A Dream of Forbidden Desire
Sage’s Silent Witness: A Dream of Forbidden Desire
The night belonged to us, heavy and silken, draping itself over Anthony’s magnificent bedroom. He lay beside me, dark-haired and handsome even in the deep sleep that robbed him of his usual successful-CEO composure. I, Sage, ran a hand through my own thick mahogany waves, watching him as the streetlights cast long, cinematic shadows on the ceiling.
We were middle-aged—old enough to know what we wanted, and intimate enough to share the quiet spaces in between. But tonight, he wasn’t sharing. Tonight, he was giving the space over to someone else entirely.
It started subtly—a low groan, just below the threshold of waking. I turned my body fully toward him. His breathing, which was usually rhythmic and steady, became choppy and almost desperate. His face was slick with sweat, the muscles around his jaw working rigidly. Then I heard him say, “Jeane?”
“Anthony?” I murmured, my voice soft.
He didn’t hear me. He was already drowning in his own mind.
I watched his dark hands clutch the linen sheets, the knuckles going white. His body was starting to arch, a slow, agonizing bow against the mattress. This wasn’t a typical restful dream; this was a seizure of pleasure, violent and consuming. Curiosity, sharp and immediate, replaced my mild concern. I propped myself up on an elbow, settling in to observe the private, powerful theatre unfolding beside me.
His hips began to thrust. Not just a twitch, but a deliberate, slow upward push, grinding against the thick duvet. He let out a choked sound, “Jeane Catherine LaVentura.” It was a guttural noise that vibrated deep in his chest.
His eyes were sealed shut, shielded from the reality of my gaze, allowing the fantasy to take complete control. “Oh, Jeane,” he moaned louder.
I could see the phantom scenario playing out on his body. He was being ridden, fiercely, relentlessly, or maybe he was being worked over with a mouth skilled enough to pull the foundations from beneath him. I focused on the erotic intensity, on the tight, sexual coil he was winding into. His chest was heaving, his dark hair damp against the pillow.
The sounds became less generalized, taking on a specific, recognizable intensity. There was a sucking, pulling noise that seemed to escape his lips, followed by a grunt of pure, uncontrolled release. He began to pant, short, sharp little gasps, like a runner crossing the finish line.
“God… more, I want to suck more of your heat,” he whispered, a hot, ragged plea.
“Oh, yes, Jeane, please,” he gasped, his voice tight. “Like that. Don’t stop… push…”
My mouth went dry. What strange, sacred, utterly perverse place had he gone to? He always spoke of Jeane with a detached reverence—the perfect lady, slightly brittle, entirely untouchable. Yet the raw, demanding lust pouring off him now suggested she was anything but untouchable in the architecture of his subconscious desire.
His erection was hard, visible even beneath the thick blanket, pulsing with the rhythm of his dream-fucker. “Jeane, oh yes, Jeane.”
He was nearing the edge now. His body went rigid, poised on the peak of the internal climb. The thrusting quickened, frantic and demanding, a desperate need for the climax that would shatter the control he spent his waking life constructing.
And then, the sound came—a harsh, primal scream that tore the silence of the room. It was thick with ecstasy and absolute surrender.
“Oh, Jeane!”
The name ripped from him, clear and wet, followed by a long, drawn-out cry that sounded less like a conqueror and more like a ruined, grateful man.
His body shuddered violently, a continuous, muscle-seizing tremor that lasted almost ten whole seconds. He collapsed back into the pillows, gasping, sweat shining on his temples, his breathing raggedly tearing at the air. The physical release was palpable, potent, soaking into the space between us.
I lay still, my heart pounding a strange, double rhythm—partly from the witnessed vulgarity, partly from a deep, unsettling arousal. I had just listened to the successful, handsome man next to me be entirely undone by the phantom presence of a woman he had set high upon a mental pedestal.
He settled into the heavy, limp sleep of post-climax exhaustion.
I reached out, my fingers tracing the slick line of his jaw. He was still beautiful, still my lover, but now marked by a secret intimacy I would never truly share, only witness. I knew that when he woke, he would remember nothing but a vague, pleasant warmth.
But I would remember him screaming her name—“Jeane Catherine LaVentura.” And as I drifted back toward sleep, pulling Anthony’s heavy, satisfied form close, I ran my nails lightly over the smooth skin of his back, wondering what the proper response was to being loved by a man whose deepest, most shattering fantasy belonged to her alone. I decided the only response was silence and complicity. I closed my eyes, embracing the dark, potent secret that now lay between us, warm and wet on the silk sheets.