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The scenes that I had witnessed with Helen, Steve and Brian on our balcony must have impinged themselves into my unconscious. I can state that with some confidence because my dreams that night were filled with them. One particular image, or sequence, that seemed to have burned itself into my soul involved Helen's slow masturbation. The vision of her pulling her hood back, exposing her lustrous, erect, clitoris to her admirers, and unwittingly to me, before allowing it to partially retreat again, repeatedly looped through my sleeping mind, filling me with lust. I dreamed that it wasn't Steve and Brian, but rather me, that she took in her mouth; that her lips were sliding up and down as she sucked and teased the head of my penis; that it was her expert tonguing that was bringing me to the brink of orgasm.

As I felt myself coming slowly towards the brink I partially wakened, and the realisation that I was not dreaming slowly impressed itself on my consciousness. I was lying on my back in our bed, and Helen was on her knees working on me with hands and mouth. It was obviously morning as daylight was lightening the room through the incompletely shut curtains, and as I slowly surfaced I reached out to touch her blond hair. At my touch she raised her head and moved up the bed to reach my lips with hers. She kissed me long and slow, her tongue intertwining with mine, before pulling away and then climbing onto me; not spanning my hips so that I could penetrate her, but so that she was straddling my upper chest facing me. She leaned back, supporting herself on her left arm, whilst her right hand went to her pubic area and her first ...

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