Dream of Us
Chapter One

Ani’s POV.

“Hey, pixie. Just calling to see how you are doing, you haven’t checked in for a while. You still seeing Jaymie? How’s work going? Call me back when you can, would love to catch up.”

I smile to myself as I listen to the voicemail my foster mum has left me. She’s the only person who leaves me voicemails, aside from corporate companies. I love hearing her laidback, warm voice.

I send her a text to let her know that I will give her a call tomorrow. I’m walking home from the gym now and I’m exhausted. I know that, if I call her, we’ll be on the phone for at least half an hour. That spin session was a killer, although I still beat everyone in the class, including the instructor. Everyone always comments how much stamina and strength I have. It’s surprising considering I’m not a particularly broad or muscular person, I’m lean and toned with average curves. I don’t know where my power comes from, but I’m thankful for it.

I let myself into my flat and take a hot shower to soothe my weary muscles. Jaymie, my sort-of boyfriend, has texted me when I get out, asking to come over. I reply to him and then brush out my hair. There is a knock on the door as I’m changing into my pyjamas. I pull my top over my head and then go to answer it.

Jaymie McLane is a twenty-eight year old investment banker with a successful job, stable home-life and, as far as I know, no inappropriate or illegal vices. In many ways, he is perfect. A little too perfect. My friends peg him as boring; I describe him as safe. I know where I stand with him, I can rely on him, I can trust him. He comes without drama or mystery and that makes my life easier.

“Hey.” I step out of the way for him to come in. He drops a kiss on my cheek as he walks past. “How was your day?”

He sighs and places his briefcase on the coffee table. “It was a bit hectic,” he replies as he undoes his tie and lets it hang loose around his neck. “The Miller account is slowly driving me crazy; I can feel it.”

“Aw, babe. Come here.”

I give him a hug, rubbing his back comfortingly. He smells like dove deodorant and Just For Him cologne, the way he always does. I can even rely on him to smell the same each time I see him.

He wraps his arms around me, his hands never straying from the middle of my back. We might both be adults, but Jayme has never once pressured me to take our relationship further. We have been dating for about three months now and, so far, our intimacy has never gone beyond third base. Oral has only been initiated a couple of times and I’ve felt…strange each time.

I’ve never considered myself prudish, but something about being sexual with Jayme feels wrong. I don’t know why, because using my vibrator never makes me feel uncomfortable or sinful. I never feel guilty for giving myself orgasms, but I do when Jayme is the one to give them to me.

I have used the excuse of not wanting to have sex before marriage with him. I’m not religious, so I have no idea why he buys it. I love that he respects my values and morals, but I find it odd as to why my body is inherently against taking things further with him. I want to be more intimate, but my mind won’t let me be.

Jayme stays for dinner. He not only helps me make the tacos, but he cleans up afterwards. He really is a keeper. A heated make-out session on my sofa remains exactly that and, at ten o’clock, I kiss him goodnight and walk him out of my flat.

I get ready for bed with a throbbing between my thighs. Our kissing igniting a fire in me that has yet to be sated. After stripping out of my clothes, I slip under my covers, completely naked. A quick fumble in my bedside drawer allows me to grab my vibrator and bring it under the duvet. I press the ‘on’ button and hold the buzzing toy to my needy clit which is desperate for some stimulation.

The nature of my relationship with Jayme means that I am not open with him about what I like in bed. He has no idea what kind of porn I watch, or even that I watch porn. I’d be mortified if he found out that my favourite category is gangbang.

How humiliating that the twenty-five year old virgin waitress is into orgy sex. I don’t like to imagine just one man in my bed, I like to picture multiple.

The toy sends vibrations rippling up my body, spreading heat and pleasure in their wake. I rock my hips against the bullet, savouring every moment of bliss as an orgasm begins to blossom in my lower stomach. I close my eyes and picture large hands on me, grabbing my breasts, parting my thighs, teasing my tortured clit. One of them kisses my neck, biting down hard enough to make me break out in goosebumps but not so hard as to draw blood. Another one presses my breasts together, alternately pinching my nipples.

I lose track of the hands in my mind. They are everywhere all at once, swapping roles and passing me around like a pleasured treasure they can’t stop touching. I moan loudly into the empty room as I finally fall off the proverbial edge into a chasm of bliss. The pleasure of my orgasm rushes through me, sending my heart into a flurried, broken rhythm and stealing the air from my lungs.

I fall back onto the mattress, limbs loose and body pulsing from aftershocks. I manage to find it in me to turn off the furiously buzzing vibrator before sleep drags me into its dark depths.

Like with most nights, I dream of my trio, as I fondly like to call them. For as long as I can remember, my dreams have featured three specific men. I can’t picture their faces clearly and I do not know their names, but I can tell each one apart from their touch and their smell. I don’t know how I can distinguish them so well, but I guess it makes sense that I can because my mind is the one that conjured them up.

I’ve had the dreams since I was a teenager. I remember having them at my foster mum’s house and being really embarrassed to come down to breakfast with the naughty images of the previous night’s dreams floating around my mind.

Each time I close my eyes and send myself off to sleep, I silently hope to see them again. The three guys that occupy my dreams and consume my deviant thoughts. When I picture hands on my body, I picture theirs. I don’t know who they are, but I know that they are mine.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The endless dripping of the pipe in the corner of my cell is the only sound I can hear other than the faint clink of metal each time I move or my steady breathing. The leaking pipe might drive others mad; they might beg for it to end or hum over the repetitive sound. But I find it comforting. The pipe drips once every second. It acts as a clock, grounding me in this moment. It reminds me that time is passing, that each second I spend listening to the puddle form on the floor is a second closer to getting out of here.

But where is here?

Drip. Drip. Drip.

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