luxemburger

I buzzed my head tonight, and I dreamed about you again this weekend.

Why am I always dreaming about your breasts? When I had that dream two weeks ago, I was dragging my tongue against the underswell - the crook, the heat, the place on your body which I would most like to call home - and you had tangled your fingers behind my head and let your voice ramble gently out into the soft light of the room while my tongue made its travels on your skin.

This time they were the size of miniature cupcakes, and your nipples were a pale orange-peach-tan whose tips delighted my taste buds as if they really were made of frosting. I know that your breasts are larger in real life, and I have no idea what color your nipples actually are, but I can't get the image out of my mind. Your tiny dream nipples, and how I thought I was in heaven when I felt them beading, tightening under my tongue.

Mine. For a few, brief moments I knew that you were mine.

( At first I couldn't tell if I was dreaming of the before or after hand this time. Last time we were curled up on my bed in the yellow bedroom that was my sanctuary in high school, but this time we were somewhere else entirely. Supposedly it was your room. Something tells me it was nothing like your room. )