It's Not A Dream

I sat bolt upright in bed, feeling the sheet slip down my body and over my shirt. Still it catches on the tips of my breasts. Holding there in a way that almost emphasized them, though honestly I don't know how I wouldn't have been able to notice them.

My breasts. Mine. As in they are on my body right now because right now I am her. I am Emily Ross.

And I just remembered that this is all real.

Somehow, impossibly, this is real. That wasn't a dream. I wasn't on my second day of college, I was on hers. I had lived through all those years and got a job and wasted so many years afterwards and then I'd stumbled into the tent of that old woman and she had done this to me. She had sent me back and she had made me...

Emily Ross.

And it wasn't a dream and I knew that it wasn't a dream and I knew that it was all too real. But why couldn't I shake the feeling that something had been a dream last night?

I couldn't remember it exactly, couldn't remember the details at least, but I could remember the way it made me feel. And once I'd remembered that it was impossible to ignore.

The warmth had gone far deeper than my skin now, it had slipped below the surface of me and traveled the pathways all through my body leaving behind snaking trails of vibrating heat. Not burning but thrumming inside of me, pulsing with the beat of something that was different than my heart and working on me with such expertise that it made my body start to ache.

All settling, growing and glowing, into the heart of me. The heart not in my chest but in my belly, in that deep pit of me that had throbbed so many times the day before, that had pulsed with need when I got close to so many people, closer than I'd ever meant to.

Eyes wide my head turns to one side and I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Hair mussed and tousled, short but long enough to require a very little bit of work to keep in style. Lips pursed and cheeks flushed, with all of me breathing heavy and twitching while I did my level best to deny what it was my body wanted to do.

Oh fuck it. It's just us here. What all of me wanted to do.

I wanted to touch myself. Run my hands over my clothing and clench, peeling it off of me and casting it aside. I wanted to pull at the sheets and watch as they slid over the quivering mounds of my breasts and fell onto my flat tummy. I wanted to press a hand beneath the softness of them and between the softness of my thighs and push that finger inside of me.

I wanted to stare into the mirror, watching the flush and the blush rise in my cheeks and on my chest and I wanted to fall back, eager in my need to have even more than I'd woken up with.

I wanted to cum, my whole damn world exploding. Mouth open wide and screaming so loud that it made the walls shake and tremble and made... made it so that everyone on the whole damn block knew how I liked to start my mornings.

Maybe it was the dream last night, the one I cannot remember but can feel in emotions and heat and shivering beneath my skin. Maybe it was this body, the eager attentions and the way the vibrations of that pleasure made me even hotter, made me so hot with delight that I couldn't help it. Maybe it was the fact that in all my damn life I'd never felt the need to cum quite as much as I had since I'd become her because Emily was more than me, could feel more than me. Could take more than me and have it crest and wash over her again and again and again.

Or maybe it was the majesty of this feminine body and of women in general, the undeniably truth that they could cum and cum again and again and again and keep on going until they chose to stop.

How could they ever choose to stop?

I didn't understand it.

I didn't understand why anyone, given the chance to cum again immediately after cumming the first time, would be anything other than an absolute wreck just driving themself to pleasure over and over again.

I don't know how any woman ever left their bed and I know that, for my part at least, I was in danger of staying right here forever.

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