Aston Marlowe - Rajah

After a moment it came to her through the dimness. The dream! The horrid, wretched nightmare which had seemed to be so real — but couldn't have been. The vividness of it began to run through her mind as though she was watching a slightly out of focus motion picture.

Strangely, it wasn't just her mind and soul which ached; her body was painful as well. She smoothed her hands carefully up to her breasts, cupping them gently in guarded exploration. Ohh, she moaned, they were tender. Her hands explored farther, coursing their way down over her stomach to her still open thighs. She groaned again as her fingers touched tenderly the slight bruises lining the soft edges of her vagina. Her finger probed carefully around the pink sensitive opening, the tips becoming moist from the sticky fluid that oozed visciously from it, wetting the split of her buttocks and the bed beneath.

What had happened to her? Had she done all this to herself? Had she gone to bed and dreamed first of others embracing carnality and then of a secret, shadow form tasting every part of her own being? It had seemed so real…

Lena and Mark. Rolling and panting and gasping on the living room rug in the wild frenzy of their sensual tensions. Yes, it had seemed real, but it was only an extension of her imagination; it had to be, for certainty a lady like Mrs. Alvaro would never allow untoward advances by a man other than her husband, and certainly not in front of another woman! The whole situation had risen out of some dark, evil cesspool of her sub-conscious, Sharon decided, and she blushed with shame at how she had mentally imagined the two friends of hers making love.

And the other, the dream of her husband visiting her and doing things to her body that she would never allow him to in actuality. She had dreamed before, had masturbated as all normal people do when frustrated sexually, but never like this! She had never gone to such an extreme even in her wildest moments of desire. Could her own hands have probed so deep into her stomach and left this hot pool that seemed to be lodged there now? Could they have made her gush forth so many times in climax to soak the bed in the way it was now? It had to be; there was no other logical explanation. She had gone completely out of her mind in her dream and had fondled her own vagina and breasts to the point of making her desires seem real. She had done these things to her own body, and her body had reacted like an animal in heat.

She slowly pushed her feet around and put them down. The fibers of the bedroom carpet felt good between her toes. She stood and looked back at the rumpled bed. Well, she thought as her eyes saw the large round wet spot where her buttocks had lain, I really had myself a time. I guess there's no need to cry over spilt milk; I did it and I can't change the past. After all, it was only a dream, and I shouldn't feel ashamed over something I couldn't control.

The warm spray of the shower felt good cascading down over her body. She washed carefully the insides of her thighs and buttocks, almost reluctant to wash away the sticky still-warm fluid from her soft, pubic hair. As her fingers moved up and down the warmth of the narrow slit between her legs, cleansing it of the viscous fluid, the vision of Neal's shadowy face mashed tightly between her wide, yawning thighs seethed through her still fermenting mind. Her middle finger duplicated his lashing tongue that had flicked so maddenly at her cunt lips and erect bud of clitoris nerves. She leaned back against the wall and let the needles of spray beat against her breasts and raise her nipples to rock shard of excitement. She could feel her breasts harden, grow turgid with the blood of sexual heat, and her finger went a little faster, teasing her clitoris, then kneading the miniature phallus between her thumb and forefinger, and grazing the inside of her sensitive, abused vagina with her middle finger, stroking in and out, in and…

No! The pretty, blonde young woman steeled herself, stopping herself from what she thought was a repetition of not so long ago in bed. It took all her strength to withdraw her trembling, probing fingers from down between her legs and turn off the shower.

The feeling of guilt returned as she briskly toweled herself dry with a large fluffy Jaquard. Enough is enough! She couldn't be spending day and night playing with herself not just because a couple of weird, excitingly erotic dreams had turned her on. She wasn't a nymphomaniac, for heaven's sake — but it was apparent that she needed her husband's long, stroking penis badly.

She combed out her long, silky blonde hair before the mirror, letting it drape loosely over her still taut breasts, and smiling wantonly as one sweet pink nipple peeked coyly out of the strands in the reflection of the looking glass. "Mmmmm," she said to herself as she turned and opened the closet to select her clothing. She was going to be primed and ready when Neal did return all right; maybe after the way she had reacted to oral loving in her dream, she would allow him to try it on her in actuality and see if it felt as good as she thought it had last night!

She picked out a simple pair of culottes to wear, a satiny but warm covering in a colorful paisley print. She slipped on a white bra which lifted her breasts and gave them support, but kept their creamy smooth upper portion bare; she preferred her bras like this, for they were more comfortable on her full figure. Bikini panties were all the rage, and she selected a matching white pair that barely covered her pubic mound and curly blonde hair, but she had tight buttocks that were just right for the skimpy brief. Then the culottes, and she zipped up the one-piece pantsuit with the large gold zipper which ran from her pubic triangle to neck. There was a large gold ring in the zipper fastener, which made the effect provocative. After all, she wanted to dress well after her self-inflicted orgy.

The house was quiet. Incredibly quiet, the way only a large, deserted enclosure can be. The stillness almost had a sound to it, a muffled heaviness which almost hung oppressively, mysteriously, and not at all with a sense of comfort about it. Sharon Court slipped out of her room barefoot and padded down the long narrow, shadowy hall toward the stairs. She recalled the fleeting and misty dream of running down this same hall last night, running blindly with horror at her heels, terror behind her and closing in fast.

How silly! Now, in the early morning hours, with only the faint rays of the violet dawn rolling across the heathered moors and seeping through the draped, arched windows, everything was normal. Quiet, but normal. She took her time, studying the large portraits on the walls, checking the little plaques nailed to the ornate gilt frames to see who the ancestors were that once lived in stately Marlowe Manor. She was dutifully impressed, as many an American is when faced with traditions dating back nearly six hundred years.

There was Archibald Marlowe, a lean and gruff old man in court clothes of Edward the First, who had given the Marlowes the land grant. And Heronimous Clydesdale Marlowe, who had been thrown in prison and nearly beheaded by Cromwell with King Charles; and Mortimore Marlowe, who sailed with Nelson, and died in Egypt of some plague; the family Grand-dame, Lucrecia Heliotrope Marlowe, who had married into the family, outlived her husband, Antipeter, and who later amassed the great fortune which still was the basis of the wealth today; the twins Danial Jerome and Steven Milton Marlowe, who had both joined the Hell-Fire Club, of which Sharon was unfamiliar, and later went to the Colonies to seek their fortunes… They were all there, proud and haughty. Mark Marlowe, with his dark good looks and suave bearing was indeed a fine heir to the traditions and lineage of the great Marlowe name.