A Dream Come True

By Candice Christian

Carrie cautiously, goes behind closed doors to fantasize about her concealed sexy fetish, passion or dream. After all this time she has resigned herself to the fact it will always be a dream. What she dreams of, she could never do with another woman.

Then a new neighbor moves into the next-door apartment, Miranda, and things begin to move quickly. The women find they share a lot of interests, though neither is an admitted lesbian. In a short time, they are behaving like long fast friends and sexual tension builds. They begin by watching a borrowed porno DVD and its effect on each of them is the same.

Treading in uncharted territory, the two kindred spirits just go along with the momentum of the moment. Each learns they have an affinity for lesbian sex, and play around with the new interest, like a favorite Christmas present. And still their experimentations continue.

Things reach a peak for the women, when Miranda suggests a contest where the loser of a sex game, pays a penalty and Carrie sees the chance to test her lusty fetish out on Miranda. She just has to win their contest, then live her dream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tenth Muse
• Release date: Jun 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463258057

Candice Christian

Candice was born in Paris KY on 9 January 1988. Her parents, George Bertrand Christian, an attorney who once aspired to be an actor, and Frances Hollowell insisted that Candice and her sister Simone, be sent to a Catholic school. Candice was deeply religious as a child, at one point thought of becoming a nun.

Book preview

A Dream Come True

Candice Christian

Copyright 2019 Candice Christian

Published by Candice Christian at Smashwords

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Adults Only 18+

Acknowledgments

Courtney Masterson

Part One

It's that time of the day for me, the enjoyable ordeal of my exquisite fantasy, my masturbation ritual, my dream of what I want to do, what I have never done, and nearly drive myself crazy with this obsession. A world, of butt plugs, analingus and domination.

It is only behind a locked door that I submit to myself to my fantasy. What I am. Only beneath the shimmer of bath bubbles, piled high, do I give myself permission to indulge in my fantasies and to remember what it is to be a woman, sensual and alive.

For, if I admitted to the yearnings of my body, much less my soul, she, my lover, would turn from me in disgust and call me a whore. She would berate me for the wanderings of my sinful mind, just as he reminds me of the shame I should feel for that which I have known, whether it be the cyclic breath of a shared climax, the taboo of a powder room rendezvous or a private photo shoot featuring my shaved sex..

If truth be told, it's not shame I experience in the recollection, rather nostalgia. What I wouldn't give to feel the trembling within my belly and the heat rising from my skin, not to mention that undeniable ache between my thighs, on the cusp of that first solid tongue thrust.

Thus, as respectable as I'm directed to be, I find the inklings (or remnants) of myself where I'm free to be the woman I remember myself to be -- the woman I was before we became us -- as I prepare for my bath.

With a firm latching of the door behind me, I turn to choose the silken bubbles that characterize my mood. Tonight, shall it be French Apple Blossom or Midnight Pomegranate? Ah, Sensual Amber, earthy like the incense I once burned.

And, I begin filling the tub.

After peeling away my dress and thigh-high stockings, I hesitate just for a moment before the mirror as I unhook my bra and free my breasts. I lift my arms over my head, just to give them that little extra lift and roundness. Even I am impressed.

Turning my back toward the mirror, I admire the tanned flesh over taut sinews and the yantra tattooed at the lower curve of my spine, near the second chakra, from the days when sex was sacred.

As I continue gazing over my shoulder, I lean forward, accentuating the curve of my ass in the mirror's reflection with the arch