Wicked Dreams
Wicked Dreams
Wicked Thoughts 01
Chris was dreaming.
For once it wasn’t a nightmare. There were no zombies trying to eat him. No hunters, or lickers, or fucking dogs. There definitely were no damn Tyrants either.
There just darkness, and it was soothing rather than haunting.
He was lying on a wonderful bed. Soft sheets, warm comforter, sliding against his naked skin. He moaned softly as he slid from lying on his stomach on to his back.
A hint of cold air crept in as the blankets were shifted. The bed dipped with an added weight. He sighed as a weight settled against him.
That was nice. More warmth, and silky soft skin pressed against his side. It was firmer than what he would have expected. Not soft in places where he thought it would be.
S’nice though, he thought, stretching lazily. Hands slid down his side, across his tummy. The swerved upwards, tracing a languid path to his nipples. He shivered as they made contact.
So good. He moaned as they continued to brush over the hardening buds. He groaned when one left to trace up his neck.
Butterfly touches traced along his neck, under his jaw, and up to his ear. They paused there to play with the lobe and brush over the whorls. They whispered over his cheek, landing on his lips.
Wha..?
It had definitely been too long since he had been laid. The fingers his brain had conjured up were too thick, too blunt. There were calluses on the hands. They felt like his own almost.
“Chris…” a voice whispered in his ear. Too indistinct to identify. He shuddered as the warm breath teased the sensitive flesh. Lips brushed against his. Again, and again oh so softly.
A tongue flicked his bottom lip. He responded by opening his mouth. The tongue dipped in, chasing his around.
‘Chris…” The mouth moved down to his throat. He groaned as it landed on a particularly sensitive spot. It stayed there, sucking and biting until he was practically screaming.
“Please,” he begged. His hands reached up, trying to grab on to his tormentor. His hands encountered hard muscles.
Huh?
“Chris…”
He moved his hands, tracing up strong biceps and broad shoulders. He traced up the neck, his hands finding their way in to his mysterious lover’s hair. Short, very short hair that felt stiff with gel.
Oh man, I need to open my eyes.
“Chris!”
He jerked up, his eyes flying open. Claire was leaning over him, looking worried. No need to worry. I was just dreaming of another man molesting me.
He managed not to say that out loud.
“What’s up?” he managed, rubbing his eyes.
“Trent is here.”
“Give me a minute and I’ll be down.” He’d drag himself out of bed to go learn what new Umbrella nightmare they were just barely going to survive. He would survive it though. A little more battered than before. A few new nightmares.
But what’s worse? Dreaming of zombies, or the quarter life crisis I could be having?
“Cope and deal,” he muttered, pulling on a shirt.
Downstairs, smiling enigmatically was Trent.
“Mr. Redfield, how would you like to visit a charming little town named Westbrook?”
End