Wanda’s Wet Dream Journal by Aussiescribbler

Photo by kalozzolak

When I saw a diary laying in the lounge room with the title Wanda’s Wet Dream Diary written in flowerly letters on the cover I knew I had to read it. I also knew that it was very wrong of me to do so. I weighed up the potential suffering involved in reading or not reading it. If I didn’t read it, I would be tormented by the knowledge that it existed and most likely obsessed with speculation about what it might contain. If I did read it I would feel guilty and not be able to look my flatmate Wanda in the face.

I hate the thought of opportunities lost, and if I had to stare down Wanda’s impressive cleavage instead of looking her in the eye as a result of taking advantage of that opportunity, it was a sacrifice I was prepared to make.

Wanda is a psychologist. She’s 28, six years my junior, and makes up in the boobs and butt department what she lacks in height. She’s a redhead with the face of a pixie and the body of a burlesque dancer. We had been sharing a flat for three months. I’d been jacking off to dreams of her every night. But she seemed to look at me as a lower life-form because I’m unemployed and like to watch wrestling all day long. She, on the other hand, could have been living in her own house by now except that she insisted on working at a struggling youth centre instead of in private practise.

I picked up her journal and began to read :

July 17 2011

Last night I had a very perverse dream. I was walking down Main Street and I had pants on. It was everyone else who didn’t. Everyone was bottomless – women jogging in the park in just t-shirts, business men with brief cases but no trousers or underpants, policemen patrolling the streets with their guns hanging parallel to their flaccid cocks… I was wearing a Guess t-shirt and straight leg denim jeans.

I hopped on a bus and bought a ticked from the bare-assed bus driver. The seats were unusually wide, so I was able to sit between two guys wearing suit jackets, black socks and dress shoes, but nothing else. In front of us sat a couple of middle aged women with perms. They looked after the hair on their heads, but I had noticed as I walked past that their pubes were rather unkept.

“Nice cocks, guys!” I said, grabbing one in either hand and giving them a friendly squeeze. “I’m Wanda the wanker.”

“Wow!” cried one of the businessmen. “I’ve never met such an inhibitionist! Actually going out in public with pants on!”

“Mmmmmmm,” I sighed, “aren’t I naughty! I just love the feel of clothing rubbing against my cunt.”

“I bet you love this,” said the other businessman reaching over and pulling the zip of my tight jeans up and down.

“Oh, God, yes!” I squealed. “Some people complain about rudeness on public transport, but I always find that commuters are so friendly when you’re tugging their tallywhackers.”

By now both of the guys were really stiff and oodles of pre-cum was soaking the top of my hands.

“What do you think you’re doing?!?” cried one of the middle-aged women looking around. And the other turned to see what she was responding to. “Take you’re pants off this minute, and leave those poor gentlemen alone!”

Just at that moment the men cried out in unison and I aimed their big throbbing cocks so that spurt after spurt of hot creamy cum splattered all over the women’s shocked faces.

“That was a cheap trick!” the second one exclaimed. “We’re going to report you to the Dream Police!”

July 20 2011

Last night I dreamt that I was Jane Austen. I appeared to be in some alternative universe writer’s colony with writers from various historical periods.

I was wearing a lovely frilly BBC period drama kind of dress which I had pulled up so that I could finger my juicy unclad pussy. Meanwhile I was writing with a quill pen : “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man with a nutsack full of jism, wants to get his knob gobbled…”

After I’d finished the sentence I looked around the room.

There was Percy Shelley exposing himself and declaring : “My name is Ozymandias, kings of kings : Look on my cock, ye Mighty, and despair!” And, sure enough, his erection was fully two feet in length and wearing a mini-Sombrero.

His wife – Mary Shelley – smiled proudly. “It sure is a monster!” she exclaimed.

“Merde, but I am a prophetic writer of science fantasy tales,” put in Jules Verne, stroking his beard. “The world will fall at my feet when they read my latest masterpiece. I have entitled it A Journey to the Centre of Uranus.”

“To pee, or not to pee, that is the question,” mused William Shakespeare, normally a conservative individual in the bedroom, when all three Bronte sisters invited him to a golden shower orgy.

July 22 2011

When I dream about being someone other than who I am, I don’t expect them to be a fully fleshed out character. After all dreams are fairly short. But in this one I was literally two-dimensional. I was a Playboy centrefold. I was laying on a bed and in the photo I was also laying back on a four poster bed feeling very skinny, partly because I was a Playboy model, and partly because I was less than a fifth of a millimetre deep. Hmmm, come to think of it, that’s pretty normal for Playboy models too. But I was actually a photo of a Playboy model. I was also feeling a bit fuzzy, like I’d had too much to drink. Perhaps that was due to the airbrushing. I was naked and I had my legs spread.

There was a guy looking at me and masturbating. He was kind of fat and sweaty. I couldn’t respond in any way. I just stared out of the photo at him as he stroked his stiff cock with one hand and rubbed one of his chubby hairy nipples with the other.

“Oh, baby!” he sighed. “You want it, don’t you? You really want it. I can tell.”

“I already got it,” I thought to myself. “A cool $20,000 as Playmate of the Year.”

“I’m licking my lips, baby,” he groaned. “But I’d rather be licking yours.”

Eventually he moaned and shot his spunk into a Kleenex.

Footsteps were coming down the hall and he quickly disposed of his tissue full of genetic material in the nearby waste paper basket.

“What are you up to, honey?” came the voice of his wife as she entered the bedroom. She was an attractive woman in her forties with blonde frizzy hair, an aquiline nose, droopy breasts and a little cellulite on her chunky thighs, which were revealed by the see-through yellow baby doll nightie she wore over pink cotton panties.

The man made an attempt to flip the page and make it look like he was reading an article, but he was too nervous and his fingers closed on air.

Suddenly I found I could move within the picture. I stood up off of the bed and pointed out of the picture at Mr. Monkey Spanker.

“He was wanking off over me!” I told her. “That’s what he was doing. You’ll find a spunk soaked tissue in the bin over there.”

“Is Miss December telling the truth?” asked the man’s wife.

“There’s something wrong with this magazine!” cried the man. “It’s malfunctioning.”

“How can a magazine malfunction?” she wanted to know.

“The girls aren’t supposed to talk back,” he insisted.

“Typical male attitude,” was his wife’s opinion.

“Interactivity,” I explained. “The magazines have to compete with the internet now.”

“So how does it work?” asked wifey. “You talk dirty to him and shake your tushie while he jacks off?”

“I could if I wanted to,” I said. “I could even come right off the page and slide my juicy wet cunt all over his fat cock.”

“She’s a saucy bitch!” she declared.

“I only get it for the articles,” he insisted.

“But I don’t think he deserves to have nicely naughty things done to his wiener,” I told her.

“See, I told you it was malfunctioning,” he replied. “I think it must have spent too much time next to Ms. on the newsstand.”

“But you, on the other hand, do deserve a lewd lesbian liaison… If you are into that kind of thing,” I informed her, stepping out of the page and growing to full human size.

“Wow!” cried the bedroom’s resident boner-botherer.

Then I put my thumb in my mouth and blew myself back to my normal shapely proportions.

“A bit fat,” he said.

“Fuck you, pencil dick!” I cried, rolling him off the bed and climbing in to embrace his cute and cuddly spouse.

“I’ve never done it with a woman before,” she confessed, “but my pussy is so wet just thinking about it.”

“I better get your panties off and confirm that,” I suggested.

“I’m ringing Hugh Heffner!” cried her husband. “He’s going to be so pissed when he hears about this!”

July 25 2011

I never expected to have an erotic dream about my loser of a flatmate, Charles, but the subconscious is a strange territory. Well, actually, I have to admit that he is kind of hot. He’s got a great body. But he’s so stupid and uncouth that I sometimes wonder if he has a frontal lobe at all.

In the dream it was me who initiated the sex. I walked into his bedroom stark naked. He was asleep. I bent over the bed and rubbed my titties all in his face until he woke up. Then I pulled off his bedclothes to reveal his super stiff erection.

“I’m feeling peckish,” I told him as I rubbed my pussy up and down his leg, leaving a wet trail. “There is nothing in the fridge, but a mouthful of your hot salty cum would go down a treat. Do you want to help me fill my grumbly little belly?”

“I may have no frontal lobe,” he replied, “but I’m not brain dead. Suck me dry, my sweet little slut!”

Come to think of it, I might actually turn this dream into a reality some time. It would be so easy to turn Charles into my own personal sex slave. I bet he wanks off thinking about me every night. One day I’ll walk into his bedroom and catch him at it.

Wow! I wasn’t expecting that!

So that evening when I found myself with a stiff cock on my hands, I decided to make use of what I had found out from Wanda’s diary. I got out of bed. I was wearing pyjamas. My hard prick was poking out of the fly and I followed its lead toward Wanda’s bedroom.

I didn’t bother to knock. I just walked in. Wanda was sitting at her computer with her back to me. She was naked.

“Hey Wanda,” I said, “I’ve got a present for you.”

She spun her chair around. When she saw my cock her eyes opened wide and a big grin spread across her face.

“The only way you could get a stiffy that hard is if you were thinking about sliding it into my sweet pink little cunt,” she theorised. “I bet you’ve been a sticky beak and read the ridiculously nice things I said about you in my dream journal.”

“I did take a peak,” I admitted.

“You shouldn’t invade another person’s privacy,” she informed me. “Journals are very private things. Looking at my diary is like looking at my pussy. Some things are not to be shared. Oh, I see that you are looking at my pussy. Well, come to think of it, I’m a generous girl who likes to share. Come and invade my privates with that beautiful prick of yours.”

Soon we were on the bed and I was balls deep in her slippery wetness…

And that is when I woke up to find myself in my own bed with hot jism pumping over my belly…

Wanda couldn’t believe what she was reading. Did Charles really mean to publish this story (about himself having a wet dream inspired by reading her dream journal and then fucking her) on the internet? This was a nightmare.

And indeed it was. She woke to find her face pressed against the latest issue of Psychology Today on her bedroom desk…

And what of you, dear reader, you think you are in front of your computer (or mobile device) reading the latest Aussiescribbler story at Funny Smut and Thoughtful Thoughts, but perhaps this too is but a dream and you will wake to find yourself in a bed made entirely of blancmange in the elephant enclosure of the London Zoo and wearing nothing but a vintage World War II gas mask…

The End


About aussiescribbler

I'm a 55 year old movie fanatic and writer of humorous erotica.
This entry was posted in erotica, humour and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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