A Midsummer Night's Wet Dream

A Midsummer Night's Wet Dream

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Lilly is staying with her cousin Astrid in Sweden for midsummer night. Reluctantly, she participates in the traditional midsommar ritual of collecting flowers and jumping fences in the middle of the night. Wandering by herself, Lilly begins to feel the night's magical energy and soon wonders if she is really all by herself in the woods...

Summary

Lilly is staying with her cousin Astrid in Sweden for midsummer night. Reluctantly, she participates in the traditional midsommar ritual of collecting flowers and jumping fences in the middle of the night. Wandering by herself, Lilly begins to feel the night's magical energy and soon wonders if she is really all by herself in the woods...

Content

Submitted: January 15, 2019

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: January 15, 2019

A A A

A A A


A Midsummer Night's Wet Dream

I’m silently cursing my cousin again as the skies burst open with a thundering crack. Heavy rain begins to pour down and within seconds I’m completely soaked in my floral summer dress. One more time I try to yank my foot free, but it’s stuck at the ankle between two slats of the wooden fence and won’t budge. By now, my ankle has swollen to obscene proportions.

I can scream for help, but I have no idea how far the village is. With the deafening rush of the downpour and the music in the festival tent, no one there would hear me. Besides, following the tradition of this midsummer night’s ritual, I’m supposed to not say a word the entire time. What a stupid Swedish custom!

 

* * *

 

I came to visit my cousin, whom I hadn’t seen since she moved to the Swedish countryside after her wedding. The occasion of midsummer and the traditional festivities surrounding it prompted Astrid to invite me. Wanting to see her and catch a glimpse of her married life, I welcomed the chance.

But when she mentioned more customs, my reflex was to say no.

“Come on, Lilly, it will be fun,” she said.

“Will you come along?” I asked.

“What? No! Everyone has to go by themselves. Also, it’s for unwed girls only. For midsommar, the maidens of the village collect seven flowers from seven different fields during the midsummer night. And they have to jump over seven different fences. Then they place the flowers under their pillow, and if they haven’t said a word the entire time, they’ll dream of their future husbands.”

I burst out laughing.

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“All the single girls in the village do it!” Astrid said.

I remained skeptical.

“Here,” she said and handed me a small glass bottle with a cork stopper.

“Collect the midsummer night’s dew for me, will you?”

“Now what’s that for,” I asked, holding up the bottle, “some sort of love potion?”

“Well, if you use it for baking, the bread and pastry will rise especially well and become delicious and irresistible.”

I shook my head at this superstition but pocketed the glass bottle, knowing how much Astrid enjoyed baking.

The midsommar festivities were a whirl. A huge tent had been erected on the village square where everyone gathered. A couple of musicians didn’t grow tired of fiddling local folk music, and neither did the circle of dancers wear themselves out all day. The food in celebration of summer consisted of small, firm potatoes served with herring and freshly cut chives, and now and then a villager would hand me a glass of clear spirit, say a Swedish toast, and we’d down the shots—to keep the bad spirits away, they explained. The men laughed while I contorted my face as the liquid burned down my throat like firewater.

There was also a liqueur of elderberry flowers and a blueberry concoction that went down smoothly but was indeed potent, Astrid assured me. By the time the dessert of fresh berries with whipped cream was served, I felt quite tipsy.

The villagers brought out lampions and lanterns and the lights strung between the houses and trees twinkled and gleamed like stars of every color.

“Maybe this is all the drinks talking,” I said to Astrid, resting my head on her shoulder, “but it does feel like a magical night after all.”

She placed her hand on the small of my back.

“See, I knew you’d like midsommar.”

“Everyone is really friendly here,” I said, “but also very blonde!”

We looked around. All the villagers seemed to have strawberry blonde hair and starry blue or green eyes. The women’s hair flowed in wavy amber curls, bounced in ponytails or was bound elaborately on top of their heads. The men ranged from stubbly crew cuts to full hair that reminded me of straw and manes of billowing wheat. I really stood out with my dark brown eyes, pale complexion and raven hair.

“Oh, I’ve seen quite a few men cast furtive glances or outright stare at you lustfully,” Astrid said slyly. “You’re quite a mysterious sight to them.”

“This forest is a mystery,” I replied and pointed at the trees ahead where fireflies were dancing in and out of the tall grass and bushes. During midsummer night, supposedly elves and fairies came out to make merry in the forest, and trolls were lurking behind boulders. Staring into the forest, I could feel the energy and power these myths and fables held.

“Speaking of men,” Astrid continued, “it’s time. All the girls have already left. To gather flowers and dream about their future husbands.”

I looked at her in disbelief.

“You want me to go now?”

“Remember, seven flowers, seven fences, don’t speak, and don’t forget to collect dew for me! And one more thing, don’t tell anyone your dream, otherwise it won’t come true!”

She kissed me on both cheeks and gently pushed me towards the edge of the village.

I stumbled on reluctantly. There was a meadow up ahead, and I could see what this idea with the fences was all about. Nearly all the villagers were farmers of some sort, and every field or pasture was surrounded by a wooden fence of felled trees. I hoped I would be done with the stupid ritual in no time due to this. But at the same time, something in me was awakened and the possibility of dreaming of my future husband filled me with excitement. I hopped the fence and plucked the first flower I saw. I uncorked Astrid’s little bottle and swept drops from petals and leaves into it.

There was the fence to the neighboring property. It was quite high, so I clambered up, swung one leg over and straddled the wooden beam atop. Over time, wind and weather had worn it smooth, and the wood still retained some of the summer day’s heat. In the moonlight, it had a silver sheen to it.

My dress rode up my legs and I steadied myself by pinching the fence with my lanky flanks. The hard wood pressed against my crotch felt good, and I slid forward and backward a few times, enjoying the rubbing friction my panties against the wood created.

I leapt off the fence—this had to count as jumping. Strolling through the high grass, raising my feet high, the dew soaked the hem of my summer dress. I noticed that from sitting on the fence, I was getting all wet elsewhere. I was thinking of all these young blonde girls out and about in the grass and in the forest. Their collective sexual energy must be sparkling so much you could surely light up the woods with it.

Who was putting these thoughts into my head? I spun around. It felt as if a fairy of mischief was sitting on my shoulder, whispering into my ear. Shaking off the notion, I quickly collected more dew, then plucked another flower. Off to the next fence.

Working this way, I quickly acquired five flowers and had jumped five fences, but there was no adjoining property and no neighboring field. I had to enter the woods to search for another meadow, more flowers and fences on the other side.

Between the trees, the air was cooler and I was aware of how hot and bothered I had become. Under my dress, my panties were sticking to my pussy.

I paused, leaned against a huge boulder and looked up at the nearly full moon shining bright and silver through the trees. With a sharp intake of breath, I slid my hand down my front and over my dress, firmly squeezing my breasts and toying with my hard nipples. Something was different about this night, there was a mystical charge in the air that prickled on my skin like electricity. I had a strong urge to spread my legs and rub myself against the nearest tree, I was that wild.

My hand moved further down and I hooked my thumbs into my panties to quickly slide them down my legs. As I stepped out of them, I could already feel the chilly night air dry and cool the hot, sticky mess between my legs and tickling my pubic hair. My hand cupped my pussy and I gasped as I stuck my finger in, then encircled my clitoris with my own wetness.

Just a couple of minutes of pleasure alone in the moonlight, then I could move on with more focus. Or so I thought.

A sharp crack from behind the boulder brought all my senses to attention. The hair in my neck stood up and I froze.

A troll, was my first instinctive reaction, then I felt my cheeks redden with shame, both at having had such a ludicrous thought as well as at the possibility of a voyeur watching me.

Was that a twig snapping? A branch brushing against a body? Without further hesitation and without stooping to pick my panties off the ground, I took off and tore through the underbrush, running blindly through the forest.

I had lost my sense of direction, and as I ran, it grew darker and the sliver of moonlight through the trees disappeared. I half imagined seeing streaks of blonde hair to the left and right out of the corner of my eye, but elves, fairies or just Swedish maidens be damned, I didn’t stop until I finally found a path.

It opened up and coming out of the woods, I spotted another farm in the distance. I turned around and peered into the darkness between the trees, listening hard for a pursuer. All I heard was the crickets chirping in the grass. I looked up and saw the sky had darkened with thick clouds blocking out the moon and the stars.

I made for the nearest field. Let’s get this over with, I thought and had a vision of being in my warm, comfortable bed in the small shepherd’s cottage my cousin had prepared for me. There I would continue what had been interrupted so abruptly before.

I collected my sixth flower and mounted another tall wooden fence. But this time, when I climbed down on the other side, my right sandal got stuck between two wooden slats. As I reached to free it, I was startled by loud thunder in the sky above me. I lost my balance and fell backwards off the fence, with my foot still stuck. I turned in midair and landed hard on my elbows. But my foot was still up there, so not only did I twist my ankle, one of the wooden slats came loose and trapped my foot in that awkward position. I winced in pain, biting my lips.

Minutes later, the heavens opened up as if to drown me.

 

* * *

 

And that’s how I find myself soaking wet on a midsummer night in Sweden stuck to a fence. Cousin be cursed with your tradition, rituals and superstition!

Is that another crack on the other side of the fence? I stare into the darkness and the heavy rain.

Suddenly a giant troll looms beyond the fence. From where I lie on the ground, he seems to tower above me into the clouds. My eyes widen in horror and I clasp my hand over my open mouth. I’m so terrified, I can’t even scream.

The giant steps closer and I see he’s wearing a white short-sleeved shirt which is completely wet and transparent to reveal a huge upper body underneath with muscles so defined they appear to be chiseled into stone. Blonde hair soaked dark hangs into his forehead, and he shakes his head to throw it sideways, sending more droplets flying in the rain.

I gasp as he quickly surveys the situation. He lifts the wooden slat with one strong arm and gently twists my ankle free with a giant hand. I collapse on my side of the fence, and he vaults over it with a single quick jump.

“Ssh,” he says as he lands beside me and picks me up in his arms. Still undecided if this troll is here to devour or rescue me, I can’t help but surrender to his strength and muscled mass, clasping my arms around his neck. My cold tits under my dress squashed against his enormous chest, my nipples raw in the rain, I try to hug the warmth radiating off his torso and relax. He gently brushes my wet jet-black hair aside.

“Don’t speak.”

I feel stupid still clasping my collection of flowers, crushed by my clutch and crumpled in the rain.

“How many have you got?” he asks.

He counts to six, then marches off with me as I briefly close my eyes. The pain in my ankle pulses, but being rocked and thrown against his body as he strides through the field feels comforting, even in the rain. He stops in the middle of a meadow and stoops down low, so I can pick the last flower, a beautiful bright red chrysanthemum. The last fence we jump together while I’m cradled in his arms. I never want to leave this hold again.

The giant knows the way back to my cottage and throws open the door, lifting me over the threshold. Right away he makes me place the collection of flowers under my pillow, then he slowly puts me into a chair and props up my right foot. He inspects my ankle, which is swollen to twice its size.

He quickly builds a fire in the small fireplace to warm up the cottage, then dashes back outside only to be back with blossoms and herbs in an instant. Is this gentle giant an elf or a troll?

“Arnica,” he says as he bandages my ankle with the plants and some oil that cool the swelling right away.

I’m still dripping wet and start to shiver despite the fire.

“Poor thing,” he says and fetches a large towel. He quickly pulls my soaked dress over my head and wraps my now naked body in the towel before I can make any sound of protest. He rubs me through the fabric to dry me off and generate warmth.

“Better?”

I nod. Then I point at his own shirt, which clings tightly to his body. He takes it off and tosses it aside. He gets down on his knees to bring his face level with mine, staring into my eyes. Streams run down from his wet hair, crossing his tan chest and stomach glowing bronze in the fire’s light. I place a hand on his body and rub at the water.

I unwrap my towel and dab his chest and upper arms with it, then I throw it over his head to dry his hair. When I stop, he peeks out and quickly glances downward. My breasts stand out all pink and rubbed raw. My nipples are so hard that they hurt.

He looks at me and I take his face stubbled with a blonde beard into both my hands, locking eyes with his steely blue stare. Giant, troll, I want to kiss him, so I plant my lips on his. It’s like kissing a rock that immediately melts into hot magma under my touch. His mouth opens to release steaming breath and I thrust my tongue in, seeking out his and pressing hard. His embrace nearly lifts me out of the chair.

I come up for air, slightly leaning back my head and arching my back to push my breasts toward him. I cup his neck with one hand, pushing his head down, and guide one breast into his mouth with the other hand. His lips cup my nipple and his tongue flicks over its tip. I sigh as the pain in my ankle is forgotten and the heat from the fire washes over my body.

I settle back in the chair and ruffle his blonde mane beginning to dry as he alternates between my breasts with his kisses. He encloses them with his hot mouth and begins sucking like a giant man-baby.

With my eyes closed and still committed to not breaking the vow of silence the Swedish midsommar ritual demands, I nonetheless give voice to my arousal and rising pleasure with accelerated breaths and panting. A low moaning is starting up in the back of my throat.

He teases my nipples hard as diamonds with his teeth and the gentlest of bites. His hair and beard brush against my chest, then I feel his hot breath on my belly as he moves his head further down. Fully kneeling in front of me now, a man the size of a small boulder composed of muscled hunks of flesh, he pauses between my legs, his exhalations tickling my closely cropped pubic hair. With my fingers still running through his long strands of hair, I pull and thrust his face into my crotch.

A log in the fire pops loudly and I can hear him inhale sharply, sucking up the scent of my pussy. Images of my excitement in the forest, the memory of my hand between my legs and the picture of a naughty fairy whispering into my ear overcome me again. My pussy must reek of all that pent-up desire!

“Aah,” he breathes, “just like the panties you dropped in the woods!”

I open my eyes wide and before I can think, I slap his cheek with my hand. The sound rings out dryly in the narrow confines of the cottage. So he was the troll behind the boulder after all!

He looks up at me, the imprint of my fingers visible in bright red on his cheek. Whether it’s the scent of my pussy or the slap, in effect his blue eyes burn wildly with mad desire. He opens his mouth, and I use my other hand to slap his left cheek so hard his head turns sideways.

As he brings his face around again, I open up wide with my one leg still propped up to receive him, and he moves in eagerly. His lips kiss mine down there and my pussy just opens up to welcome his tongue darting out and licking maniacally. My gaze drifts up to the ceiling and my vision blurs as I give myself over to the rhythm of his tongue. He’s flicking, licking, pushing, thrusting, twirling and caressing my pussy and clit so ceaselessly that my moaning grows into yelps, then screams of pleasure.

He cups my ass with both his hands, squeezing my firm cheeks while working with his thumbs to open my pussy up more. The onslaught of his lapping is relentless, and I squirm with near unbearable excitement on the cusp of absolute lust. He has pinned me down firmly and expertly. I sling my unhurt leg around his neck and squeeze him with my thigh, raking my foot up and down his back to urge him on. Everything culminates in a howl that terrifies me to the bone until I realize it’s my explosive orgasm, rocking the chair hard with my shaking.

I pass out for the briefest of moments only to come to in his arms. He has scooped me up like a bundle, one arm slung around my hip. I slobber him with kisses, licking my own taste of his mouth and lips, holding onto his strong neck and shoulder. His free hand is between my legs, fingering my quivering pussy as he carries me over to the bed. He’s flicking so rapidly and applying pressure on my sweet spot that the few steps from the chair to the bed are enough to bring me to climax again.

I bite his ear and hiss through gritted teeth. It’s so good I can hardly stand it, my own juices running down my legs. I’m thoroughly wet and convulse in orgasmic spasms as he lays me down on the bed. I instinctively spread my legs and want to tell this giant troll of the midsummer night to take me, but no words come out as he lays the full weight of his body on top of me like a blanket of lava. The heat of our lust is trapped between us, enveloping me and taking hold of my senses. I’m floating on a cloud of dizziness and feel so high that I can hardly breathe.

He grounds me and brings me back down as he enters me. I’m so wet his cock slides in easily and appears endless as I experience the moment in slow motion. I’m reminded of how earlier in the night, I craved sexual release so much I wanted to rub myself against a tree. Now his wood of incredible length is entering me and doesn’t seem to stop, and just when I think I can’t take it anymore, when my pussy is all filled up with his giant cock and all the air is forced out of my lungs, he looks into my eyes as if to check if I’m okay. I just nod, wanting him to go on, don’t stop, I want this fuck so badly.

I move my hands down his back to his butt and squeeze hard as he starts thrusting into me. I bring my legs up and wrap them tight around his body to experience the sensation of being fully and truly one, a beast of lasciviousness that can only be born during this magical night.

He drives into me, and though it seems impossible, deeper and deeper each time until I can feel the pulse of his throbbing cock in every fiber of my body. I’m burning with a feverish desire, a raging lewdness I’ve never experienced in my life. A troll? No, he must be a Norse god stepped down from the heavens to pound me and split me in two with his hammer, deliver the ancient, timeless message that lust conquers all!

The rain is beating onto the roof as he is pushing in ever deeper and harder, and my stomach muscles are cramping from orgasm after orgasm. I dig the nails of my fingers so firmly into his back I’m drawing blood, which makes him rear his head, toss his golden mane and scream. Seven flowers, seven fences, seven orgasms, I’ve lost count and let my body melt into frenetic ecstasy as he finally comes, long and pulsing and deep inside of me.

I breathe hotly against his neck and into his ear as he is gasping for air himself. Exhausted, we fall into a deep sleep.

Yet throughout the night, I have the sensation of tossing and turning every which way as the most intense dreams play out in my ravished mind. The troll is there with me in the cottage, and I flash from scene to scene, each a display of increasing obscenity, depravity and defilement, yet full of bliss so sweet and longing so sensual and pure it cannot be anything other than the true cosmic energy and magic of midsommar.

I’m on all fours on the bed as his tongue is back between my legs, licking upwards from my clit and the very tip of my pussy all the way to between my cheeks, his tongue encircling my asshole. Then he’s ramming into me from behind, and I’m pushing harder and harder against him while he grabs my hips, my chest pressed flat against the mattress and my endless cries muffled under a pillow until he pulls my head up by my black hair, squeezes my breasts and continues taking me like a dog.

I’m being fucked as he’s standing up, my arms slung around his neck and my tits bouncing as he slides my whole body up and down this long shaft of his, still hard as granite.

He’s on his back in front of the fire while I ride him with my back to the fireplace, the flames so close I can feel the blazing heat licking at my body like the devil’s tongue. He grabs a fresh twig with the leaves still on it from the stack of firewood, whipping my ass left and right that I squeal with the delight of pain and pleasure until the welts stand out red on my flesh, glowing in the light of the fire.

At one point I’m back in the chair, my legs behind my neck. My pussy is dripping wet and the juice trickles down, pooling between my butt cheeks where he’s lubricating my asshole with my own wetness. That thing cannot fit in there, I think as he stands, repeatedly hitting my pussy and ass with his cock. But next thing I know, I’m clawing at my own breasts and nipples with fervor, slapping my pussy to deal with the excitement and tension of my asshole stretched around his cock in a tight ring, his balls drumming out an unyielding beat against my butt.

When we’re back on the bed, I try to take him into my mouth, enveloping his cock with my tongue first before closing my lips around it. I suck him in deep until his tip tickles the back of my throat and stars begin to dance in front of my eyes. I cup and suck his balls with my mouth, his jewels solid as rock so that it feels as if I’m gargling pebbles. We’re wetting the sheets with spit and saliva, adding to the stains of our sweat and juices.

Hard as it is, his chest makes for the most comfortable pillow. The unabating summer rain on the roof and the firm and rumbling beat of his heart deep in his chest lull me into another slumber, my hand still gripping his cock.

Sunlight streaming in through the window wakes me up, tickling my nose. Gone is the curtain of water outside the windows, the drumming on the roof—and gone is the gentle giant. What a night, what a wet dream!

I check under my pillow and find the seven flowers dried, flattened and crumpled. The fire has died to ashes. Where is the man who freed me from the fence, then took me home… and then just took me?

Memories of the night surface in my mind and I slip my hand under the covers, touching my pussy. I feel sore all over. As I close my eyes again, I remember everything vividly and my face burns red-hot. Was it all just a dream? I throw back the bed sheets and notice the bandage around my ankle. I touch it carefully and it’s much better already, no longer swollen.

I clear my head with a long shower, the water burning where it touches the bruises on my butt. All of these signs seem very tangible, but everything else that happened under the cover of night appears too unreal to be true in broad daylight.

I walk over to my cousin’s house, careful so as not to put too much weight on my right foot.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” she greets me.

I look at the clock. It’s nearly noon.

“Morning,” I reply and sit down at her kitchen table.

“I hurt my ankle getting this for you,” I say and hand her the small glass bottle filled with the collected dew.

“Oh no, poor Lilly,” she hugs me.

She serves me a breakfast of Swedish blueberry pancakes, all the while watching me with a sparkle in her eyes until I crack.

“Alright, yes, I did the whole thing, the midsommar ritual, fences, flowers, everything. Didn’t speak a word. Now just leave me alone with your magic, fairies, and most of all, trolls!”

She nods emphatically and pours the bottle of dew into a bowl of batter.

“What are you baking?”

“Brioche,” she replies.

I help her spoon the dough into paper cups arranged on a baking tray. Just before she slides them into the oven, she hands me a jar of whole almonds.

“Here, put these on top.”

Not knowing what else to do, I sink one almond into the center of each pastry, turned straight up with the pointy tip sticking out. We watch the dough rise in the oven. The basking heat makes my face glow and I’m reminded of last night.

“You’re all flustered,” Astrid says.

“Just the baking heat,” I brush her comment aside. “Are they done yet?”

As she takes the tray out of the oven, Astrid laughs out and her eyes open wide in surprise.

“Great job with the almonds, cousin,” she says, “the brioche all look like breasts.”

I peer over her shoulder at the tray. She’s right. With a bit of naughty imagination, each brioche resembles a round breast with a very erect nipple.

“Huh,” I say, “look at that. A fairy must have possessed me to do it that way.”

I place the tray on the window sill to cool. Just as I’m about to turn, I see a giant hand reach up from below and snatch one of the pastries.

I quickly thrust my head out the open window. There he is, last night’s troll in the flesh, peeling off the paper and about to sink in his teeth. He pauses as he hears me holler, and now it really looks as if he were to bit a nipple—just like he did mine.

I put my hands on my hips in mock exasperation.

“You know,” I say, “this is the second time you’ve tracked me by scent. You could just come inside and have the real deal,” and I quickly pull down the top of my dress to flash him my tits. He looks from me to the pastry in his hand and back to me again.

Within seconds, there is a knock at the door.

“Look what the smell of your baking attracted,” I say to Astrid, “the dew seems to have worked its magic.”

“I’m Gunnar,” he says as he steps in.

There, at my cousin’s kitchen table and in daylight, he’s a troll no more but a tall, handsome blonde Swede whose blue piercing eyes follow me everywhere in the room as I prepare a cup of tea for him and me.

“Gunnar helped me last night when my foot was stuck in the fence.”

“Lilly was out collecting flowers,” Astrid offers, as if the whole village didn’t know I had taken part in the midsummer night’s ritual.

Gunnar just nods with a sheepish grin spreading across his face. I have the sudden urge to slap him again as renewed desire stirs deep within me, eating me up.

“Don’t tell your dream to anyone, Lilly,” Astrid repeats, “otherwise it won’t come true.”

Gunnar and I exchange a long, meaningful look. I step forward and begin stroking his blonde mane, leaning my body against his shoulder and his side.

“Oh, my dream, I think it already did,” I say, “it already did.”

 

About The Author

Dominée LePen was born in 1977 in Paris, France and currently lives in the United States, France and Spain. She writes contemporary romance fiction for adults with a passion. She only smokes after good food, good sex, and a good book.

 

Copyright Notice

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Flirts Du Mal Livres

Copyright © 2019 by Dominée LePen

 

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this story or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

 

This story is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and events are products of the author's imagination. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, places or events is coincidental and not intended. Where references to historical events, real people, or real places occur, they are used fictitiously.

 

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