Forget me

Natasha always would sweat while she slept. She would often dream she was an anxious fern, lustful for the touch of the sun, groping at the sky.
“Your warmth is all I need, my love” She would imagine.
Then her eyes would flutter open as the gentle song from her iphone filled the room and rob her of her nightly retreat. The dreams always felt too short. And strange. Why the metaphor? She never gave it much thought. Just noted the oddness of yearning for a dream about the sun.

And so, the ritual was. It was something that she looked forward to during the day, and bemoaned leaving as morning forced her into wakefulness. And it might have continued that way had she not encountered the young man on the bus.

The young man on the bus. She named him Steve the first time she saw him. The way the light from the window cast on his face made him seem otherworldly. It stirred in her the same feelings she felt while dreaming her nightly ritual. A moment of bated breath. A moistening between her thighs. A longing to reach for him.
It was, in other words, irrational. She knew it. She knew nothing true about Steve. He might murder her if given the chance. And still a part of her wondered, “would that be so bad”.

And so began a transition, from longing for the sun that caressed her in her dreams, to longing for codename Steve who ignored her on the bus. Her nights, no longer a refuge, but a torture. She imagined him, as her fingers found her clit, and played circles of pleasure to the rhythm of her thoughts. His face, on the bus, the sun catching the edge of his cheekbone. Her nipples, erect, searching for the inviting mouth of his apparition, restlessly pleading to be enveloped. “Oh young man on the bus, come to me… come for me. ”
She imagined his engorged tip playing at the entrance of her pussy, fluids dancing coyly and long strands of wetness clinging to him as if trying to pull him back in. She played with his fiction, until she felt he was real. Until the warmth in her clit spread up her body, and down her thighs. Her abdomen would get hot, and her pussy would clench at the empty promise of a lover, pulse, pulse, pulse. Then, silence.

This carried on until one day Steve wasn’t on the bus. Nor the following day. Gone. At first she wasn’t sure, then she panicked. Her nights became even more restless. For a week, she felt the loss, and became spiteful when another daily rider took his spot. Some 40 year old woman with straight blond hair in a business suit. She looked important, and carried an air of pretension around her. She wasn’t Steve.

Then one night she past into a deep empty slumber. Deep, forgetful sleep. And in the restful void, she noticed a pinprick of light… It was the sun.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/84iqv6/forget_me