Emily drove home with extreme care after leaving her co-workers from their celebratory gathering at their office. The celebration was because they had landed the contract as interior designers for a big company’s new office spaces, and the wine was not spared. Never having been much of a drinker, she was cajoled into trying a sip or two as they all toasted their success. The pink wine went down smoothly, but, she realized too late that she should not have gulped down this new tasty stuff, instead of taking sips as suggested. It had hit her hard. Her mind was fuzzy, and her mobility uncertain. She had to sit.

A couple of her co-workers brought her plates full of some of the more hardy fare from the caterers to aid in clearing her mind, which helped a lot because she soon felt she could drive herself home. She didn’t live too far away and didn’t want to accept the offers by a couple of the more flirtatious men to drive her. Realizing that she liked this new experience of being in this mind-freeing state, she wanted to keep the ’buzz’ going, so she grabbed a bottle of an unopened White Zinfandel from the table and left for home, assuring everyone she would drive with care.

She was relieved to finally pull into her driveway after having to be so cautious and felt good that she was able to find her key to unlock her door. After staggering into the kitchen, she looked for a proper glass and a wine opener. This took a while to locate since she had not had a need for either after her grandmother died. She popped the cork, and eagerly poured the pink liquid to the glass’s rim. Emily held up the vessel to examine the delicate color from the glow of the kitchen light as it filtered through the soft rosy fluid. She smiled, tipped the wine to her lips and drank. I wish I would have known that wine was so tasty, and had such delicious effects while grandmother was alive, she thought.

Emily refilled her glass, re-corked the bottle and put it in the refrigerator, and then with a full glass in hand, headed for the stairs. She had to hold the stemmed glass tightly while she pressed against the wall for support as she climbed, stopping periodically for a sip.

In her room, Emily sat the wine on the nightstand, took off the black suit jacket, and unbuttoned her blouse. When the front of the shirt swung apart, she brushed her palm across her breasts, causing her breathing to accelerate, and her pulse quicken. She hurriedly slipped off her skirt and laid it with its jacket to hang up later.

Emily’s thoughts instantly went to the dreams she’d been having lately of sexual encounters with someone she didn’t know. Why she would dream of someone unknown, doing things she knew nothing about, was beyond her. When her parents were killed in an automobile accident, and she was forced to live with a religiously fanatical grandmother, she had been sheltered from any kind of knowledge regarding sex. But since her grandmother’s death, she began having very explicit and very erotic dreams, as if someone was planting thoughts in her head while she slept. And she liked those dreams. She was also liking the effects from drinking wine, making her fearless, and bold, so unlike her normal shy self.

Her mind wandered, as the blouse slipped easily off her shoulders when she tugged at it. Feeling a need to have the air surround her bare skin, she quickly pulled up the tight camisole her grandmother had made her wear to hide her breast and threw it into the trash basket in the corner.

“I won’t be needing that boob-binder anymore!” she nearly shouted in relief.

Emily took a deep breath and felt almost feverish with this near-nudity. She still had a pair of pantyhose on that was sheer to the waist, showing her white, cotton, full-cut panties beneath. They have to go, too, she thought wanting the sheerness as an exciting parameter to her near nakedness.

She picked up the wineglass and drank deeply before sitting it back down. Closing her eyes, she stroked the soft swell of her naked breasts once again. It almost seemed to her that someone else guided her movements, and if she leaned back she’d feel the heat of a body behind her. That thought sent a thrill of excitement rushing down her body, but she didn’t lean back, not wanting to feel the disappointment.

Emily’s exposed nipples were cold and erect, wanting attention. She pinched them while she turned to look into the small mirror above the table.

She couldn’t see all of her body but saw the parts she wanted to see in the hazy glass. Emily felt like a voyeur watching someone else as she twisted around to look at her reflection from different angles. She’d never dared look at her body without clothes in an appraising way, but she liked what she saw.

I think I look pretty good the way my waist cuts in and then flares out to rounded hips, she thought as her hands slipped over the contours and then cupped her breasts. Ah! She liked how those mounds felt in her hands.

She studied her image, her mind conjuring up a dream where another’s hands fondled her instead, sighing as she moved her fingers across the soft flesh.

With eyes closed, her hands moved slowly down her hips over pantyhose, seductively, as if guided, to feel the curves of her hipbones, and then to the flatness of her abdomen. Her right hand slid down between her legs all the way to her butt cheeks then eased back up.

Her breath caught.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the nylon and pulled the stockings down over her pelvic bones and then pulled at the panties. Stopping just below the thatch of dark blond pubic hair, her hand slid between the growing wetness and stroked. A gasp escaped her lips. She imagined someone else helping with those movements, helping her explore, showing her what to do. Her hips naturally undulated with the drive of her fingers, the motion coming faster, stronger, more urgent.

As if pushed, Emily sank down onto the bed, stockings pulled from her legs, her underwear disdainfully tossed into the wastebasket. Her hand continued working, an urgency building. She wanted to duplicate the passion she remembered so clearly in her last dream, and she had only herself to help accomplish those things; therefore, she could only rely on instinct. But then who else, more than she, could say what made her feel good?

Uncertain, Emily’s movements were awkward, probing, but soon came easier, more natural. The awe of making her own body feel alive and making the climb to the pinnacle she’d only dreamed about was beyond comprehension. Of course, how could she actually comprehend much of anything in her inebriated state, she silently wondered.

Each stroke, each dip of a finger brought her closer to a point that was much like the difference between simmer and boil. Simmering was good, but soon “boil” was inevitable, and she craved it. The faster her fingers moved, the closer she came to the climax she needed. Yet she slowed and eased the pressure. It was like being a child with a new toy, wanting to examine each part to see how it worked, not wanting to tire of it yet.

However, she didn’t know how to control the heat to prolong the intensity without coming to the eruption stage too soon. And so it came.

A sense of amazement waved over her. She savored the throbbing and wetness that oozed around her fingers. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

Emily left her hand where it was to feel the flow and the contractions, not wanting to move for a while, opening her eyes occasionally to fight the sleep that wanted to take over. Suddenly, impulsively, she brought the damp fingers to her nose to examine their smell. It was not repulsive. It was pleasant, almost sweet. She tasted the wetness. The pleasure she felt from her taste buds surprised and thrilled her.

This is me, she reminded herself, the most sensual part of me.

While her fingers played with her tongue, Emily questioned whether shock, shame, or remorse for her actions might set in come morning when she was clearer-headed, for she felt none of those things at the moment. She wasn’t surprised by her boldness but was sober enough to realize the part alcohol had played in helping with her actions and thoughts. The wine also helped her not care what the morning would bring. She felt good now from the release, and to hell with what might happen tomorrow.

Emily leaned back and looked at the mirror. She could see her image as she sat propped up by her elbows on the plain, drab gray bedspread that had once been ivory. The woman she saw looked vibrant, although a bit sleepy, but glowed with color on her cheekbones. Her eyes sparkled. Emily saw at once that this nymph, as she saw herself, looked out of place on the dull, colorless surface. She needed to be surrounded by more vibrancy, like a Monet garden.

Emily shook her head and let the strawberry blond mass fly around her shoulders. The resulted tousled locks startled her. She looked like a seductress and watched the smile cross her face when she admired her likeness.

She stood up and posed provocatively with legs slightly spread and hands on her hips as she tilted her head, and moved her body one way, then another. A laugh played on her mouth as she experimented with different looks and stances: pouty, provocative, bold. She then moved her hands from her hips to her thighs, then back up to her breasts, feeling the curves, the warmth, and kept wondering why she’d never experienced her own body before. It was such a magical thing. Of course, Emily knew the answer. Her upbringing and fear of punishment. She cupped her breasts again, pinched the nipples ever so slightly, and felt a quiver the action sent dancing through her.

Grabbing the glass that had a swallow of wine left in it, she drained the contents, then held the empty vessel to her stomach. She caressed it as if it were a living thing before slinging it carelessly onto the pile of clothes.

She crawled into bed.

Suddenly her eyelids wanted to clamp down and stay shut. But she blinked back the heaviness of the lids, snapped the light off, and pulled the sheet and blanket around her.

She’d never slept without nightclothes before and realized how liberated her body felt between the cool cotton sheets.

She let out an “ah” of contentment as she settled in, which changed to a low moan when she felt fingers reaching between her legs to inch up inside her. The memory and amazement from moments ago when she’d brought herself to a wondrous climax made her smile. But now she relaxed to experience the new moment, the movements that made her feel the heat build once again.

Just before slumber came to claim her, her last thoughts were on the power of touch, and all the sensations it brought. She hoped she’d never tire of those feelings and what they could do to her system.

As her heavy lids finally stayed shut, she had been unable to realize in her stuporous state, that what was happening beneath the covers was not of her doing. She wasn’t aware that both of her own hands still clutched the blankets pulled to her chin.

Continue reading from my Awakening of Emily series with Dream Ripples.

She Saw Herself As a Nymph, a Seductress - From The Awakening of Emily Series

My First Encounter with a Bruja and a Curandero

Black Widow