down to his penis - his cock -and started stroking it teasingly through his jeans. You moaned into him as he lifted you up effortlessly and deposited you on the bed. Your skirt was somewhere on the floor and you eagerly pulled your panties to the side as he fished a condom out of a pocket. He looked down at you as he rolled the condom onto his dick, and you stared back, mouth watering and head swimming.

"God damn I love women like you," he panted, falling forward to hold your hips against the bed, "you know exactly what you want, and how to get it."

"Fuck me," you panted, "I want to feel it inside me." He pressed his cock against your ready vulva, sending another rush of pleasure through you. In just a moment he would be inside you, and then -

You woke up. You were still in bed, Greg snoring softly alongside you. The morning sun was just barely creeping over the horizon, and the clock read 5:48. Your had two fingers between your legs, and you were more horny than you could ever remember.

What a dream... You struggled to remember it as the morning washed details from your mind. You'd been... Some other version of yourself. You'd been at some coffee shop, and had met some guy... and then you'd been at a hotel room having sex with him. There was more to it... Wasn't there?

Reluctantly, you stopped playing with yourself. How long had it been since you woke up like that? Had you ever? You needed release, and looked down at Greg's sleeping form, considering something you'd never done before.