Culture
Dreaming of You | A Narrative by PrettyLynne
In this poignant episode of 'Dreaming of You,' PrettyLynne explores the depths of grief and longing after the loss of a loved one. Through a heartfelt narrative, she intertwines memories of ...
Dreaming of You | A Narrative by PrettyLynne
Culture •
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Interactive Transcript
Speaker A
Good evening my lovely listeners, and welcome to the Bungalow. I'd like to give a trigger warning at the top of this episode. Tonight we are going to be talking about death and grief. These are topics that upset you, or if you are still in mourning for a loved one, please be aware that we'll be diving into it pretty heavily in both my introduction and in the story proper. Take care of yourself. When someone leaves you, someone you love, they take with them so much more than their touch and their scent and their toothbrush. They take with them all the time you spent together and all the secrets you gave them. They take the version of you you were with them. And sometimes that's good if they brought out the worst in you. But sometimes, when you meet someone who makes you feel whole and safe and loved, losing that hurts more than losing any tangible thing. Of course, there are breakups, and there is that way of losing someone that is more final than anything in this life, because it is the end of life when someone you love dies that wounds you so deeply that you carry it with you until your own death. Grief is heavy and it is not easily overcome. We, of course, mourn our friends and our family. When you lose a parent or other close relative, it removes part of the support structure of your life, your history. But when your partner or spouse dies, it's like waking up to find your house condemned. A lover, a life partner, is a foundation. When you lose that, how do you prevent yourself from just dropping down into the earth and letting it swallow you whole? Tonight I have the privilege of sharing an audio and script created by voice actor Pretty Limited. Lyn is a creator I greatly respect and admire because the work she performs is so heartfelt and mature. I know in the erotic space, mature can have a weird connotation. I mean it. In its actual definition, Lyn is a grown woman and she writes about sex and romance and loss from a place of experience. Experience of bliss and disappointment, of not just passion, but ambivalence. There is a richness to Lyn's work that echoes the highs and lows of real lived relationships. Real relationships can be messy. Not only one color of vibrant pink, but a medley of taupe, olive, indigo and silver. And apart from her literary merit, she has a voice that is well and truly her own. It can be tender, yearning, seductive, but above all, genuine. When she invited me to collaborate with her on this audio entitled Dreaming of youf, I was happy to do so. My part is very small, but it was nice to be able to participate in however small a way on a piece of writing I feel very strongly about. Death sucks. It sucks because it takes away the casual conversation about nothing that you didn't know you needed five years later. And then you pick up the phone to remind them about that stupid thing they said, and you can't call them because they don't have a phone anymore. They don't have a home or a bank account or a Facebook page. They're just gone. My grandfather taught me my multiplication tables. He taught me how to spell and how to play chess. He and my grandmother largely raised me during part of my life, and the older my kids get, the more I wish he could meet them. I wish they both could meet them. The real gut punch of grief doesn't come until years down the line. At least that's what I've found. When my father died. I thought I was sad then, and it's lying on the couch 20 years later, wondering what kind of man I am or should be, that I really miss my dad. Grief goes on. It becomes part of you, dormant at times but painful at others. But it is necessary. People that understand death, how final it is, understand empathy and how important it is to love those around them, here and now. And great beauty can come from that understanding, as well as great art. Stories are important to me, and despite this vast Internet that is littered with content, I consider true storytellers few and far between. Lynn is a good storyteller, and I invite you to listen to a story of hers that I like very much. Before we begin, some notes on the content. Some elements of this narrative may not be to your taste, so be aware that it contains the vivid descriptions of sex between married partners, cunnilingus face, sitting praise, and discussions of grief and mourning. And now the legal this audio was written, recorded and produced by Prettilyn. All characters portrayed in this story are 18 years old or older. The story is copyright Pretty Lynn. All rights reserved. This audio was made by an adult, for adults, and is a work of fiction. And now please enjoy Dreaming of you.
Speaker B
I wake up dreaming of your tongue in my pussy. You are licking me gently, deliberately, almost as though you are trying to keep me from waking in the fog of sleep. I murmur my pleasure and shift my hips for more. I feel your phantom hands holding my legs in place, your tongue filling me, and I move my head from side to side. Please, I whisper. Please, I want to come. You move your tongue to my clit and circle it, flicking it and then circling again, and I arch my back. Yes, yes, I say, as though you are with Me in my bed. You lap at my pussy with more pressure now, and I'm squirming and squirming and moaning until finally, finally I come. When I open my eyes, you're not next to me. And I remember again that you're gone and you're not coming back. It has been almost a year. Some days are easier than others. There are days when I just go along buying groceries and cleaning my shower. I see friends, I go to work. But there are still some days when it's hard to get out of bed and function. I stay under the covers, frozen in place. I try not to think of you. And then I do let myself think about you for a while. Imagine myself back in your arms and let the tears fall. It's the ordinary things I miss most of the time. I miss coming home to a house that had traces of you. Your papers on the table, your toothbrush at the sink, your jacket hanging on the hook at the front door. I miss the smell of you and rooms you just left. I miss having someone to talk to. We used to laugh about the tiny annoyances at work. I used to know that the weight of every decision didn't rest on my shoulders alone. Some days, even the smallest decision can stop me in my tracks. What kind of dirt do I buy to overseed the lawn? What wattage of light bulb do I need for the lamp your mother gave us? None of it is hard, but now it's just me. But the thing I miss the most keenly, the thing that makes me ache in my chest, is the memory of your touch each day. The feeling of your fingers taking mine at night before bed. The hand on my back when you walked behind me in the kitchen. The way you tucked my hair behind my ear when you were reassuring me. The easy hug when you got home. And the sex. Sex was as natural as talking for us. We worked out our arguments, told each other how we felt, expressed our stress and fear, all by fucking. Sometimes when we were feeling particularly tender, we called it making love. But it was still always fucking. And you were so good at fucking me. You knew what I wanted. You paid attention to the sounds I made, the way I moved my head, the curve of my lips, the soft sighs falling from my mouth when I was deep in feeling you touch me. You knew when to be a little rougher with me. And when I needed you to be sweet, you could be so, so sweet. You would whisper into my ear while tracing the line of my jaw or the curve of my hip.
Speaker A
God, your beautiful sunshine.
Speaker B
You would say, pausing to touch my cheek. You deserve to feel good, you'd say, kissing my neck.
Speaker A
Let me take care of you, you'd.
Speaker B
Say, slipping a finger between the lips of my vulva, finding my swollen clit and stroking it in long, slow strokes while I closed my eyes. And when I needed it to be a little rougher, when we were fucking, the anger and fear out of each other, you turned me over and fucked me from behind. Hard, harder, taking a fistful of my hair and pulling my head back.
Speaker A
Arch your back for me, you would say. Let me hear you moat for me.
Speaker B
You would say, hands on my hips as I writhed on top of you, using my body to jerk your cock. Faster and faster, you would say, holding my breasts as I moved on you, lifting your hips to meet me.
Speaker A
Fuck yes, you would say, as we.
Speaker B
Both came and And I collapsed onto you. You visit me again tonight in my dreams. This time you're lying behind me, holding me and pressing your hand between my thighs. I move my hips to grind against your hand.
Speaker A
Let me make you feel good, you.
Speaker B
Whisper, lips touching my ear as light as a feather. Part of me knows this is a dream, but it feels so real. And when you tell me to get on top of you, I feel the hair on your legs and your solid body under me. Your hands lift me up and you tell me to move up so you can put your mouth on me. I grab the rails of the headboard to support myself and lower my pussy onto your face. You squeeze the soft flesh of my ass to pull me harder into you and lick me. I feel your beard on my thighs.
Speaker A
Give me all of your sweetness, you.
Speaker B
Say, pressing your tongue into me. It feels so good, so real, so right. I want it to be real. I grip the headboard and roll my hips into you. You reach up and take hold of my breasts, pulling my nipples with your fingers. I undulate against your mouth and you lick and suck my pussy. I hear my moan as I get close to orgasm. I feel myself floating towards the surface, waking and fight to stay in the dream, crying out your name as I come. I grasp at the edges of the dream as you begin to fade away. No, I say. Please, I plead. But I bob up into consciousness and hear the dog snoring in the corner and the opening strains of Morning Bird song out my window. I pull the covers over my head. Since you started appearing in my dreams, the days have felt long. I tried to get into a routine so that I don't have to think or make decisions for a while, but Even so, the days drag on. I find myself wanting night to come in case you visit me, and dreading sleep in case you don't. I try to see people. It's hard, though. I've found it feels like I'm trying to talk to friends who are sitting in another room away from me, and they can't quite hear what I'm saying. I have a friend over for coffee. We are sitting in my back room, chatting about nothing in particular, when a cardinal lands outside my patio door. Oh, she says. Look. She points to the bird. He's looking in the window. This isn't the first time I've seen this cardinal at my door. Sometimes it lands on my car mirror, sometimes it perches on the railing, but lately it has been standing outside the patio door, waiting. Cardinals are messengers from the dead, you know, she says, and her words hit me with a jolt. I try to fix my face, but she has seen my reaction. She reaches over to touch my arm. Maybe he's making sure you're okay. Maybe. Maybe that's it. The cardinal stays for a while, watching us. That night I fall asleep quickly, but it's restless. I wake up at 2am Have a drink of water, and sit on the side of the bed. You're not going to appear tonight, I realize and feel that swell of tears begin in my chest. I take a few deep breaths, count to 10, and get back under the covers. I'm not aware of having fallen back to sleep when I feel your body on top of mine. I'm here, you say.
Speaker A
Put your arms around me.
Speaker B
You kiss me and hold my face in your hands like I remember you doing in soft moments between us. My body relaxes under your weight. Somehow I'm already wet and you are hard and you slide into me with a sigh. I miss you so much, I say and sob. You stop moving in me and hold me. I'm here, you say. I love you, you say. So I give in to the dream and let you fuck me like we did so many times late at night in the quiet of our dark room. After I've got my head on your chest, you're holding me and running the backs of your fingers along my cheek. I don't remember having an orgasm. Maybe we didn't this time. It doesn't matter.
Speaker A
I'm never going to be totally gone, you say. You're not alone, sunshine.
Speaker B
The rhythmic motion of your fingers brushing back and forth on my cheek soothes me. When I wake up, you're not in my bed. I pull the pillow to me and realize how much I miss your smell on the pillowcase. But I feel you here somehow. It's sunny outside this morning and I take my coffee mug out onto the deck. My dog lays at my feet. His nose twitches at the smells in the air. I close my eyes to the sun and take a breath. There's a little clattering sound on the railing in front of me and I open my eyes. It's the cardinal perched very close to me. I sit still, afraid to scare it away. My dog stays still, too, head raised. After a minute, the bird begins to chirp and warble. I sit and listen and drink my coffee. I remember so many times spent with you on this deck, drinking coffee and listening to the birds. The cardinal stays for a long while, long after I finished my cup, and I stay, too. I haven't had another visit from you in my dreams, but almost every day I look out a window and see the cardinal in one of my trees or sitting at the patio door looking in. And I still miss you, sometimes desperately. But I don't feel so alone.
Topics Covered
death and grief
mourning a loved one
loss of a partner
impact of grief
stories about loss
collaboration with Pretty Lynn
real relationships
importance of empathy
dreaming of you
memory of touch
cardinals as messengers
navigating grief
intimacy and connection
healing through storytelling
adult fiction