There Are No Words

At 4am this morning, I woke from a dream so incredibly detailed, with its own mythology and the like, that I scrambled for my phone and jotted down 1,372 tired words. I’ve read over it just now, having woken later in the morning, and have left it unedited and untouched, save for some spelling mistakes and sentences that didn’t make sense. What you will read is something I’ve written while not entirely awake, my hand pulled along by forces beyond this world.

I know some of you enjoy looking into the mind of the process or the writer or even ME, so I hope this intrigues you at the very least.

I can remember her taking my face in her hands, and looking at me with those deep blue eyes. My god, how deep and blue and expansive they are. How kind and thoughtful they are. Oceans. They are the sea.

I see her eyes flicker but before I can contemplate what that means, she’s leaning in to kiss me deeply.

Christ, her lips are so soft. They seem to sink right into my own lips. As if merging together.

I can feel my heart leap in my chest.

As she holds the kiss, as I hold the kiss, I suddenly see everything. I see her ass, lily white and gorgeous, I see her free of the shackles of her past life. I see her freedom. And it makes my heart pound in my chest.

When she pulls away, I feel like I know her more through that kiss. As if, through the act, a bond was created – and we fused.

She has to wipe the dark curl of hair from her eyes. Or I do.

I want to but I can’t look away from those deep, mesmerising eyes. I feel like I know her more now, know her better.

She kisses me again suddenly, deeper, harder. My stomach flips in excitement – or is that her excitement I feel, now that we are bonded. Now that my emotion is shared through the bond and hers is shared in my mind.

A sense of understanding. That’s what it is.

I can feel her soft hands on my face, cradling me, as if she wanted this for a while.

I want to tell her to be free, like I know she wants to be. There’s a side to her that I can sense. I want to scream it at her beautiful blue eyes, even as I wipe her dark curls out of her face.

Do what you want, what you must, for the freedom of your soul, for your health, but I know the truth. She senses it too now, my weirdness. My indulgence. I’m encroaching on something.

The other women around me don’t seem to mind our shared kiss. They wait patiently in silence, or do they observe? And if they observe, what do they see? Did I get it all wrong, terribly wrong? But that can’t be! She kissed me. I sense her. I sense her so strongly.

One by one hand, their hands lower me down to the cool metal table. How many women are there? Well, there’s the vampire – I know that. Blonde hair, ice blue eyes. There’s the girl in the hoody with the kind eyes. There’s the fiery redhead in the singlet with the rosy cheeks.

Somehow I know they’re actually all vampires. Except me and her. She who regards me with her deep blue eyes as big as the moon.

Does he know how lucky he is to have her?Where is he anyway?

As if on cue, he wanders into the small room, eyes ablaze. There’s fury.

In a heartbeat, before he can see, she tears her hands away from mine – somewhere along my counting of how many women there are around me, she took my hands in hers.

I didn’t even finish counting anyway. There’s more than three. They’re all gathered around me in a circle, her included.

I can feel her through the bond, I can tell she wants to undress and be naked. I can tell that’s how she likes to be. It comes in a flash in my mind, and I can see her walking along her natural habitat – a forest – completely nude, grass crunching beneath her feet.

“For a little extra you can become a vampire.” A woman at the end of the table says. She’s looking at me with tired eyes that seem to sag in their sockets. She’s dressed all in black, even with a black robe. The tattooist.

I shake my head. “No, thank you, just the tattoo. Like hers.”

I point to the woman with the kind eyes. She’s watching me closely, a smile across her ruby red lips. Out of all the women that have taken up residence in my home since my partner left, this one has spent the most time talking to me.

On her chest, above her breasts, she has a tattoo of a symbol that’s foreign to me. I couldn’t begin to describe it. I only know I want it on my chest.

And it just so happens one of the women in this wonderful, warm tribe, is an artist of the tattooing kind.

When did I get so lucky, to have this support from all these beautiful women around me? All these endlessly kind beings? I’d tip my hat if I wore one. I’m afraid the only thing I wear is my heart on my sleeve ever since she left me. Five years gone and cheated on me the past few months for some bloke with dark features, same as me. What did I have that he didn’t? Why did that draw the attention of a tribe of men and women into my home and why do they support me endlessly in this relationship breakdown?

May the party live forever.

I know she senses my thoughts because she frowns to herself. That or it’s because he’s circling her, his eyes on her as he joins her to her right, where he perches like a bird or a ghost or a bodyguard. I can’t decide which. I’m sure he didn’t think about this possibility when he, too, came into my home. I certainly didn’t expect to spark her interest. I’m not even sure she would talk to me if I didn’t talk to her first. The only thing I know about her is that she’s not a vampire like the others and that her wonderful eyes are as big as the moon.

Do I regret the kiss? I’m not sure, to be entirely honest. My heart and mind and very soul still rages at the recent betrayal of my ex. I mean, after she came clean about the affair, she still wanted to suckle on my cock while the others finger fucked her into a delirious state.

We all knew she did it to pass the time – her family was picking her up, her bags were packed – but we still did this. We all did this.

So there’s rage behind my willingness, that I’ll admit, but when she placed my face in her hands and kissed me that first time, I wasn’t just hypnotised, I was mesmerised. Because I could feel her thoughts. I could sense that she wanted to silence my pain as much she wanted to silence hers.

Does that make me a bad person?

There’s no fear in me when the women hold my legs down and apart. I trust these new friends of mine. They did offer me vampirism after all. They even wanted to charge me! But no, this was about the tattoo. The tattoo that would mark my pain and hurt forever, the tattoo that would bond me to these traveling nomads, friends for life.

Some of them, like her, had boyfriends. They were grouped in one room of the house watching tv and drinking. Eventually they would retire to their rooms and sleep, snoring softly.

The circle of women talk amongst themselves. Some of them banter. It makes me smile. They must’ve been traveling together for so long they’ve made friendships for life. Is this what this tattoo is? Am I part of the tribe?

I feel her soft hand on my arm and meet her eyes. There’s something else there now. A wound of sorts flickers behind her eyes. But who would wound the moon? Who?

Despite this, it’s a shy smile she gives me and it makes my heart race. I close my eyes and feel her warmth rising through the bond. It makes me smile too.

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.