The Dream Of Facial Humilation

Administrator — Tue, 07 Aug 2007 19:48:39 +0000

The Dream
By: ISS
She awoke at midnight again, the way she had for the past
three nights, the sheets twisted tightly into an umbilical cord
binding her to the sweaty womb of her bed.
She disentangled herself from the tangled topsheet and laid
back, closing her eyes. Immediately the dream from which she had
awakened flashed into her consciousness: the utter darkness and
the sudden, dim, slanting light; the stranger, the man she had
seen and followed; the small anonymous room; the smell, the feel
of him; the awful, all-consuming hunger.
She opened her eyes quickly, sat up and turned on the
nightstand light to dispel the vision. No sense trying for sleep
now, she thought. Why the dream had come, why it affected her,
consumed her like this, she did not know; but for now it would
not leave her.
She lit a cigarette, hoping to concentrate on that and
occupy her mind, dispel the terrible demon that was the dream
with the mundane, the ordinary. She sat back against the
headboard, and without thinking closed her eyes tiredly.
Instantly the dream filled her vision again. A dark
restaurant, club, bar, a place she had never been; a man she did
not know — no, did not *want* to know; the small room,
featureless apart from a bed against one wall, without blankets
or frame or headboard; the feel of him against her, on top of
her; feeling him between her legs, parting them, dividing her
(divide and conquer, a part of her mind thought, unbidden),
opening her….
She started suddenly, looking down. As of its own volition,
her hand was caressing her bare thigh, grasping it, pulling her
leg away from its mate…opening her….
She stubbed out the cigarette and jumped to her feet, her
heart racing, pounding. This is ridiculous, she thought, pacing
the floor. It’s a dream. *Only* a dream. I’m in control; it
only affects me as much as I want it to.
Instantly upon thinking the phrase she stopped her pacing.
The truth penetrated her mind: she *did* want it to affect her,
to consume her. She wanted a reality to match the dream.
NO! she shouted inside herself, sitting on the bed and
massaging her temples. All right, she admitted, your sex life
hasn’t been that good lately: a series of nice guys, really
sweet and kind and considerate and gentle, maybe lacking a
certain fire, but good. So now, just for kicks, you’re going to
go to bed with someone you know nothing about? Going to risk
rape, abuse, VD? My God, risk AIDS? Is that what all of your
rhetoric about male chauvinism, about the myth of machismo and
how sex is sharing, is cooperation, comes to?
She tried to follow the old arguments playing now in her
head, to hold back the dark tide of her dream with a teaspoon of
reality, but it was no use. There was a kind of fire in her now,
a heavy feeling, an electricity that began just behind her navel
and traveled down her thighs, moving up again to nestle between
her legs, to smolder in her womb. It spread upwards as well,
moving along her skin and setting it ablaze, turning her nipples
into pointed rosettes and moving toward her center, until finally
it touched the pit of her heart.
She stood, and moved toward the closet to dress. She told
herself that she had no choice, that the dream was in control of
her. It was easier than admitting that she wanted what the dream
had to offer.
The bar had no name, other than BAR. She stood in front of
its gaudy red neon and its signs proclaiming COORS and MILLER On
Tap. The sole window was heavily curtained, and the door was a
solid wood portal, keeping the world out and its patrons in.
She had asked the taxi to stop here after passing by
countless other places, establishments more well-known and better
furnished than this. Trendy singles bars, dance clubs, places
with live music or canned music or no music at all; a club
downtown catering to orange-spike-haired aficionados of loud
music and full-contact dancing; a bar full of ferns and imported
beer and men and women in expensive sweaters and designer jeans,
each with an edge of desperation in his or her eyes; a club with
a long admittance line, and a muscular, well-groomed man at the
door eyeing each potential entrant, judging their worthiness to
enter.
She had almost stopped here, not doubting that she could
have gotten in, no questions asked. After some thought as to
what to wear, she had settles on a black jersey dress, its light
knit fabric clinging oh-so-gently to her body, briefly hugging
her hips before flowing freely around her legs, gracefully
accenting her shoulders and arms. The open neckline sometimes
slid down a little over one shoulder; she had discovered that the
effect was intensified if she pretended not to notice, and if she
went braless, as she was now. She had also worn black open-toed
shoes, the heels bringing out the shape of her calf, and a purse
of matching black fabric. The look was designed to convey
innocence masking a secret knowledge.
Now, though, she felt the innocence winning out, becoming
uncertainty. She had been vaguely dissatisfied with each bar and
club, running an exorbitant fare crisscrossing the downtown area
looking for a place that felt right. On one traverse of the
city, the driver had taken a shortcut along a little-used street;
and she had spotted the bar, quickly telling the driver to pull
over, paying the fare absent-mindedly, not noticing the driver
pull away.
*Something* about this place had caught her eye.
This is insane, she thought, not for the first time since
leaving her apartment. It’s nearly one A.M. and you’re standing
in front of a bar in God knows what part of town, wearing an
outfit that might as well have a sign on it saying Rape Me, and
you don’t even know *why*, do you? She closed her eyes to think.
As if it had been waiting, growing inside her mind, the
dream came to her, full-force. She felt again the weight of the
stranger on her, felt his hands — not gentle, but not painful,
as though touch was his only sense — and hers as well, touching
him in like manner, kneading him, grasping him, holding his hips
and pulling forward —
Her eyes snapped open, she gasped slightly. Where this
dream had come from, and where its power came from, she did not
know. She knew only that she had to follow, to find out if this
tantalizing vision could possibly be real.
She stepped forward and, her heart pounding, pulled open the
heavy door.
Her first impression was one of silence, and darkness. Even
deserted as it was, the street behind her carried its own noise,
its own rhythms; and the few streetlights and lit windows along
the avenue did cast some light. Inside, though, the bar was much
more dimly lit, catering perhaps to those who do not wish to be
seen, and who prefer the sound of their own thoughts.
The change in lighting, however, threw her off for a moment.
She found herself momentarily blind and deaf, so that for a
moment her only sensation was the rough feel of the door jamb to
which she clung with one hand, and the smooth fabric of her purse
in the other, and the wooden floor beneath her feet; and the
spasm she felt suddenly, the jump in the indescribable hunger in
her. I’m very close, she thought.
As her eyes adjusted, she found, disconcertingly, that the
few patrons of the bar, whom she had been unable to see, had been
staring at her. There was a man in working clothes, who turned
back to his drink uninterestedly; another man, who had not seen
her and was too involved in his own alcoholic world to notice or
care; and a third man, near the back.
It was this third man who captured her attention. He had
jet black hair, slightly wavy, glossy but not enough to have been
styled; just long enough not to be stylish, to be different. He
stood casually, relaxed, the way a cat looks relaxed just before
it pounces. Leather blazer, black or navy pants, it was too dark
to tell. Shoulders — shoulders from ancient Greece or Rome,
from a statue, the shoulders of an athlete or a swimmer, not the
weekend-health-club type she was used to. Hands with slightly
hairy knuckles and long fingers that held his glass, moving as
though caressing it, as though they could not keep still.
She turned away, suddenly aware that she had been staring at
him and trying to forget he had been staring back. She felt a
hot flush rise in her cheeks as she found a stool at the bar.
The bartender came and gave her a bored, questioning look; she
asked for vodka. Nothing fancy, she told herself. One stiff
drink, maybe that will clear this up. Inwardly, she doubted it.
The drink arrived; she half-emptied it in one gulp. The
fluid ran burning down her throat, and she closed her eyes
briefly.
Again the vision came to life, this time ten times more
vivid: her hands on him, pulling him urgently onto her, into
her; the white-hot feeling as he opened her, thrusting to her
core in one swift stroke —
Her eyes snapped open, and the vision faded, mercifully. It
was so much more intense now, so vivid. She shifted
uncomfortably in her seat, aware suddenly that she had made
herself wet. The hunger was growing now, the feeling between her
legs and in the pit of her stomach almost unbearable.
Almost against her will, she turned her head toward where
the man had been sitting, and realized with a start that he was
gone. She stood stunned for a moment, then looked around the
bar, and gasped. He was standing right beside her.
“Hello,” he said. Baritone, slightly scratchy; smoker’s
voice. There was a slight tobacco odor to him, blending with the
scent of a cologne she couldn’t place and an indescribable smell
she could place all too well. She still didn’t know where the
dream had come from, but she knew now that its power had affected
him too.
Wordlessly he reached out and touched her hand, which was
gripping the railing of the bar tightly. His touch was hot,
electric; her hand relaxed instinctively, and a small whimper
escaped her lips. She found herself staring helplessly into his
eyes, his blue-grey eyes that smiled slightly, just as his full
lips did now. His index finger traced along the back of her
hand, leaving an itch behind it, a burning itch that kindled a
fire in her limbs. She had felt weak-kneed passion before, the
kind every schoolgirl feels, but this was different, opposite.
She felt energized by it, restless. Her knees weren’t weak; on
the contrary, it was difficult to keep them still and straight.
She moved her hand so that it was palm-up now, and caressed
his palm with her nails. His eyes clouded ever so slightly,
still fixed on hers as hers were fixed on his, and she knew that
the dream, the terrible vision was not hers alone. She slid off
the barstool and stood, her hand still moving against his, no
longer caressing or tickling but rubbing now, gently,
palm-to-palm.
God, this is insane, she thought. Please let it stop — no,
not stop — just end; please let me find a way to feed this
hunger….
He took a step backwards, and she moved likewise. He turned
then, and walked toward the back of the bar, toward an unmarked,
unremarkable door. The eye contact broken, she stopped, feeling
like a marionette suddenly hung on a hook, without guidance.
Again she felt the uncertainty, the fear — the words Rape,
Abuse, Kidnap flashing through her brain — and then the hunger
flexed again, sending a pulse through her, strong, almost animal.
Without thinking she moved forward, feeling as though she were
floating rather than walking, catching up to him as he held the
door open for her. She entered into another darkness.
The room was almost exactly as she had seen it in the
vision: plain, featureless, only a bed without blankets or
topsheet for furniture, the head against one wall, sitting on the
floor without a frame. Who has a bed in a bar? she thought.
This is ludicrous. The difference between the room in the dream
and this room was that the dream-room had had that sourceless
illumination only a dream can have, while this room was dimly lit
by light leaking through the door jamb at the top. Her eyes
adjusted quickly, after the dimness of the bar.
She turned, and saw him shedding his jacket, not quite
smoothly, as though he too didn’t quite know what to do next.
The dim light streaked across his face, casting deep shadows,
accentuating his cheekbones and his lips. Half-illuminated, he
looked incomplete, a mere shell, as though the surface of him —
his skin, his lips, his hands — was all she knew of, all
she wanted.
She felt adrift now, moved by forces she could not see or
control; and those forces moved her to him now, moved her hands
to his head, to his cheeks. She stroked his skin, held him, bent
her head back as she pulled him to her lips; felt him move
willingly, without protest; and then felt the excruciating touch
of his lips on hers.
The kiss was energizing, electrifying, burning; she felt her
lips part to receive his, the press of his flesh, just the barest
hint of tongue; and suddenly the smoldering in her mind and
between her legs burst into flame, and she wrapped her arms
around his neck, trying to drink him in, to consume him. His
hands slid up her back, and their tongues wrestled; small moans
escaped from both of them. She felt her hips undulating, and
couldn’t stop — didn’t want to stop, she realized. This was the
dream made reality, the spirit made flesh: this man to whom she
had not said one word, possessing her and she him, in an
anonymous room, for no reason other than sensation and pleasure.
He pulled back suddenly, breaking the kiss, and looked at
her. All trace of a smile was gone now from his face, replaced
now by a look of hunger, unmasked now, unconcealed. He put his
hands on her shoulders, gripped the neckline of her dress,
grasped, pulled suddenly apart. The fabric ripped violently, and
she recoiled with a gasp. Her breasts bounced, steadied, their
hard nipples proclaiming her arousal. She stepped backward
toward the bed, and he followed. The backs of her knees touched
the mattress. She reached out for him, and clutching a lapel in
each hand, fell back onto the bed, pulling him onto her.
Their lips met again, hungrily, their tongues seeking each
other. She pushed him away suddenly, still holding his shirt,
and pulled with all her strength. Buttons popped and flew, and
she grasped his shirt lower and finished the task, ripping the
cloth off him. His chest stood bare now, almost hairless, the
muscles well-defined in a way that suggested, not workouts, but
honest use. Briefly she wondered who he was, what he did — but
only briefly; she didn’t know and didn’t want to; this body, and
the force driving it, were all she wanted now.
She ran her hands over his chest as he ripped the remainder
of the fabric off her body. She had debated going out without
panties, and had decided against it; now she regretted the
decision. She wanted to be naked now, to be exposed before this
man, and for him to be exposed to her. She acted on the second
desire, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants quickly,
fumblingly. She felt his legs move, and heard his shoes drop to
the floor as he slipped them off, first one, then the other. She
finished with his pants, and he hurriedly slid them off onto the
floor, along with his briefs.
He was totally naked now, exposed, as she had wanted; and he
was indeed like a statue, like a Greek god, the muscles in his
legs as developed as those in his chest, hips not too narrow,
ample enough for a good grip (a dream-image flashed through her,
of her hands on those hips, pulling him into her), his cock hard,
throbbing now with need.
She put her hands to the waist of her panties to slide them
off, and then, on impulse, pulled instead, ripping them. His
hands joined hers, ripping the remainder of the fabric; she lay
now exposed, the scent of her wafting into his nostrils and his
brain and his mind, as he closed his eyes, the fire no doubt
building in him as it was in her.
She began to slide her shoes off with her toes, but he was
on her suddenly, his lips against hers, then on her neck, as his
hips thrust at her and his cock pushed against her belly, then
slid down, seeking the heat between her legs. She opened her
legs, pulling her thighs open with her hands as she had done in
the dream, as he moved farther down, nestling father into her;
and then he slid forward again, and she bucked her hips in
response, as he entered her, penetrating her to her very core in
one stroke.
She cried out then, the first truly audible sound she’d made
since entering the bar, but her cry was quickly muffled by his
lips. They fought again with their tongues, she trying again to
drink him in, at the same time thrusting her hips to meet his as
she tried to posers him this way also. She bit his neck, pulled
at his hair, ran her nails over his skin; she flicked at his
nipples, as hard as hers now, eliciting a cry from him; he pulled
at her breasts, nibbling, nipping, pinching her nipples; and all
the while they moved, bucked, slammed against each other.
His cock speared her again and again, hard and fast,
reaching some center deep within her that knew nothing but white,
clear pleasure. Her pussy closed around him, hugged him,
clasping him in a grip which knew no surcease, which would never
let him free, not while this intense pleasure could continue.
Her legs spread wide for him, letting him deeper; her feet, still
encased in the shoes, caressed his calves and the backs of his
knees.
Suddenly the center deep within her exploded, a white-hot
burst that stole her breath and her senses, left her falling
endlessly in a world of pleasure. Dimly she was aware of his
motions, and of hers, but she sensed nothing directly, nothing
but the fire which burned her mind to ashes, left her with
nothing but desire, nothing but lust.
She found her breath, and screamed, as the explosion
repeated itself, her pussy throbbing, squeezing the cock within
it now, as she reveled in the sensation. She felt him move
faster now, working toward his own release, and she moved to
help, feeling the fire inside her building once again. She
flicked at his nipples, bit his neck, rocked her hips in time
with his motions, felt herself throb inside as she tried to coax
his pleasure out of him.
He stiffened, and she thrust her hips toward him, impaling
herself deeply; and she felt the first wild, liquid burst, his
entire body shuddering with the release of it. He arched his
back, and she moved to follow, as he spasmed again and again, his
release fueling her passion, bringing her closer to her own
immolation once again.
Suddenly she felt him relax, though his cock was still hard
inside her. Her own climax was only moments away, but he had
stopped; he was not moving. Desperately, almost angrily, she
brought her legs up, and, still wearing the shoes, dug her spike
heels into his thighs, spurring him.
He gasped, and fell forward, and into her again. She flexed
her legs even more, bringing her knees even with her breasts, and
prodded him again, this time in his rear, at the top of his
thighs.
She brought her hands down to his buttocks, pulling him into
her desperately, raking her nails across his skin. She needed
him — no, she thought, not him. She needed cock — pure, sweet,
and simple, nothing and no one attached, just this, yes, just
pure unadulterated pleasure, just a cock to fill her, to touch
her so deeply, where she couldn’t touch herself, to fill her and
ram into her, to stroke her, spread her, open her. Nothing but
cock — no name, no face, nothing else, just this.
She was building toward her own private explosion again —
as was he, impossibly, as she felt him shudder and stiffen again,
his cock going very hard and meeting her center again. She
summoned all her strength then, and stopped, holding him still,
prolonging the moment, her mouth open in a silent scream;
stretching the pleasure until it became unbearable, agonizing,
until her entire body was straining for release, and she thought
Yes, yes, just a little longer, just a moment, stretch it until
it’s more than I can take, until I want to die from it, want it
to possess me and take me, to burn me, to consume me, yes, yes —
She arched her back, meeting his hips one last time, impaling
herself impossibly deeply, her scream matching his, feeling
herself throbbing, not merely between her legs but from head to
toe, her arms and legs locking around him, holding him tight, as
she felt him spend himself inside her, writhing against her,
unable and unwilling to escape her passion, his hands balling
into fists behind her back, striking the mattress, his thighs and
arms clenching, relaxing, clenching, and relaxing again, as he
laid down on her and she released her grip on him, caressing him,
soothing him as he did her.
The fire was gone now, and a kind of sad peace crept into
her mind and heart. She lay with her head to one side, hearing
his breathing subside as he caught his breath. And suddenly,
unbidden, a thought went through her head as she felt herself
dozing off in this stranger’s arms:
To sleep…perchance to dream….

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The Dream Of Facial Humilation