Looking down across the length of her flat belly it is impossible not to compare. We are different in so many ways, her skin and mine, her long lean torso, the sweet concave expanse just above her pubic bone. She is as I had imagined her, of course, because this dream is something cobbled together from my imaginings. In dream I stretch my arm out across her belly, little chest. I have always been happy with the swell of my own breasts, and now her tight small breasts seem perfect. I pluck the nipple up in between my lips, sweet cherry, pink as fruit. I must have a body of my own because I feel the desire swelling in it, but my body does not feature in the slow slide across her flesh, the heady scent of her sex, the lips parting and my tongue lost in the dampness there.
It has been so long since a dream like this has found me and I wallow in it. Perhaps I will come whilst sleeping, my mouth spasming in a synchronised dance with her own palpitations. I would wake with my back arched and the warm glow spreading through my skin.
The disturbance in the dream irritates me. I would rather dip my head further down, slip my tongue inside her where my finger has opened the path. I would rather follow this slow climb than bother with the visitors who turn up in the house with their noisy play, spilling pins on the floor that stick in my socks, making a mess in the pool with spilled pages. I drag myself away from her cunt in irritation and attempt to calmly clean up the mess that they make. When I wake there is that same feeling of dissatisfaction, an orgasm approached but lost to the tumult of a new day.