My friend's dream
I have a woman friend that lives in Germany. We met online at a different website. We started hot chatting and she really started to get turned on. I was giving her gifs and links to BBC videos. Over time, we've stayed in touch via email. Recently she sent me a story she wrote. The title of her email was "My dream". I asked her if it was OK for me to post it here and she said I could. So here's the text of what she sent me. I used a website to translate from German to English, so I hope everything translated properly. I removed the names she used, but she told me the names she used in her story weren't real. And the incident isn't real either, but she says she fantasizes about something like this happening to her. Please comment and let me know if you like it, and what you like and don't like, if anything. I told her I would let her know if anyone posts any replies or reactions here. Thanks for reading!
C was 45 years old and led a life that, from the outside, seemed picture-perfect – a stable home in a quiet suburb of Hanover, a reliable husband named T, 48 years old and an engineer in the automotive industry. They were now empty nesters and had transformed their marriage into a comfortable routine, filled with daily walks and evenings spent watching television. T was the kind of man who filed his taxes on time and never forgot to bring flowers on their anniversary. But the passion? It had faded, reduced to occasional, mechanical sex, during which C often stared at the ceiling, wondering if this was all there was. With her soft curves, the full breasts that strained against her bra, the brown curls that cascaded over her shoulders, and the green eyes that still held a hint of allure, she longed for more. For something raw, untamed, something that would make their bodies tremble with desire again. That's why she had suggested this trip to Berlin – a weekend away to rekindle the flame, far from the monotony of everyday life.
It was a sunny June day in 2025 when they arrived in Berlin by train. They checked into a simple hotel near Alexanderplatz, a room with a wide bed and a window through which the hum of the city filtered in. C showered first, letting the steaming water cascade over her naked skin, lathering her breasts, feeling her nipples harden under the spray. She dried herself off, chose a light summer dress – blue with white flowers, which skimmed her hips and revealed the tops of her thighs when she bent over. Underneath, she wore white panties that hugged her labia tightly and a bra that lifted her C-cups. T eyed her appreciatively when she came out of the bathroom. "You look damn sexy," he said with a grin, and she laughed, pressing herself against him briefly, feeling his slight arousal through his trousers. "Maybe later," she whispered teasingly. At breakfast – fresh rolls, coffee, yogurt – they planned their day: a walk through the city, a bit of sightseeing, and in the afternoon, the football match, FC Bayern against Hertha BSC. T was thrilled, a real fan, and C went along to please him, even though she hardly knew the rules.
They strolled through Berlin, their fingers intertwined. At Alexanderplatz, they posed for selfies in front of the imposing TV Tower, laughing at a street musician who was belting out an old song. They ate currywurst at a stand, the sauce dripping down C's chin, and T wiped it away, his fingers lingering a moment too long on her lips. The city was buzzing with life – tourists with backpacks, locals on bicycles, the smell of grilled meat and exhaust fumes. C felt a tingling sense of freedom, as if the anonymity of the metropolis had released her from her chains. "Imagine all the things that could happen here," she said to T, her eyes sparkling. He pulled her closer. "As long as it's with you, it doesn't matter."
In the afternoon, they headed to the subway. The game was starting soon, and they had a considerable distance to cover – line U55 from Alexanderplatz. The platform was chaotic: football fans in garish jerseys, waving flags, beer cans in their hands, the air thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol. C felt a sense of unease rising within her; the crowd was pressing in, bodies jostling against each other. "This is going to be really crowded," she murmured, and T nodded, putting a protective arm around her. As the train rolled in – an old, yellow carriage that squeaked like a rusty gate – the crowd surged forward. They were squeezed inside, ending up in the middle of the carriage, surrounded by sweaty, boisterous bodies. There wasn't a millimeter of free space; C clung to a pole, T right beside her, his hip pressed against hers. "Hang in there, sweetheart," he whispered. "Just a few stops."
The train carriage was an inferno of sensory overload: the pungent smell of body odor mingled with the sweetish scent of beer and cigarette smoke clinging to people's clothes. Chants echoed through the space – “Bayern, Bayern!” – interrupted by raucous laughter and curses. C pressed her bag against her stomach, feeling strangers' bodies against her back and sides. A burly fan in front of her swayed, his back brushing against her breasts with every turn of the train. She hated this cramped space; it stirred up old fears from her younger years, when she had lived in a small apartment with her siblings, never having any privacy. T tried to reassure her: “Think about the game. Imagine how we'll celebrate afterward.” She nodded, her smile forced.
Suddenly, a violent jolt. The train braked with a screech, coming to a standstill. The lights flickered frantically—once, twice—then went out completely. Pitch-black darkness enveloped the carriage like a shroud. A collective murmur went through the crowd: "Shit, what's that?" "Power outage!" "In the tunnel, damn it!" Panic began to rise, voices grew louder, someone laughed nervously. C blindly grabbed T's arm, her nails digging into his sleeve. "T? Are you there?" Her voice trembled. He squeezed her hand. "Yes, I'm here. Probably just a short blackout. The Berlin subway is used to this kind of thing." But the darkness was absolute, suffocating, as if they were trapped in a coffin. The confined space became a trap; each breath pressed them closer to the strangers around them. C's heart pounded, sweat beaded on her forehead.
Then came the first contact. Something brushed against her skirt from behind—subtle, yet deliberate. At first, she attributed it to the crowded conditions, an accidental bump. But no: a rough hand slid beneath the hem, stroking the smooth skin of her thighs, higher, to the point where her legs met. C froze, an icy shiver running through her body. She wanted to turn, to scream, but the crowd held her fast. The hand became more insistent, fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties, pushing the thin fabric aside, exposing her most intimate place—her labia, already slightly damp with the day's sweat. Panic exploded in her chest. "T..." she whispered, but the murmur of the crowd swallowed the sound. Something cold and sharp pressed against her left side—a knife blade, piercing the fabric of her dress, a warning that grazed her skin. "Not a word," a deep, old voice growled behind her, rough and menacing. "Or I'll slit you open."
T felt her tension. “Darling? Is everything okay? You’re so stiff.” His hand was still on her shoulder, oblivious. The knife dug deeper, a sharp pain that made her flinch. C lied, her voice a whisper: “Yes… the darkness. I hate it.” T hugged her reassuringly. “It’ll be over soon. Breathe deeply.” The hand behind her took advantage of the distraction: fingers spread her labia apart, rubbing roughly against her clitoris, which involuntarily swelled. C gasped inwardly, biting her tongue. Then she felt it—something thick and hard pressing against her opening. His penis, throbbing with arousal, the glans already wet with anticipation. It was enormous, much bigger than T’s—thick as her wrist, veiny and hard as steel.
He pressed forward, slowly, deliberately, as if he wanted to savor every second. The head of his penis parted her labia, stretching them open, and slid into her wet heat. C's body betrayed her immediately; despite the sheer terror, she became wetter, her inner walls instinctively clenching around him as if welcoming him. He pushed deeper, centimeter by centimeter, filling her, a tormenting pressure that throbbed from within and made her tremble. Every vein on his shaft rubbed against her sensitive walls, sending shockwaves of unwelcome pleasure through her lower abdomen. He was so thick that it hurt—a burning sensation, as if she were being stretched to the point of tearing—but at the same time, it ignited a fire within her that she hated. Deeper, ever deeper, until she felt his stomach against her buttocks, hairy and sweaty. He paused for a moment, completely buried inside her, then moved in a circular motion, stretching her tight vagina further until she felt like she was going to burst.
Then the rhythm began: slow, cautious thrusts, subtle enough to go unnoticed in the confined space. Back and forth, each thrust a deep penetration, grazing her G-spot and triggering waves of ecstasy that she had to suppress. Her juices flowed freely, lubricating his thick shaft, making the gliding easier, louder in her head—a squelching sound that only she could hear. T continued chatting: “Do you remember Hamburg? It was similar there, only shorter.” C forced out words, her voice hoarse with effort: “Yes… hopefully this will end soon.” Each thrust drove her closer to the edge; her nipples rubbed hard against her bra, her clitoris throbbed, begging for touch. The knife remained at her side, a cold reminder that paralyzed her. Five minutes—an eternity of deep, slow thrusts, during which he filled her, stretched her, dominated her. Her muscles twitched around him, milking him involuntarily, and she fought against the building orgasm that threatened to betray her.
Suddenly, the lights flickered on. The train lurched into motion. Cheers erupted. C instinctively pressed back—and felt his penis thrust even deeper, the glans pressing against her cervix. At that same moment, he exploded inside her: Hot semen pulsed deep into her vagina, filling her, overflowing, and dripping down her thighs. He pulled back, disappearing into the crowd. C stood there, trembling, her legs weak, her labia swollen and sticky.
The man was Heinrich Voss, 75, a limping pensioner from Neukölln with a walking stick. An old mechanic, a widower, whose virility remained undiminished. His penis – 23 centimeters long, thick and potent – had driven him to this act. He sat down at the back and watched her.
The train continued on its way. C pressed her legs together; the semen was seeping out. "I need to pee," she lied to T. At the next stop, she hurried to McDonald's, locked herself in a cubicle, wiped away the sticky mess, tears streaming down her face.
The door burst open. Heinrich, his eyes wild. His cane struck her head, sending her crashing against the tiles. Blood flowed. He turned her over, ripped off her panties, and spat on her buttocks. His hard penis brutally penetrated her tight anus—a tearing pain, as if she were being ripped apart. He fucked her mercilessly, thrusting like an animal, his belly slapping against her cheeks. Deep, hard, until he exploded inside her anus, ejaculating deep within her. Then he disappeared.
C collapsed, broken but alive in her hidden shame.
C was 45 years old and led a life that, from the outside, seemed picture-perfect – a stable home in a quiet suburb of Hanover, a reliable husband named T, 48 years old and an engineer in the automotive industry. They were now empty nesters and had transformed their marriage into a comfortable routine, filled with daily walks and evenings spent watching television. T was the kind of man who filed his taxes on time and never forgot to bring flowers on their anniversary. But the passion? It had faded, reduced to occasional, mechanical sex, during which C often stared at the ceiling, wondering if this was all there was. With her soft curves, the full breasts that strained against her bra, the brown curls that cascaded over her shoulders, and the green eyes that still held a hint of allure, she longed for more. For something raw, untamed, something that would make their bodies tremble with desire again. That's why she had suggested this trip to Berlin – a weekend away to rekindle the flame, far from the monotony of everyday life.
It was a sunny June day in 2025 when they arrived in Berlin by train. They checked into a simple hotel near Alexanderplatz, a room with a wide bed and a window through which the hum of the city filtered in. C showered first, letting the steaming water cascade over her naked skin, lathering her breasts, feeling her nipples harden under the spray. She dried herself off, chose a light summer dress – blue with white flowers, which skimmed her hips and revealed the tops of her thighs when she bent over. Underneath, she wore white panties that hugged her labia tightly and a bra that lifted her C-cups. T eyed her appreciatively when she came out of the bathroom. "You look damn sexy," he said with a grin, and she laughed, pressing herself against him briefly, feeling his slight arousal through his trousers. "Maybe later," she whispered teasingly. At breakfast – fresh rolls, coffee, yogurt – they planned their day: a walk through the city, a bit of sightseeing, and in the afternoon, the football match, FC Bayern against Hertha BSC. T was thrilled, a real fan, and C went along to please him, even though she hardly knew the rules.
They strolled through Berlin, their fingers intertwined. At Alexanderplatz, they posed for selfies in front of the imposing TV Tower, laughing at a street musician who was belting out an old song. They ate currywurst at a stand, the sauce dripping down C's chin, and T wiped it away, his fingers lingering a moment too long on her lips. The city was buzzing with life – tourists with backpacks, locals on bicycles, the smell of grilled meat and exhaust fumes. C felt a tingling sense of freedom, as if the anonymity of the metropolis had released her from her chains. "Imagine all the things that could happen here," she said to T, her eyes sparkling. He pulled her closer. "As long as it's with you, it doesn't matter."
In the afternoon, they headed to the subway. The game was starting soon, and they had a considerable distance to cover – line U55 from Alexanderplatz. The platform was chaotic: football fans in garish jerseys, waving flags, beer cans in their hands, the air thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol. C felt a sense of unease rising within her; the crowd was pressing in, bodies jostling against each other. "This is going to be really crowded," she murmured, and T nodded, putting a protective arm around her. As the train rolled in – an old, yellow carriage that squeaked like a rusty gate – the crowd surged forward. They were squeezed inside, ending up in the middle of the carriage, surrounded by sweaty, boisterous bodies. There wasn't a millimeter of free space; C clung to a pole, T right beside her, his hip pressed against hers. "Hang in there, sweetheart," he whispered. "Just a few stops."
The train carriage was an inferno of sensory overload: the pungent smell of body odor mingled with the sweetish scent of beer and cigarette smoke clinging to people's clothes. Chants echoed through the space – “Bayern, Bayern!” – interrupted by raucous laughter and curses. C pressed her bag against her stomach, feeling strangers' bodies against her back and sides. A burly fan in front of her swayed, his back brushing against her breasts with every turn of the train. She hated this cramped space; it stirred up old fears from her younger years, when she had lived in a small apartment with her siblings, never having any privacy. T tried to reassure her: “Think about the game. Imagine how we'll celebrate afterward.” She nodded, her smile forced.
Suddenly, a violent jolt. The train braked with a screech, coming to a standstill. The lights flickered frantically—once, twice—then went out completely. Pitch-black darkness enveloped the carriage like a shroud. A collective murmur went through the crowd: "Shit, what's that?" "Power outage!" "In the tunnel, damn it!" Panic began to rise, voices grew louder, someone laughed nervously. C blindly grabbed T's arm, her nails digging into his sleeve. "T? Are you there?" Her voice trembled. He squeezed her hand. "Yes, I'm here. Probably just a short blackout. The Berlin subway is used to this kind of thing." But the darkness was absolute, suffocating, as if they were trapped in a coffin. The confined space became a trap; each breath pressed them closer to the strangers around them. C's heart pounded, sweat beaded on her forehead.
Then came the first contact. Something brushed against her skirt from behind—subtle, yet deliberate. At first, she attributed it to the crowded conditions, an accidental bump. But no: a rough hand slid beneath the hem, stroking the smooth skin of her thighs, higher, to the point where her legs met. C froze, an icy shiver running through her body. She wanted to turn, to scream, but the crowd held her fast. The hand became more insistent, fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties, pushing the thin fabric aside, exposing her most intimate place—her labia, already slightly damp with the day's sweat. Panic exploded in her chest. "T..." she whispered, but the murmur of the crowd swallowed the sound. Something cold and sharp pressed against her left side—a knife blade, piercing the fabric of her dress, a warning that grazed her skin. "Not a word," a deep, old voice growled behind her, rough and menacing. "Or I'll slit you open."
T felt her tension. “Darling? Is everything okay? You’re so stiff.” His hand was still on her shoulder, oblivious. The knife dug deeper, a sharp pain that made her flinch. C lied, her voice a whisper: “Yes… the darkness. I hate it.” T hugged her reassuringly. “It’ll be over soon. Breathe deeply.” The hand behind her took advantage of the distraction: fingers spread her labia apart, rubbing roughly against her clitoris, which involuntarily swelled. C gasped inwardly, biting her tongue. Then she felt it—something thick and hard pressing against her opening. His penis, throbbing with arousal, the glans already wet with anticipation. It was enormous, much bigger than T’s—thick as her wrist, veiny and hard as steel.
He pressed forward, slowly, deliberately, as if he wanted to savor every second. The head of his penis parted her labia, stretching them open, and slid into her wet heat. C's body betrayed her immediately; despite the sheer terror, she became wetter, her inner walls instinctively clenching around him as if welcoming him. He pushed deeper, centimeter by centimeter, filling her, a tormenting pressure that throbbed from within and made her tremble. Every vein on his shaft rubbed against her sensitive walls, sending shockwaves of unwelcome pleasure through her lower abdomen. He was so thick that it hurt—a burning sensation, as if she were being stretched to the point of tearing—but at the same time, it ignited a fire within her that she hated. Deeper, ever deeper, until she felt his stomach against her buttocks, hairy and sweaty. He paused for a moment, completely buried inside her, then moved in a circular motion, stretching her tight vagina further until she felt like she was going to burst.
Then the rhythm began: slow, cautious thrusts, subtle enough to go unnoticed in the confined space. Back and forth, each thrust a deep penetration, grazing her G-spot and triggering waves of ecstasy that she had to suppress. Her juices flowed freely, lubricating his thick shaft, making the gliding easier, louder in her head—a squelching sound that only she could hear. T continued chatting: “Do you remember Hamburg? It was similar there, only shorter.” C forced out words, her voice hoarse with effort: “Yes… hopefully this will end soon.” Each thrust drove her closer to the edge; her nipples rubbed hard against her bra, her clitoris throbbed, begging for touch. The knife remained at her side, a cold reminder that paralyzed her. Five minutes—an eternity of deep, slow thrusts, during which he filled her, stretched her, dominated her. Her muscles twitched around him, milking him involuntarily, and she fought against the building orgasm that threatened to betray her.
Suddenly, the lights flickered on. The train lurched into motion. Cheers erupted. C instinctively pressed back—and felt his penis thrust even deeper, the glans pressing against her cervix. At that same moment, he exploded inside her: Hot semen pulsed deep into her vagina, filling her, overflowing, and dripping down her thighs. He pulled back, disappearing into the crowd. C stood there, trembling, her legs weak, her labia swollen and sticky.
The man was Heinrich Voss, 75, a limping pensioner from Neukölln with a walking stick. An old mechanic, a widower, whose virility remained undiminished. His penis – 23 centimeters long, thick and potent – had driven him to this act. He sat down at the back and watched her.
The train continued on its way. C pressed her legs together; the semen was seeping out. "I need to pee," she lied to T. At the next stop, she hurried to McDonald's, locked herself in a cubicle, wiped away the sticky mess, tears streaming down her face.
The door burst open. Heinrich, his eyes wild. His cane struck her head, sending her crashing against the tiles. Blood flowed. He turned her over, ripped off her panties, and spat on her buttocks. His hard penis brutally penetrated her tight anus—a tearing pain, as if she were being ripped apart. He fucked her mercilessly, thrusting like an animal, his belly slapping against her cheeks. Deep, hard, until he exploded inside her anus, ejaculating deep within her. Then he disappeared.
C collapsed, broken but alive in her hidden shame.
2ヶ月前
