The dream had returned--so had the eyes. They hovered in an angry sky just above the horizon, seeing everything but focusing on nothing.

Amy knew those eyes—knew a time when they’d been filled with happiness and a love of life. But that had been before her brother came back from Vietnam.

Young, naked, and skinny, she stood alone and vulnerable on a hill surrounded by flames where everything kept changing.

A gray-haired man in a business suit waved at her while fading from view. She sensed more than knew it was her Grandpa Collins and waved back, wanting to get his attention, but he’d gone.

A thin, blonde young guy in track shorts came running up. They embraced and kissed. He ran his hands over her body, it wasn’t quite as skinny now, and she enjoyed his touch.

But when he tried to pull her down, she resisted and he melted away. That's when she noticed the old cat she'd loved for years dead at her feet.

Now she lay stretched out on the ground while a smiling, handsome man covered her nude body with kisses. Once again she responded. Every touch sent her reeling. She wanted to please this man and opened her heart, arms and long legs to him. But he wasn’t there. Confused, she sat up and looked around and saw him walking away, arm-in-arm, with another man, his new friend, the scrawny book nerd she despised.

That’s when she woke crying and still sick with whatever had forced her into bed two, or had it been three, days ago.

After a quick search she found her trashy paperback hiding among the tangled sheets. While looking for her last bookmark, she thought of her, Mark, and wondered if he had finished those late finals, and made it back home, and if so, had he called. She thought he would, but after what they had done a few days ago, she couldn’t be sure. Not after having to hurry home after her last final, sick and getting sic.... . The book once again slipped from her fingers and she slept.

The dream came back, but this time, something had changed.  The flames had vanished. Moonlight and a soft breeze caressed her skin. She had some clothes on and was wrapped in a man’s arms, kissing him and being kissed in return.

When he touched her body, it felt so good, so safe, so right. She didn’t want him to ever stop. But he did. Though disappointed, she sensed it wasn’t a rejection, but what he thought best, for both of them, and felt great.

Amy Marshall woke with sweat pouring off her body. The fever had broken. And while she didn’t feel great like in the dream, she did feel better. She’d come home with something, or some things, that came complete with chills, fever, nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. Now, whatever it was seemed to be over.

With an effort, she got out of bed and changed into dry pajamas. After a quick trip down the hall to the bathroom, she crawled back into bed among the damp, rumpled sheets.

There were two hardback books near the foot of the big, four-poster. She remembered her mother, the town's head librarian, had brought “Confessions of Nat Turner” and “Death of a President” from the library when she came by to check on her at lunchtime.

With a groan, Amy reached down and pulled the books up beside her. It wouldn’t do to kick new books off the bed. She wanted to read them, but not now. Their contents were too heavy for her wasted brain to read and the books themselves way too heavy for her wasted body to hold. Instead, she reached for her half-read paperback copy of “Valley of the Dolls.” Even that proved too much. The book soon became a shield for her tired eyes. The dream did return, but this time it ended better, much better.

She found herself back at the beer bust being thrown by friends to help get her out of the extended crying jag she’d been on since the break-up. But there was more to her depression and tears than the end of a campus romance. That had just been the final straw, sort of the grand finale, to her semester from hell.

It began when her older brother, the all-state basketball player and frat president had come back from Vietnam, at least his body had. But something inside had changed in ways that frightened and confused her.

A few weeks later, the old cat who always slept with her back home had been run over and killed. At school, every course had been a horror. If it hadn’t been for Anthony, a handsome, cultivated architecture student from New Orleans, things would have been even worse.

They met at a party in September and dated all year. Over Christmas, he’d become her first lover and they had then been ‘penned’, by campus tradition, the last step before becoming engaged.

Then just before finals, this man she loved, her first and only lover who seemed destined to become even more, left her for that creepy little book nerd who’d been hanging around them for months. That night, the crying and the dreams, began.

Though well-intended, the party hadn’t worked. She had tried, chatted with friends, smiled at everyone, drank too much beer, but her mood only got worse. Wanting to be alone and not spoil the party for everyone else, she drifted off into the surrounding wooded darkness until she discovered a sanctuary.

That’s where Mark found her a few minutes later, sitting behind a big log, ignoring the party behind her, sniffling and trying not to cry.

Wordlessly, he sat beside her. When a light, cool evening breeze sprang up she shivered. He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. That did it. She let out a sob, a mixture of despair and release, then laid her head on his chest and cried until she ran out of tears.

When her breath began to even out, she noticed the front of his old dress shirt was soaked. Fascinated, she slid a fingertip across the damp cloth.

In hours of phone confessionals, she’d shared everything with him. They always had. Now he’d come to be with her, to comfort her. And in return she’d drenched his shirt with her tears and probably smeared it with mascara.

She lifted her head and looked up at him. In the dim light from the distant bonfire, she could make out his dark wavy hair and familiar, comforting smile. It made her feel better.

He’d always been there, close and caring, whenever she needed a friend, needed a shoulder to cry on, just like tonight. Because he loves me. And I love him, always have, but this love she now felt, this feeling was different.

A new emotion, a revelation, swept over her, complete with a warm, tingly sensation that had nothing to do with friendship. She no longer just needed her best friend—she wanted him, as a man, and wanted him now. Slipping both hands behind his neck, she pulled his face to hers and began kissing her best friend.

Later, much later, their lips parted, and they looked at one another. Mark seemed a bit surprised, even puzzled, but it was his turn to act. She silently prayed he wouldn’t be sensible or cautious or, even worse, make a joke. Damn it, Mark, just kiss me. Please. Then he leaned forward until their lips met and he began kissing his own best friend.

At some point it crossed her mind that Mark was a very good kisser. In a strange sort of way, she felt proud that her best friend was so gifted. And she loved being on the receiving end of his gift.

The next time their lips parted, she could tell Mark was about to say something. It would be about how they should stop. She was sure of that and sure he was right, probably. They’d have to do that, soon. But not now, not just yet. Before he could speak, she snuggled closer and pulled him back onto her waiting mouth.

After that, the kisses became more intense, the touches more intimate. Mark’s hand slipped under her faded, blue work shirt and she shivered with pleasure. The smooth, sensuous pressure seemed to ease the anguish in both her body and soul.

When his fingers claimed one of her hard, sensitive nipples, it felt so good, so incredibly perfect. Somehow, her shirt became unbuttoned and lips replaced his fingers. She moaned with pleasure and arched her body to meet his touch.

She felt loved and wanted and safe. This was Mark who cared for her, who was always there when she needed a friend, who she could count on to do what was best. Would that include their making love?

On some vague level, she felt his fingers sliding down to her jeans. Then he started fumbling with the zipper.

They were going to do it! She and Mark were going to make love.

When the zipper began to yield, she gave up thinking. It wasn’t until she felt his body sag, that she realized Mark’s fingers, lips, tongue were motionless. With an unsettling mix of emotions, she understood he’d decided their making love, at least not here and now, wasn’t what was best.

He was right, of course, but she didn’t care. She wanted more of his touch.

When he began to remove his hand, she stopped him. Mark’s lips released her nipple and he looked up into her face.  Even in the flickering glow from the distant bonfire, she could make out his uncertain look.

Unsure how to put her jumbled emotions into words, she hesitated, then blurted out the truth. “Don’t stop. I mean, you don’t have to. I mean, I don’t want you to, to stop. Oh, damn it, Mark, please, I need you, and your touch."

Nothing happened, not at first. Though her eyes were closed and her face turned from his, she could sense Mark staring at her. Finally, reluctantly, she turned back and looked into the eyes of the man who’d always been her friend, and who she now wanted, needed, to be much more.

Then Mark nodded, gently pressed his lips against hers and slipped his fingers inside her panties. When they made contact with her silky, red pubic hairs, she gasped, broke the kiss, and nuzzled her lips against his neck, surrendering to his touch.

His big hand soon covered her entire pussy and gently squeezed. It felt so damn good. Moments later, a fingertip softly stroked her damp, sensitive labia, then nudged the lips apart and slipped inside.

Somehow he knew she needed loving touches, not teasing. Another finger soon followed the first, and her entire body shuddered with pleasure.

Each new experience, the touch of his thumb on her clit, the feel of a third finger joining the others and then slowly pumping inside the hot, slick walls of her vagina, pushed her closer to the climax she desperately craved. The sudden, unexpected pressure on her never before touched anus finally pushed her over the edge.

Body shuddering, twisting, jerking in passion, she let out a loud groan and pressed her mouth against Mark’s shoulder to muffle any louder sounds.

She sensed, more than felt, a warm fluid flooding over Mark’s hand, letting him slip even deeper inside her convulsing body, triggering a series of small, sensuous aftershocks that left her limp and blissfully content.

Dazed but feeling serene, she kissed Mark’s cheek, and whispered, “Wow. Just, wow.”

Then she noticed the silence coming from the party area and peered over there. “Where is everybody?"

"I sorta suggested they grab an extra beer or two and vamoose. Told them I’d get you back."

Amy looked back at him and smiled. “Wish I’d known. Then I could have screamed instead of biting a plug out of your shoulder."

“Sweat it not. The pain is only excruciating. It’ll remind me of tonight for weeks to come, even longer if it leaves a scar. By the way, you think we need to disentangle?"

The fingers buried deep inside her still pulsing pussy flexed, and Amy sighed with pleasure. “In a moment, I suppose. But not yet. It just feels so good, so perfect.

Then she recalled that she’d had all the pleasure to herself. “Hey, but what about you? I mean, it’s not right to, you know, leave you hanging."

“No problem. I’m a college guy who seems to have missed the sexual revolution. Besides, blue balls are so becoming."

“Stop joking. I’m serious.” To emphasize the point, she placed her hand on Mark’s crotch, and discovered a large bulge pushing against the fabric.

“Easy there, little lady. That sucker is primed and ready to blow."

She ignored his warning and quickly shifted onto her knees. It forced them to disentangle, which she regretted, but couldn’t be helped.

Using both hands, she went to work on his zipper. What she pulled into view left her speechless. It seemed, not just bigger than the three others she’d known, but somehow demanding it be used as mother nature had intended. It jerked impatiently in her hand, making it obvious what it desired and stoking Amy’s own desire.

The big flared head, glistening with pre-cum, seemed to be calling her. Once again ignoring Mark’s now feeble warning, she leaned over and carefully slipped it between her lips. She'd seen this organ before, back when skinny-dipping. But the one now filling her mouth looked nothing like that.

Not wanting to tempt fate, she soon leaned back and looked at her lifelong best friend and knew, with no hesitation, what should, would, in fact, must happen next. “Mark, I don’t know if tonight will be a never repeated one-of-a-kind moment. But in case it is, I don’t want to leave thing’s half-finished. Moments after standing, her jeans and soaked panties were sliding down her long legs. Stepping out of them and slipping off her sandals, she placed a bare foot on each side of Mark and sank down onto her knees, straddling his hips.

“This should be a joint project,” said Mark, grasping the thick shaft and lifting the head toward its target.

They wordlessly positioned the swollen head at the opening to her eager vagina, then looked into each other’s eyes.

“Let’s do it,” said Mark, and Amy’s hips rocketed down and slammed against his body.

Afterward, both agreed her furious plunge, along with Mark's upward thrust, had triggered what must be a record for the quickest simultaneous orgasms in the history of sex. At the end of that violent downstroke, both had exploded into orgasms so powerful, so excruciatingly intense, so in-fucking-credible, neither could recall all the details.

Sometime later, as their senses began to recover, Amy found herself stretched out on top of Mark, savoring the feel of him gradually softening inside her. Neither spoke. The only sound came from their beating hearts.

The steady beat of her mother’s approaching footsteps woke Amy. She whipped the book off her face and stuffed it under her pillow. Moments later, her mother’s face appeared around the door.

Amanda Nicole “Amy” Marshall was that rarest of creatures, a gorgeous young woman not absorbed by her own stunning beauty. She thought of herself as skinny with, at most, no better than average, small-town good looks. She thought wrong. Even messy red hair, bloodshot eyes, and pasty skin couldn't overwhelm her classic beauty.

At the sight of her second-born child awake, a tentative smile’ replaced her mother’s worried expression. “Hi, honey. Hope I didn’t wake you. How are you feeling?"

“I’m a lot better, Mom. The fever broke sometime after lunch. I’ve managed to sleep a little since then."

For just a moment, her mother seemed to sag against the doorsill. “Oh, honey, I’m so glad."

She pushed the door open, stepped into the room, and gestured towards the two books near the head of the bed. “I hope you like them. They’re supposed to be very good. Although I don’t think I can handle anything more about the Kennedy assassination. It gets me so depressed.

After a quick, instinctive tug on the sheets, she said, “Why don’t you take it easy and catnap, if you can? I'll bring you a tray for supper."

Amy agreed and thanked her mother again for the books. “You’re welcome, honey. And I hope you enjoy them. But don’t start reading right now. You need to rest."

After kissing her daughter’s cheek, Mrs. Marshall moved to the door, then paused. “Oh, almost forgot. Mark’s been calling, well, so has just about everyone else, asking about you. Anyway, he got home late last night and asked about coming over today. I told him you were too sick for company and said to call in the morning and we’d see how you were feeling. Sorry, but I’ve got to scoot. Bye for now, honey,” she said, closing the door.

At the sound of it latching shut, Amy sighed, stuck a hand under the pillow and pulled out her trashy paperback, the one she thought it best not to read in front of her librarian mother.

Then her still muzzy brain processed her mother’s parting words. Mark had been calling. He wanted to come over.

She smiled and opened the book. If she could get back to sleep, maybe she’d get a re-run of that last dream or, even better, one that included what happen later that night in the backseat of Mark’s car.

But if not, that was okay. She didn’t need dreams. The real Mark, 'her' Mark, would be with her in the morning.