Sex, Death and Nightmare Fuel

You know what’s interesting? Why my brain mixes filthy sex in an absurd setting with the horror genre.

I mean, one minute I’m hiding in a factory warehouse with a beloved actress from her friend transforming into a werewolf she beast — and the next I’m driving an American car while a Greek woman is naked and grinding into my kitten from the passenger seat of the car.

If I were to tell my mother, the gentlest human I know, the woman who would literally wash my mouth out with soap for cursing, this she would stop and think a moment — and say ‘Well, you didn’t get this from me.’

So why, brain? Tell me, why.

I’m an avid horror fan, ladies and gentleman. If you’re a long time reader you may have probably picked up on that fact – I merge erotica with dark fantasy and usually horror and I can tell you right now that a lot of my stories are purely from dreams – there’s hardly any fat or any filler I add later, it’s purely dream or nightmare fuel.

But yes, I’m an avid horror fan – Be it through books or film or tv, I soak up any media. Less so since I’m growing older and softer — but as a genre it’s something I gravitate towards because it’s such a liberating genre in a way – an artist can take this imagination and illustrate it via writing or via a movie with effects or lighting or animation – and that creation and ownership of fear, of that feeling of dread, is exhilarating and such a purge of emotion. I mean the world stops dead. You exist in the moment with this piece of media, do focused by this fear.

And sometimes not – sometimes you’re watching a bad movie you’ve seen way too many times before. Sometimes it’s a different purge, it’s a killer and these teens are going to get it. They’re stalked in a build up that is unleashed in a violent climax. Which, by the way, was always kinda sexy to me in a way I didn’t want to talk about because I felt guilty and fucked up. It was very primal and in a manner of being predator / prey.

So why is my brain mixing horror with eroticism? I have no freaking idea. Maybe because dreams are a funhouse of thoughts waiting to collide in some kaleidoscope of colours that is dependant on what you absorb in your life? Which, in my case, is the psychology of sex and…werewolf movies? I haven’t seen any lately? But I do like a good tortured human / beast movie!

I could be here all day talking elements – Why was I driving an American car? Why a Greek woman? Why on my lady? Because – back off, stranger – she’s mine! And why in a warehouse harbouring a werewolf?

As a horror fan, in the waking world, I was always intrigued by how horror films stimulate in their own way – how pressure builds and relaxes, builds and relaxes. Especially in, say, a slasher film, where sex is so often associated with death. A cynic would say that’s all marketed to the teenage demographic – and that’s correctomundo – but so many of the people I’ve met and friends made along the way as I’ve handled this blog have been into horror – so there’s a definite sexual link there beyond selling tickets to horny teenagers. It’s been interesting to find, in my own personal journey, that people who enjoy slasher films particularly are primal, whether they are aware or not.

But! It’s 2:43am in the morning and my caffeine is wearing out so it’s totally possible that I am just overtired and over-thinking!

Dreams

For me, dreams are a powerful experience. Some people don’t ever have them – I know my kitten rarely does – while others I’ve had the pleasure of being close to can’t remember theirs or find theirs to be unremarkable.

Mine, for some reason, are always potent. Whether they’re me reliving my past failed marriage and listening to a spectre spit my own perceived failures, dreams of fantasy and horror that inspire me to put pen to paper – or sex dreams – a manifestation of my inner bohemian sensibilities or just cotton-candy sex dreams to pass the time until morning? Or both.

When it comes to sex dreams, I feel everything intensely. Let me paint you a picture – I can feel the sexual tension within the dream, I can feel my cock ease into this faceless lady, feeling her around me. I can feel pleasure, a scratch, a bite.

I wake up with my cock at full hardness, pressing into the bed – and now, for today’s sex dream, I woke up with my fists balled, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. As I write this now, my other hand is still clenched, unable to let that sharp pain from my nails subside. Chasing a dream, I suppose.

The dream in question was a tale of a family divided. I played a brother driving his mother into town, listening to her tell me of their deadbeat husband. Their lackadaisical husband, soon to be divorced.

I dropped my fictional-mother off into town, and then made a bee-line for my fictional-sister to share the news. I found her in the bedroom of her house, apathetic.

The surrealism of the dream didn’t stop there. Anger turned to lust, lust scorched my skin as I crawled upon her bed – and suddenly, in her eyes, I saw it – the acceptance of the need in her own mind.

In the waking world, it all sounds like a bad porno in a low-rent room adorned with pink detailing everywhere – but in the moment, it was frantic. Nothing else mattered but the rhythm between us, the feeling of slipping into her right cunt and feeling her warmth beneath me. I held her arms above her head, light BDSM creeping into my dreams, teasing my lucid self to go further. To dominate,

Before I could come, I awoke dazed to a winterly morning, the chill kissing my shoulders and sending an icy trail down to my bare ass. My fists were balled, my Cock was hard and I had to catch my breath.

I will traverse this day in a primal mood, I will tell you. The closeness of an orgasm will linger as I set about my daily tasks, a low pulse in my Cock will distract me as I attempt to work. And it’s working – I’m here, writing on this blog. But now I must get up, get dressed and greet the day.

I’m sure I’ll dream again soon.

The Presence

Just in time for Halloween, I had this erotic and vaguely sinister dream I want to share with you all. I hope it lingers with you as it did with me.

I can’t remember this dream as vividly as others. I can recall bits and pieces, I can recall a stab of aggression, the crashing feeling of uncertainty and faint fear but as to what case before these feelings? I do not know – but let me paint you a picture.

In my dream there is a woman – slender, shoulder length blonde hair, petite breasts, softly spoken, lacking confidence to be true to herself. She’s sitting at the kitchen table in a grey loose singlet and plain grey cotton panties.

Her hubby is dressed sharply in a suit, off to work for the day, blows kisses out the door – yet I can sense an unease in the air. As if a fight lingers from the night before. This woman watches her husband close the door behind him, listens for the car pulling out of the driveway.

Then He comes.

He’s suddenly there behind her, whispering in her ear, His breath hot on her ear lobes. He’s telling her everything she has been fantasising about the last 24 hours – the acceptable to the downright unspeakable, the things she dare not tell her husband, the things that come to her in the shower on a whim and wholly possess her body and mind.

He knows all this, He says, because He’s been watching her for some time, gaining the strength to materialise in full form to her. He’s been waiting and watching for the right time to come to her.

Her breath is shaky by this point. She’s terrified by this presence but there’s a damning curiosity that keeps her still. Somehow she understands completely that no one else can see Him, this man with the smooth voice, and no one else can hear Him either. Just her.

He knows everything about her, recites it to her as if reciting poetry. He knows what she wants, what she needs.

A shiver slithers across her body, trailing down her nipples and spreading out to her arms.

He tells her to masturbate, right where she is, as loud and as genuine as she wants, like she’s seen right in her dreams.

The last image I have of this woman is her singlet pulled down, her nipples red and raw and hard, her face flushed with colour, focused intently on her hand, the outline of knuckles showing through her grey panties as her hand moves busily.

I wasn’t there for her orgasm, my consciousness moved on to another dream, an angrier dream, Haunting almost. One of steadily rising tension and aggressive sex. But that’s another story.

The Dream, The Nightmare, The Incest

Have you ever had a dream that felt so real that you thought it was your waking life?

I was house sitting for my older sister by a couple of years while she ran some errands. A few hours later and she returned home complaining that she was feeling funky and needed a shower.

Okay, I had said, and sat on her second hand couch that shouldn’t be as comfortable as it is.

Sister – exit stage centre.

A few minutes go by. I’m petting her dog, a fat black sausage dog with a face of a pug.

She calls me up stairs. Uses my full name.

I’m confused but I walk the wooden stairs upwards. They creak. I’ve been here before, I think. This old house feels familiar.

I remember rounding the corner in the shower and seeing her ass first – so smooth, so beautiful. The perfect shape, covered in luscious beads of water.

‘I want you to watch me’ she says, her voice hushed.

She turns to face me, a razor in her right hand. From my deductions (elementary, dear Watson), she’s finished shaving her cunt.

‘I want you to watch me shower’

Her words have meaning, conviction. They ring true, despite of their strangeness, their otherworldly feeling.

But I just don’t watch her shower. I’m moving – no, I’m watching myself moving – and I’m reaching down to cup the curves of her ass.

And I’ve never thought of it before but my sister – slender, slightly tanned, olive eyes, 5 ft 9 – is shorter than me in ways I’ve never processed.

I remember how that feels, my hand on her ass, my ring finger resting between the smooth curves. I could slip it into her anus, I think, but I don’t, I’m staring into her eyes. Eyes that are confident and calm. They have no doubt, no fear.

I kiss her. And it’s amazing. It’s a full kiss, if that makes sense. Lengthy, no tongue, deep and sensual.

All the while I’m lifting her ass up to be level with my cock, hardening by the second.

When I enter her, it’s like nothing I’ve previously known. Warm, smooth, slick. Forbidden.

She eyes me, her eye colour flickers from olive to grey blue, eyes I’ve seen somewhere before.

But I can hear her mind, it’s loud and reverberating and it says I’ve wanted this too.

And I can’t stop pounding into her, it all feels good, the shower water – warm, just right – my hand on her ass, my mouth on hers.

And I think to myself as I kiss her – who else dreams? Who else feels so hot and aching and SURE but in their waking moments refuses to mention their dream out loud, out of fear of judgement, because it’s taboo and unwanted? Because, I think, I’m not alone. I refuse to believe that I am. I never have been before.

And then perception shifts significantly. I’m the audience now, not so much the main star.

There’s a mother, a decorated police officer, having tea with her only daughter.

Both women are slender, sandy blonde hair. Athletic.

While the mother takes away the empty tea cups, the daughter is surfing the web. Why? Only she knows. I’m just the observer.

Accidentally, she pulls up a folder. A folder full of video files – the mother, naked and masturbating, reclined on her bed, her hands working herself furiously. She’s moaning her daughter’s name.

The daughter cuts off the footage, calls her mother in and furiously unloads on her.

I can feel the mother’s shame radiating off her like heat. Not just shame, sadness. A huge hole where her heart should be.

The daughter demands to be driven home this instant. But I can feel the daughter’s thoughts too – burning brighter than her mother’s shame. There’s shame, indeed. But guilt. Guilt for what, I wonder. Then it hits me. The daughter enjoyed what she saw.

Have you ever had a dream that felt so real that you thought it was your waking life?

Psycho-Sexual

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was how hard I was. I was lying on my stomach, you see, so not only was I pressing it into the bed, aching like I rarely do of a morning, but I could feel, not just the tip of my Cock, but it’s entire length. Pushing up between my stomach and the bed, fighting to get free. Fighting for relief.

The second thing I noticed was the memories. Once aware of my surroundings, they come rushing back. I suddenly felt her hesitance, as I unbuttoned her blouse. I could feel how wet she was when I slid the full length of myself inside her. Do you know how powerful that is? To feel that so strong after waking? I could feel her essence coat my shaft right down to the tip of her balls – and through that, I felt an awareness of her.

I could hear her curse.

The word ‘fuck’ slithered out of her lips in a hushed strained voice.

I remember the way my name left her lips – panicked, wondering, hesitant.

‘They’ll catch us’ she said. ‘They’re coming up the stairs.’

I can feel her urgency even writing this now.

Oh me, the dream me, was not worried. He was alight with a buzz, you see. It was the energy rocketing through his veins, the flip side of cortisol, but he was not scared. Dream me was confident.

She squeaked as I took my stride, sliding out then easing in.

‘Where are you guys?’ Came their voices. The voices of family. ‘What are you doing up there?’

My sister – my dream sister – my not-sister. My sister from another mister’s memories. My sister with someone else’s memories. My doppelgänger of a sister, her features changing, her face shifting into something like playdough, had my memories from another life, how wet she was, how hard she was.

‘I’m here’ she croaked. She was winded beneath me. It wasn’t my weight, you see, but my cock, knocking the wind from her sails.

She was nude beneath me, her body pale, resembling something else from another life. This isn’t her, not my sister. Not really. Who is this woman beneath me, wriggling in ecstasy, feeling that terrible fullness of me inside her, the type that eats at you, the type you feel even after the act. Who are we, that we have given ourselves over to lust, in all it’s frenzied, frantic power.

She, this stranger, will feel it long after dream me is no longer conscious.

I ponder all this, cock ever hard, coated in sweat, the remnants of an orgasm lingering, as I shake off somebody’s else’s life.

Israel: An Erotic Short

In the end I had to have her.

I could feel the frenzied energy pulsating between us. It manifested as her lips brushed mine, eager to meet but breathless wanting more.

Beneath me, the Israeli Woman squirmed, her piercing brown eyes half covered by her messy raven hair that had fallen forward.

Her lips were ruby red. Puffy. Wanting. Waiting for that kiss.

Her small breasts lifted upright, caught in a breath as she gulped for air.

Her darkened nipples, little nubs, hardened.

I could sense her wanting this just as much as I did, our bodies settling into our own rhythm, the music being our panting, her low moans. A symphony.

Nothing was more important than her. I was addicted to her breathless whispers, a Slave to her very existence.

I didn’t just slip into her, our bodies merged and became one. I understood her, as she understood me.

So when I rested within her, my cock filling her as much I could at full length, I knew then.

I knew I loved her and would do anything to protect her.

As she squirmed beneath me, writhing in seething agony at what probably was the sensation of my cock within her, an itch she couldn’t reach, she muttered something in her native language.

It came out soft and low, beauty deep to my foreign ear.

As I buried my head and breathed in the earthy scent of her dark hair, this I promised her: I would be with her. No matter what.

Dream Time

A guest at her friend’s house, the pretty little thing lays on her stomach underneath the warm sun.

Out of sight and out of mind, she lays on the verandah as the family naps away from the heat.

In this time, the eighteen year old has an idea. It hits her out of no where.

Reach into your satchel bag and pull it out. Test it. No one will hear. No one will need to know.

Before the pretty little thing can come to terms with the voice, she reaches into the bag and pulls out the 7 inch black dildo she had ordered off the Internet through a local toy store. Thanks Facebook sponsor.

In silence, she pulls apart her black bikini bottoms. She can smell her own scent. This just drives her further to slide it in.

She winces at first, but soon the toy becomes slick and inches further within her.

Soon she is full. She can feel it, all the way within her now.

Then she withdraws her hand, and rests with the toy still within her.

For a while, she listens to the silence around her. No bird chirps, no cicada buzzes. Nothing.

When the toy starts to slip out of her, she reaches back to pull it in. The sensation of the act causes her to moan.

With the toy back within her, she rests her head down again. The pretty little thing starts to doze.

The world around her begins to fade.

When she feels the toy start to slip, she reaches back and feels something coarse.

Looking behind her fills her with horror. The pretty little thing sees a hand gripping her toy.

That’s when she locks eyes – her friends brother. Four years her senior. And he must’ve slipped behind the corner of the Veranda she’s resting in.

He looks at her with his dark eyes and lifts a finger to his lips – be quiet.

Slowly, he slides the toy back into her and the pretty little thing whips her head back to meet the wave of pleasure crashing over her.

It’s slow at first, his movement. He eases it in and eases it out, all the while being completely silent, the only sound coming from her. Her wet lips.

Gradually, he begins to pump at an increased rhythm. It’s fast and smooth. The pretty little thing feels her body jolt with each thrust, feels the air leave her lungs.

She doesn’t know it, she thinks she is still, but she’s actually grinding back into the toy as it slips out of her.

With her head on the ground, her hair around her eyes, she lifts a hand behind her and unties her bikini top, letting her tits fall out onto the verandah. The wood beneath her instantly makes her nipples hard as they scratch against them.

She begins to play with her left breast, pinching it, stretching it. Today the pretty little thing wants to indulge – she slaps it from the side. Again. And again. It stings in response.

Better yet, she doesn’t have to worry about the sound bouncing off walls and echoing here. It’s just her here. Her and the toy.

The pretty little thing doesn’t get to play with her tits for long though, her orgasm sneaks up on her. She cuts out the moan that was hanging on her lips. Her legs jolt, her arm seizes up. The toy is held within her, all the way. Were you to be behind the pretty little thing, you could see the black edge of it buried deep within her.

The pretty little thing writhes around on the wood for a moment, feeling hot and cold flushes. Then she is still, and where the brother went, she does not know.