I dreamed of you last night.
I dreamed of you and the babies.
And of how I stood by their crib every night for a month,
not believing they were alive,
on their own and moving.

I stood by their crib every night for a month
and waited
because I was sure that they would stop.
I was certain they could not last.

Not mine.
Not ours.
Not of you and me.

How could we be so right?

I Dreamed Of You Last Night: A Nightmare

The disturbance I feel at being unable to move my arms is, it turns out, nothing when placed next to the feeling which takes over my system as I begin to realise why my arms — and, indeed, the majority of my torso — are so immobile. The darkness is enveloping and all-consuming; I can neither see nor hear a thing beyond my own ragged breathing. Aware that I am panting like a dog, I attempt to slow and calm my respiration, pushing out of my head the wild assumptions that I have dragged with me from sleep. I don't try to move my arms for a moment, content to simply lie here, ignoring the weight upon my thighs in the vain hope that by the time I've relaxed a little the strange paralysis will have been revealed as panic-induced foolishness.

And yet I cannot move my arms; more specifically, my hands. The weight on my thighs is still here, as I lay in the cold, analytical light of my own clear thinking. I cannot help but feel that there is someone sitting on my legs, and the thought makes me close my eyes once more, as though I can wish the world out of existence so long as I can't catch sight of it. My shoulders and my elbows move, I notice. Even as that thought comes to me I picture Helen sitting astride me, her knees crushing my hands so that I am at her mercy, my feet taken care of by the silk scarf she often rubs between her legs at the start of our lovemaking. Even as these thoughts burst upon me I realise that the covers are not on my bed, that the intruder who straddles me is not even separated from me by... but, no - this is not possible. How would such a person enter the flat; how could such a person be sitting astride me and yet feel so... so cold. Yes; cold and silent, like a statue or a shop dummy.

"Alright," I shout, annoyed at the tremor in my voice even more than I was at my mates. "Bloody hilarious. Ha ha! I should never have given you the sodding keys."

I pause, waiting for the jester to show himself, aware even as I waited on some primeval level that he wasn't here, that this wasn't a dummy, that this wasn't some cruel trick. What I wasn't prepared for, of course, was for the thing to move.

My hands! They are free! I lunge for the lamp, my heart beating wildly, scrabbling at the table by the side of the bed. I hear the clock crash to the floor, followed by the book and then that was all, for there is no lamp. My lamp has gone.

I lie and breathe for a while. Slowly, strongly, always aware that this thing, whatever it is, is listening. Then, tentatively, slowly, I reach out my hands in the darkness. There is nothing there, and I reach further and further. Then I touch it - immobile and cold, yet soft and intermittently patched with short, subtle hair. Naked. I trace my hands over the surface, hardly daring to hope that I might find a breast, that this creature astride me may yet be some unearthly nymphomaniac. And yet, the curve seems too slight, although - yes - there is a nipple, surrounded by more hair. The truth takes some time to filter through, and yet I cannot quite believe it. I start to slide my hands further down, hardly daring to believe what I suspect to be true.

The hair is becoming coarse against my fingers, and I feel the first curlings of pubic hair. My hand is trembling; I dare not move it down further for fear of what I know I will find. I let out a cry of rage and lunge upward to grab the pervert's throat, but strong arms grip mine and force them back to my sides where they are pinned once more.

"Bastard!" I yell, thrashing and squirming beneath him. He allows me to rage until I've tired myself out, and I lie beneath him, defenceless and vulnerable.

"I'll get you," I promise him in soft tones. "I can't get you now, but the minute you get off I'm going to beat your head against the wall. I'll probably kill you."

I intend to say more, but at the very moment I open my lips to rage further I feel his lips press suddenly against mine, and an ice-cold tongue presses into my mouth with such chilling suddenness that I gasp in surprise. I am silenced by the action and lie there stunned for a moment before turning my head to one side and spitting loudly. There is silence once more as I struggle a little more to get my hands free. Once more he allows me to rage against him. Eventually I lie quiet, more or less broken.

I lie there for five minutes or so; it seems like eternity but I don't believe it could have been longer than five minutes. I could still see nothing and hear much the same, and eventually I must have drifted into a kind of half-sleep. I finally came to my senses when the same ice-cold lips begin sucking at my nipples. I moan despite myself, involuntarily my body clearly showed that it cared not one jot who was stimulating it. I do, however:

"Please," I whisper. "Leave me..."

But he doesn't, of course. His teeth grate gently against my other nipple, which tingles excitedly at his ministrations.

"No, " I say, but knowing even as I say it that I don't truly mean it, that somewhere deep inside there is a part of me saying yes, interspersed with gasps of pleasure, and I remembered that conversation with Helen—

"A mouth is just a mouth, surely?" she'd said, laughing at my face. "Your cock wouldn't know it was another man's tongue, would it?'

She'd giggled and licked at my cock, saying "What if this was Will's tongue?" - lick - "Slathering your cock" - lick - "from" - lick - "root to" - lick - "tip?"

I'd laughed with her then, as she sucked me right into her mouth. I wasn't laughing now.

His tongue moves gently over my chest; the chill feeling like nothing I've ever experienced before. It is now that I shamefully realis that my cock has twitched its way to a hard-on. It feels, in truth, like it was about to burst. I cannot see it, but I am sure that it must be oozing excited trails of precum, betraying me in that way a man's penis will. The thought brings me back to my senses once more, and I finally wrench a hand free and thump the creature across the side of the head. There is a heavy grunt before my hand is grabbed and replaced beneath the creature's knee.

"Bastard," I reiterate loudly. No reply. Then I say it again, shout it, even, as I feel the creature's hands stroke my balls.

"Bastard!", as its hands gently stroke my shaft and draw back my foreskin. "Bastard!" as I feel him smear my oozing juices down my shaft and onto my balls. "Bastard!" I say again dreamily as he gently wanks me, slowly and carefully, feather-light fingers barely touching my shaft, using just enough pressure to feel something close to perfection.

"Bastard!" I say once more, drawing out the word into an expression of pleasure as his mouth envelops my cockhead, dimly realising my hands are now free but choosing for some reason to use them to squeeze and stroke my nipples.

I barely murmur when he stops just short of my orgasm, when he lifts my legs and slides into me, when he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts again and again until I feel I can take it no longer. "Bastard! Who are you? Who the fuck are you?" I shriek orgasmically, feeling a warmth spatter across my chest and stomach and legs and arms, never seeming to end until the sudden, exquisite moment of gentle pain as he tugs me down roughly against his thighs and thrusts his last, his semen ice cold inside me, finally choosing this most exquisite moment to utter one single, strange but entirely explanatory word.


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