The tip of his middle finger found a mound́, a probing finger inserted itself into a damp orifice and an unbelievable truth began to dawn. Where was Natasha? He turned to his right, anticipating her exquisite face – but found his own! The shock sent his pulse racing. A tight band encircled his body. Sharp pains arrowed through his chest as he fought for breath. A heart attack? Surely not – not at thirty-one. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. Steady now, he told himself, this is a dream. You have had them before. Remember the recurring dream where you watch yourself playing rugby; running at the opposition; shrugging off tackles from some of the best players in the game to score a fantastic try. Is this dream any different? The deep breathing was having an effect. The pain receded, his heart slowed and the suffocating tightness in his chest relaxed. Perhaps, this was a dream he could influence? He forced himself to take a longer look at his own face, noting with some satisfaction that in sleep he looked calm and relaxed, although his large bushy moustache did engender a sinister, almost evil appearance. Natasha liked the moustache, but he was never sold on the idea. It would have to come off. In the meantime, he would take this dream to the limit. He pushed Natasha’s finger deep into her vagina and used her thumb to search for the clitoris. Once located it responded instantly, returning pressure to his thumb. It felt wonderfully sensitive, arguably better than stroking the end of his penis first thing in the morning. So, if this was a dream he could influence, could he take it wherever he chose? He pressed finger and thumb together and moved them in unison. The action provided intense pleasure. Could he achieve the feeling of a female orgasm, or would that be asking too much? He kept the action going as he moved his free hand over a smooth belly to find the left breast. He caressed the nipple, which tingled and hardened. Then he moved the hand across to cup the right breast. That too was firm, the nipple erect. He would know those pert little beauties anywhere; they were, without doubt, Natasha’s breasts. So what if it wasn’t a dream? What if Natasha’s wish had somehow or other been granted? What was it she said, as he rolled off her the previous evening?