50 EROTICA COMPILATIONS

SCENE 2: THE DREAM

WARNING ⚠️ ⚠️⚠️🔞🔞

THIS BOOK CONTAINS RAW EROTICA SCENES. PLS, DON'T READ IF YOU ARE BELOW 18 🔞YEARS LACK CONTROL OVER YOUR s****l EMOTIONS. I STILL REMAIN ONE OF YOUR FAVORITE AUTHOR "WORLDCUP". ENJOY YOUR STORY.

1 — HARPER

"My p***y—f**k—you're going so f*****g deep!" I moaned as his hand locked around my throat.

The pressure was possessive, unyielding—fingers digging into the tender flesh beneath my jaw with a dominance that made my breath hitch and my spine arch off the mattress. He held me there, pinned between his grip and the pillow, while his hips slammed forward with a ferocity that bordered on punishment.

No mercy. No hesitation. Every thick, brutal thrust buried him to the hilt, the swollen head of his c**k dragging hard and deliberate over my G-spot on every single stroke.

There was no rhythm to catch, no moment to breathe—just a relentless, driving cadence that turned my thighs to liquid and sent shockwaves rippling through my core.

The wet, filthy slap of skin against skin filled the room, echoing off the walls in a symphony of raw, unfiltered lust. My p***y clenched around him greedily, muscles fluttering and contracting as if trying to anchor him deeper, to keep him locked inside me even as he pulled almost completely out—leaving me empty, aching, desperate—before driving back in with a force that knocked the air from my lungs.

He kept the pressure on my neck steady, unwavering, his thumb brushing lazily against my thrumming pulse as if he were reading my heartbeat like a map. Heat flooded my face, burning from my cheekbones down to my collarbones.

I could feel every thick ridge of him, every vein, every brutal inch as he hammered that same hypersensitive spot over and over and over again, reducing me to nothing but sensation and need.

"Harder," I gasped, the word barely audible, strangled by his grip and my own ragged breath.

He tightened his hold a fraction—just enough to make my vision spark at the edges—and f****d me faster, deeper, meaner. One large hand pinned both my wrists above my head, stretching my body open, vulnerable, completely at his mercy.

Every time he bottomed out, I felt the jolt deep in my core, a violent, electric shock that radiated outward until my toes curled and my back bowed. He leaned close, his hot breath ghosting over my ear, his voice a low, gravelly growl that vibrated straight through my chest.

"Take every f*****g inch."

I could only nod, my eyes half-lidded and unfocused, the world narrowing down to the chokehold on my throat and the relentless, perfect pressure on my G-spot pushing me higher and higher toward the edge. My walls fluttered around him uncontrollably, milking him, begging him.

He growled—low and animalistic—and kept going. Deep. Relentless. Merciless. Until my whole body started to tremble beneath him, every muscle tightening, every nerve ending screaming, the coil inside me winding impossibly tight, ready to snap—

“Oh my God!"

I jolted awake with a scream tearing from my throat, my body drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted and damp beneath me. My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged animal desperate to escape, and for a long, disorienting moment, I couldn't tell where the dream ended and reality began.

The phantom sensation of his hands still lingered on my throat, on my wrists, and between my legs—

This same dream again, I murmured to myself, my voice hoarse and foreign in the quiet of my bedroom. My hand moved instinctively, trembling as it slid beneath the waistband of my pajama pants, and I wasn't surprised to find myself soaked.

My fingers came away slick with arousal, and I could still feel the phantom pulse of my p***y throbbing, dripping and clenching around nothing as if my body genuinely believed the dream had been real.

I lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, my chest heaving as I tried to steady my breathing. The morning light was just beginning to bleed through the curtains, casting pale gray shadows across my room.

“Wait”, I thought, squeezing my eyes shut as the image of him flashed behind my lids—those hands, that voice, the overwhelming presence of a guy I had never met. “Who could this guy be?”

Before I could chase the thought any further, a soft, tentative knock sounded at my door.

"Hey! Harper, my queen, you're up already?"

My mother's voice drifted through the wood, edged with that familiar note of worry she had worn like a second skin for the past two years.

The door swung open before I could answer, and there she was—still in her work blazer, her handbag already slung over one shoulder, car keys clutched in her hand. She hadn't even set her things down.

"I heard a scream when I was downstairs, that's why I came rushing here." She continued as she moved to me and sat on the bed beside me, close enough that I could feel how fast her heart was still beating beneath her silk blouse.

Her eyes searched my face with that piercing, maternal intensity—the kind that missed nothing and saw too much. She reached for my hand, her fingers warm and slightly calloused from years of hard work, and squeezed. "Hope you're well, baby?" she asked softly, her voice dropping to that gentle register she reserved only for me.

"Yes, Mom. I'm fine," I said quickly forcing a smile that felt stiff and unconvincing on my face. My hands moved on their own, gradually, subtly pulling a pillow over my lap. I didn't want her to see it—my pajamas were thin, transparent cotton which were already soaked, because the last thing I needed was for her to ask questions I didn’t have answer to.

"Good to hear," she said, though her eyes lingered on my face a moment longer than necessary, as if she were weighing the truth of my words. "You should start preparing for school. It's 6:30am," she added, glancing down at the delicate silver wristwatch my father had given her for their twentieth anniversary—a watch she hadn't taken off since the funeral.

She looked back at me, and something in her expression softened. "Anyway, I am off to work already. Make sure you be of your best behaviors to all your teachers and colleagues."

She stood up, keys jingling in one hand, bag in the other, the morning light catching the faint threads of gray in her hair that hadn't been there before Dad died. "Anyway, I have to run now. Traffic in New York won't wait. Just... be good today. Be respectful to your teachers and kind to your colleagues, alright? Make me proud, my queen."

"Have a great day," she added as she leaned forward and pressed a quick, dry peck to my forehead—a gesture so familiar it ached—before she turned and left the room, her heels clicking softly down the hallway.

I sat there for a moment, the ghost of her kiss still warm on my skin.

“Damn it! Was that peck necessary?” I said teasingly under my breath, but she was already gone, halfway down the stairs, and didn't hear me.

I sighed and flopped back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling fan as it turned in slow, lazy circles.

It had been two years since my father died. Two years since the heart attack that took him in the middle of the night, silent, swift and irreversible. Ever since that morning—ever since I had found my mother sitting motionless at the kitchen table, still in her nightgown, staring at a cup of coffee that had gone cold—Mom had chosen to make me her responsibility, purpose and anchor.

Before she rushed off to work, before the traffic in New York got crazy, before the city swallowed her whole for another ten-hour day, she would come upstairs to my room to check up on me. Always with keys in one hand and a bag in the other. Always with that same exhausted but determined smile.

"Did you sleep well? Did you eat?". That was her full-time responsibility now—checking up on me. Making sure I was still breathing. As if by keeping me safe, she could somehow keep the rest of the world from taking anything else away from her.

"Just too over-concerned," I murmured into the empty room, pulling the damp sheets tighter around me. "Like I'm still a kid." I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet touching the cold hardwood floor. "I'll have to remind her next time that I'm already 19," I said as I stood up and shuffled toward the bathroom to start preparing for school.

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