Title: Phantasmagoria

Author: Chantrea Johari

Rating: R

Summary: The line between dreams and reality gets hopelessly blurred for one man, caught in a fantasy of his repressed desires. But is it really a fantasy at all?

Warnings: M/M Situations, adult content, BDSM, and the slight depiction of F/F as well as M/F relationships

Notes: One-shot. It’s meant to not reveal all the information, people, so don’t tell me that I never describe my main character or his characteristics. I’m quite aware. The slightly skewed POV is also deliberate. I hope you like.

X x X x X x X x X

I’m walking down a street I don’t recognize, though I can tell it’s on the bad side of town. I don’t venture here often; as the president of such an important company, I do not have a reason to be here. I feel out of place in my Armani suit, my loafers walking down a street covered with litter, discarded needles, and vomit. There is a vagrant in every alley dozing. This world is foreign to me.

It is dark, and there are only two streetlights on the block that seem to be working properly. Two others flicker on and off every few seconds, though at different enough speeds to be disconcerting for my eyes.

They blink on and off, the occasional old, beat up car driving down the block and illuminating it for merely a moment. I don’t know where I’ve parked my BMW, but I certainly hope it’s not near here.

There are few others on the street who are conscious or lucid enough to notice me. One man walks by mumbling to himself about the bitches and the whores and how he’ll kill them all, walking with a pronounced limp and not even seeming to see me. A homeless man in the alley I pass shifts but doesn’t wake. I see another man, passed out in the gutter.

This is not my world. I don’t know why I’m here, don’t have any recollection of how I got here. It’s all a blur, faded memories and mere glimpses. Shifting images.

I continue walking, seemingly compelled by some force I was unaware of. I pass a liquor store that looks like it’s seen much better days. The buildings have bars over the windows; the store is closed. There’s a small bar with half the lights on its sign flashing on and off every few seconds, the halogen failing.

I ignore both, continuing to walk down the decrepit street. I pass another woman who looks almost like a whore, and she is at least coherent enough to give me a strange look, though I could see her rubbing absently at the track marks on her arm.

Of course, on this side of town late at night, what was I to expect? All respectable people in the area are probably inside.

I walk across the street, straight toward the buildings on the other side, as if I know where I’m going. That’s silly, of course; I have no idea whatsoever.

Something flashes quickly through my mind: the image, the feel of lips brushing against my skin. I bristle at the strange image; the lips look and feel unfamiliar, yet no matter how much I try, I cannot call the image up again. It’s slipped into the abyss.

I stop outside a building, looking up at the sign. I see a pair of handcuffs next to the sign for the building, but I cannot read the name. Strange.

What’s perhaps stranger is that I walk inside with no hesitation. I feel almost as if I’ve been there before. Perhaps I have—yet that’s ridiculous, of course. I’ve never been within a mile of this place.

Once inside, I realize the building is a club. The lights are dim and red-colored, shifting on and off the way the street lights outside were, though at a more leisurely and obviously controlled pace. I make my way immediately toward the bar, leaning over and ordering a cocktail, though my own voice sounds so garbled that I cannot even understand what I’m ordering. The man seems to know me, though, and gives me the drink as I hand him a couple of bills, leaning back against the bar and taking a leisurely sip. It’s a vodka martini; I don’t drink vodka.

My eyes scan over the room, and I am both shocked and appalled at what I see. There are men and women, partially clothed or naked chained to the walls, some of them in complicated leather straps, gags, and other toys I’d heard of but never seen put into practice. One man was in a leather hood that covered his entire face; I wondered how he could breathe.

I begin to feel fear course through me, yet I don’t overreact and leave as I wanted. Instead, I watch as some men and women, mostly in leather, wield whips and paddles and crops and other devices of torture on these chained victims. I see one man forcing his hardened length into the rear of a man much younger than himself, resulting in a scream from the boy. A woman is sucking on another woman’s nipples, her breasts in a leather harness. A man is sliding a rather large vibrator into the tight pink folds between another woman’s legs, her legs spread extremely wide with a metal bar that attached to each of her ankles.

There are moans and screams and gasps from throughout, the slowly blinking red light giving the room a surreal glow. I’ve heard of these places before, but never had I dreamed of being inside of one. I had never dreamed that I would stand in one and not only act calm, but be slightly aroused by the sight.

I take another sip of my martini, staring at the scene in front of me. I know that something is wrong with this whole situation; I know, and yet I cannot make myself act, cannot make myself react like a responsible and moral individual and just leave.

A man walks up to me. He is tall, and beautiful, with olive skin and a goatee and large blue eyes filled with lust. He isn’t leather-clad like most of the other occupants of the club, though he is wearing all black. I think he’s gorgeous and that appalls me; I’ve never so much as had a wayward thought about another man.

He stops in front of me as if entitled, as if he owns the place, and me, and can have his way with anyone as he pleases. He has this Arabic look to him that makes him desirable; a hunger in his blue eyes that makes him more so. He slides his arm around my back and pulls me toward him; I open my mouth to say something.

“Shh,” he coos, his voice almost taunting, and certainly controlling and condescending. “I know exactly what you want.”

I let him lead me over to one of the walls, where he proceeds to spin me around very fast so that my back collides hard with the wall. He pins me up by the throat, cutting off my breathing harshly as I gasp and struggle. He kisses me suddenly, his lips harsh and demanding on mine. My breath, already coming in short gasps, becomes even more labored, though he has no care for it.

He releases me finally so my body crumples, though his hands keep me from falling. His nails are long and sharp against my skin, his grip as strong and controlling as his kiss. I let him continue; though my mind is screaming in protest, my body seems to have no intention to listen.

The other man pulls back suddenly, smacking me in the face. I recoil, but can’t move back much, still pinned to the wall. I can feel his fingernails raking my skin, can feel blood pouring down my cheek, and though it’s not a particularly serious wound, it does sting. He leans forward, licking the blood from my cheek.

He has my arms pinned before I know it; there are shackles on the wall and my arms were quickly fastened in them, though not before my jacket is removed. I groan as he unbuttons my shirt and leaves it hanging unfastened over my chest, his long nails trailing over my nipple as he pinched. He undoes my belt with little preamble, sliding his hand into my pants to encounter my hardening flesh.

The blue-eyed man strokes me adeptly, making me moan sharply, arching into his touch. At that, he pulls away quickly, teasingly, as he slowly slides my pants off of my hips. Once they are off, he unbuttons his own pants, pulling out a rather sizable erection, causing another groan to leave my lips at the sight. He pulls out a tube of lubricant and quickly coats his own erection.

He pulls my legs up and thrusts into me painfully.

X x X x X x X x X

I wake up with sweat pouring down my body, my breathing elevated. I lie back for a moment, trying to catch my breath and calm myself down after the dream I had just had. I’ve never had such a disconcerting dream before; it leaves me confused and thrown off guard, and I feel more uncomfortable and ashamed than I ever have in my life.

I am also aware, almost immediately, that my body doesn’t seem to agree with my shame. I groan at the feeling of unfulfilled desire in my body, my erection straining against the sheets.

There’s movement on the bed next to me and I feel a hand against my chest suddenly, the cool metal of my wife’s wedding band a shock against my skin. She laughs softly, and I can feel her shift closer to me, sliding her hand down my chest in a tantalizing manner. I feel so ashamed that I almost want to pull away; the memory of what made me so aroused makes me feel sick.

She’s obviously noticed my rather obvious arousal; she slides her hand between my legs and cups it gently, slim legs entwining with mine. Her touch is so different than my dream-man’s; so gentle and almost hesitant despite years of marriage. I want to pull away, but I find that I can’t, her efforts to ease my arousal too alluring for me to resist. I’m just glad that the lights are off, so she can’t see the embarrassed blush rising on my cheeks.

“Having pleasant dreams?” she teases, her hand moving more quickly upon my flesh. Thrown over the edge of sanity, I roll us over, pinning her into the mattress and kissing her hard. She giggles into my mouth as I move to take her.

X x X x X x X x X

I sit in my office that day, unable to banish the visions from the previous night from my mind. It seems impossible to forget something so radical, to rid myself of the filth that filled my mind as I dreamed. I’d never had any sexual thoughts about another man before; now, it was all that I could think about.

I can feel the mysterious man’s lips on my own once again, can feel his hand upon my aroused flesh. I unconsciously reach up to touch my cheek where his harsh slap hit me, though I know that nothing is there. Yet I can still feel his long fingernails dragging across my skin as he hit me; I touch the spot as if it should be tender, though I know that the events of the previous night were merely some crazed dream.

“Sir?”

The voice startles me and I look up immediately. It is my assistant, a young man in his mid-twenties with curly hair, glasses, and a nervous manner about him. I can’t stop myself from picturing myself bending him over my desk at this exact moment and taking him. I cringe at my own thoughts.

I stand up abruptly, feeling disgusted. “Cancel my meetings for the rest of the day. I’m feeling a bit ill,” I tell him immediately. He looks at me strangely; I’ve rarely excused myself from work in the past and usually have others forcing me to leave when I’m sick. It’s one of the burdens of running a company; I never feel safe having my business in the hands of others.

“Certainly, sir,” he squeaks, but I barely hear him, making my way out of my office and to my car. I feel almost as if I’m in a trance, hurrying to the parking garage with a few jovial greetings by the staff, most of whom know me, and confused looks when I walk past them without a word. It must be extremely obvious that something is wrong.

These thoughts won’t leave my head; last night is haunting me more like a nightmare than some sort of erotic fantasy. It’s something I hadn’t known I had in me, something that scared me to learn existed inside me. Perhaps I had suppressed it, and that’s why it attacked me in my sleep. Perhaps that was always the person who I was and I could never see it.

That idea disgusts me.

I find myself driving downtown, though I don’t know why. I have a vague idea of what sort of area my dream as set in the night before; something within me just wants to see the area for myself, to assure myself that it had been some sort of strange delusion I had had of a life I had never experienced. I know it quite well already, but somehow, going there for reassurance is like cleansing myself of sin.

I drive around for awhile in the run-down area, my BMW looking strangely out of place, just as I myself had felt in my dream. I look for an area that seems similar to that of my dream, yet it all seems to look the same. Giving up, I park my car somewhere, praying for it to come out of this side of town safe, while at the same time that I feel almost apathetic about it.

I walk around the area for awhile, getting a lot more strange looks during the day than I had at night during my dream. It’s different now; the people are more cleanly dressed, though some look like they are up to trouble still, and it’s strangely loud. There’s music coming from several apartments I pass, people running about, and all kinds of yelling going on everywhere. From somewhere not far off, I hear the sound of a car in desperate need of a muffler; several cars drive by as I walked, and I hear the gentler engine noise from them.

I’m wandering for awhile, aimlessly, as if just being in this place will remind me of why I’d never have this life, why I’d never descend into this. This still isn’t my world, not in dreams and certainly not in reality. Perhaps the reality would convince my subconscious to never have such a fantasy again, to be properly disgusted. Perhaps my subconscious could remember what my conscious mind already did; that I have perfect life and a nice job and a wife, and I don’t need to descend into S & M clubs for thrills, even in my dreams.

Suddenly, things begin to look familiar. I don’t know how I can make such an assumption; after all, it all looks so similar to me, so foreign. But things are beginning to look like something I’ve seen before, and it scares me. I begin walking more slowly, wary of what could be just down the street I’m so afraid to walk.

Into my vision comes the liquor store I saw in my dream, the bar. It looks different in the daylight, but it’s unmistakably the same. Almost shaking now, I turn the corner, looking across the street.

There it is: the club with a pair of handcuffs next to the sign. It looks nearly the same as in my dream, yet it looked different in the sun as well. The club’s name was written across the sign in red: Anodyne. How ironic. It’s caused me more pain than it’s relieved.

I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life.

X x X x X x X x X

I woke up once again, the vision of the club’s sign slowly fading from my view. It was just a dream, again.

I blink repeatedly, trying to clear my vision and gasp, realizing that I’m not in a very comfortable position. I try to move my arms and legs and it impossible. I grunt in frustration, my vision finally clearing enough to see into the dim lighting.

I’m inside a room that I don’t recognize, and I’m strapped facedown to some sort of leather furniture. Something about it reminds me of a psychiatrist’s chair, but it appears to be more of a miniature bed than a chair. There are leather cuffs attached to it, holding me down to the piece of furniture. I try to scream but there’s something in my mouth; a gag.

I feel long fingernails trailing over what I can now tell is my nude back, can feel the leather of the piece of furniture rubbing uncomfortably against my front, my skin sweaty and sticking to the material. I try to squirm away from the touch, but after a second, I feel a short, hard pressure upon my backside, stinging painfully. I had been hit with something with a wide area, and though I can’t turn my head to see, I think it may have been a paddle.

I try to cry out, but again the gag prevents me from doing so. There is another painful smack following the first, and I could hear the sound echoing through the room. It is followed another quick succession of painful smacks, one following the other almost directly, sending stinging pain through my legs and ass.

I barely have time to recover from that before I can feel the sharp nails that have somehow already become familiar raking down my back again, this time hard enough to draw blood. I hiss and try to squirm away, which is impossible because of my current condition. It merely earns me another stinging slap from the paddle.

The man suddenly moves around me, squatting down in front of me so I can see his face, so our faces are nearly touching. He is the same man from my previous dream to this end, though now I’m not so sure if it’s a dream or some psychotic hallucination. “Don’t try to struggle,” he commands, pulling at the chain attached to the collar I just now realize is around my neck, the force hard enough to cut off my breathing for a second. “I know what you want. You showed me, remember?”

I don’t remember, but I certainly can’t say that because of the gag invading my mouth. This is some sort of dream—it has to be!— and the little character I have dreamed up is merely alluding to some previous dream that has disappeared from my subconscious, as my dreams often did.

He chuckles softly, since it is obvious that I can provide no answer. I hear the faint sound of him moving throughout the room as I take his advice and don’t struggle; something about this seems natural, which is absurd. There is a part of me that feels that nothing about this was out of the ordinary.

Something hard and lubricated is shoved inside of me harshly, and I scream against my gag. It is obvious that it was not any flesh when I can feel it vibrating inside of my body. It is huge, painful and pleasurable at the same time, and something I can’t resist. He rubs it up against a bundle of nerves inside me, his experience palpable as I moan into the gag, sparks of pleasure shooting through me.

I feel another half-naked body stretching over me as those long-fingered hands continue to shove the vibrating object in and out of my opening. The man’s face is very close to my ear, so that I can feel his breathing quite acutely. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he purrs, and I squirm a bit more at his comment, though it is becoming more and more apparent to me by the second that there is no way I can even hope to escape.

He seems to take this as some sort of assent, though I don’t understand how, and begins moving the thick vibrator more quickly within me, continually hitting that spot that makes me moan despite myself. I cannot deny that this is a pleasurable experience, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m extremely uncomfortable, and extremely confused.

I feel another presence in front of me, while the first man is still behind, and I look up sharply, pleasure blurring my vision for a second. When it finally clears, I let my eyes run over the other man, seeing that he, too, is naked. The idea of being with two men at once when a month ago, the idea of being with one man would have appalled me, should have put me off. Yet there is something about it that is unmistakably arousing, and I can feel my erection straining against the leather.

The man is a bit older than the man currently causing such great pleasure within me, probably about my age. I can tell this easily from his body, though I can also tell that he is quite as aroused as I can feel that I, myself, am. I have to crane my neck a bit further in order to see his face, but I can tell after just a moment that I recognize the man.

He looks quite similar to my business partner, the co-owner of my company. I blanche.

I’m unable to ponder it for a second longer before I can feel the gag pulled from my mouth to be replaced by hardened flesh, shoving nearly to the back of my throat. I choke for a second at the unexpected intrusion, still extremely troubled at the presence of a man I knew so well in my strange, perverted fantasy. It could be nothing more than that, after all—a fantasy.

To my own surprise, I feel myself beginning to suck on the torrid flesh, running my tongue skillfully along the veins and ridges. He’s obviously enjoying it from the moans coming from his mouth, though I am rather astounded at myself. I’ve never done this before—have I? Suddenly, I’m not quite so sure anymore.

My partner grabs the back of my head, forcing his hardened length further into my mouth. I seem to avoid choking again by use of some ability I didn’t know I possessed.

There are long, sharp nails scraping down my back again, drawing more blood to mingle with the drying blood from before. I’m not sure how much I’m enjoying this sanguine fixation this man has, but the pain is almost as sweet as the pleasure, and I find it hard to complain when I can feel myself trembling under his ministrations.

Part of me can’t believe I’m here, sucking my business partner’s cock. What in my mind could cause me to dream such a thing? Had I suppressed fantasies of him? I don’t think so, but there could really be no assurances, as I’ve obviously deluded myself about many things, since I would have said just a week ago that I had no attraction to men. How wrong I could be about myself.

I feel my climax rushing up on my quickly, can feel it building up in my body with such obvious tension. I can feel the vibrator being constantly pressed into me even as I suck on the sensitive flesh in my mouth, can feel the overall erotic quality of the situation driving me closer and closer to the edge. I feel lips on my skin, a tongue licking up the blood that is pouring from the scratches on my back, knowing that in just a second longer, I will lose control.

The man thrusts the vibrator into me again, hard.

X x X x X x X x X

I wake up in my own bed again, my skin feverish and sensitive. My body is slick with sweat and my arousal is apparent through the sheets. My wife does not awaken this time; she remains asleep, her long brown locks falling down her face. I look over at the clock and, seeing that it is nearly time to get up anyway, swing my feet over the edge of the bed and made my way to the shower.

I undress quickly, my arousal aching for attention still. I dare not wake my wife purposely to help me relieve it, for I had felt guilty enough last time I had awakened her to relieve the pressure from such guilty fantasies, arising from a part of myself I hadn’t known existed. Part of me is disgusted, but that doesn’t keep the other part of me from being immeasurably aroused.

I turn the shower water on hot and step beneath the spray, running my hands guiltily over my own body. I wrap my hand around my aching erection and lean against the wall of the shower, the hot water causing the room to steam up quickly while I run my fingers up and down my own length.

I find myself thinking not of my wife, nor of any woman, but of the mysterious man of my fantasies, the one with the long nails who likes to tie me up, who showed me, to my own surprise, how much I seem to like it as well. I find myself thinking of being restrained again, of his fingernails running down my body again and drawing blood. I think of his tongue licking it up as it did in my fantasy, causing me to bite back a moan, lest my wife hear.

And then, unbidden, the image of my business partner, forcing his own hardened length into my mouth. Rather than deter me, as I know it should, it only arouses me further, causes me to pump my erection faster. A few seconds later, I can feel myself release, something my fantasies have yet denied me. I sag back into the shower wall, feeling both mortified and satisfied.

X x X x X x X x X

When I see my business partner walk into my office that day to discuss a proposal with me, I find myself feeling embarrassed. Of course, there is no way he could know what seems to have cropped up in my fantasies, that I dream of him taking advantage of me while tied down. There is no way for him to know that my body seems to enjoy this.

I try to act as normally as possible, try not to let him in on the fact that I am immensely uncomfortable in his presence. I don’t seem to be succeeding, though, because he eyes me with concern and asks me what is wrong.

“Nothing,” I assure him quickly—perhaps too quickly. He quirks an eyebrow at me, so I offer more. “I just haven’t been sleeping very well lately.”

He claps a hand on my back, and it’s impossible for me not to bristle at his touch. Thankfully, he seems not to notice this and just says, “Maybe you should go home and get some sleep. You look like hell.”

I nod and agree, mostly because I can’t think of anything else to do, and grab my jacket from where I’ve discarded it. My partner tells my assistant that I’m leaving early, that he’ll handle things for me for the rest of the day. My assistant merely nods and continues typing things at the computer, saying a simple, “Goodbye, sir.”

Yet I find myself not driving home, but in the direction of the club, Anodyne. I had gone there the previous day and it had been there, hadn’t it? Or had that been part of the dream? I can’t remember anymore; everything was blurring together.

I don’t park the car this time; I know by now where the club is and find myself driving straight to the street on which I know it resides. The block looks much the same as it has every time I’ve seen it: foreign and degenerate and everything that I’d never before experienced in my own life. Yet it is slowly becoming more familiar every time I come here.

I stop in front of the building where Anodyne is, feeling myself pale. The block looks the same, but in the spot where the club should be, there is a small Chinese food restaurant. It looks as if it’s been there for a while, though I’m sure I’m in the right spot, and just yesterday the club was there. Or was that part of the dream as well?

X x X x X x X x X

I arrive home about half an hour later, beginning to think that I’m losing my mind. My dreams are beginning to blur with reality, and I’m beginning to find it difficult to concentrate. I want nothing more than to collapse into bed, so I make my way to the bedroom I share with my wife and remove my jacket, shoes and tie, not bothering to actually change into something more comfortable. I feel as if I’m truly walking in a dream, and I don’t have the energy to do more.

I collapse into the bed, feeling myself falling asleep nearly the second my head hits the pillow. I don’t know how long I’m out, but I feel myself rousing a while later, a strange discomfort in my arms and shoulders. Still half asleep, I squirm a bit and notice that that causes the discomfort to intensify, that I’m actually swinging from the leverage.

I snap awake immediately, becoming fully aware of my surroundings before long. The room I’m in has the same dim red lighting as the inside of Anodyne, but there are no other people that I can see. It looks similar to the room I was in last—perhaps a back room of the club?

It comes to my attention nearly immediately that I’m suspended from the ceiling by my arms, which is obviously what’s causing my discomfort. With some effort, I look up to see that there is a pair of leather handcuffs attached to the ceiling, holding me there. I struggle a bit, just to test it, but it does no good.

I suddenly feel a harsh slap against my backside, causing me to cry out, though I can feel another gag in my mouth muffling the noise. This slap wasn’t from a paddle like the previous one, but from something more like a whip, because I can feel the drip of warm blood where the tip breaks my skin. It’s followed by another hard smack, and I squirm uncomfortably under the assault.

It’s only then that I become aware of the effect this is having on my body. I’m not repulsed, still, or afraid, but aroused at the pain that is coursing through my veins. It seems that I’ve been in this state for a while, though I do not remember, for I can feel the slight pain of unreleased passion, can see a small ring fastened around the base of my erection, a tool that I recognize immediately. I groan at the sight; I’ve never used one before, but I know quite well what the purpose of a cock ring is.

The person wielding the whip seems content to drop it after only one more hit, focusing instead on the tender skin of my throat. I can feel teeth against my neck, leaving harsh purple bruises as they bite down onto the easily-marked skin. I squirm under the attention, feeling the blood pulse through my neglected erection. Hands catch me around the throat and still my movement; I can feel sharp nails digging into my skin and I know immediately who it is.

One long-fingered hand remaining around my throat, the other grasps me by the hips and holds me still for a second before withdrawing, and I can feel the head of my mysterious dream man’s lubricated erection pressing against my opening. The hand holds me firmly by the throat while he eases his length into me.

I groan at the feeling of being filled, but there’s none of the pain I expect. I have a strange suspicion that I’d already been prepared for this, though I can remember nothing before the last minute inside this room. I’m sure that I must be dreaming now; I remember falling asleep at home after my partner told me to leave work.

The dream man gives me little time to adjust to the new intrusion and pulls out almost to the tip, slamming back into my body with force great enough to make me swing a bit where I’m dangling from the ceiling. He seems to notice this and grabs me harshly by the hips, his long fingernails digging into the skin just below my hipbones. I know they must be leaving marks, or at least little crescent-shaped indentations that will undoubtedly take a long time to fade.

I feel a sudden wet heat over my erection and glance down quickly, seeing it being swallowed up by a man I hadn’t previously noticed, on his knees before me. He holds me in place as the other man begins to thrust into me with renewed force, devouring my erection with a sort of hunger I’ve never experienced from my wife, or indeed no other woman I’ve ever been with.

I can’t help but groan again as I recognize the mop of hair beneath me as that of my assistant. What is it inside me that has conjured these images of my co-workers? I wonder dimly.

But those thoughts disappear in favor of more exigent issues, and I moan at the feel of my assistant caressing me even as he worked his mouth over my length, the other man continuing to thrust into me with sharp little gasps into my ear. He refocuses his attention on my neck again and begins to worry the already-bruised skin. His hips roll against mine, his sharp fingernails digging into my hipbones.

The slap of skin against skin and the unmistakable sounds of sex and sucking echo off the walls of the room as both men continue to assault me from both ends with renewed vigor. It feels so good—better than I’ve ever felt before—as I feel my assistant taking me deep into his throat while the other, mysterious man keeps thrusting into me, hitting that bundle of nerves that makes me moan against my gag with every thrust. I know that I’m squirming and that it’s just making the discomfort in my suspended arms even greater, but I find that I cannot stop myself, that my rational thought is quickly being overcome by overwhelming pleasure.

It is all wetness and heat and heady moans and pain and pleasure and blood; all at once they begin to overwhelm me, make my brain begin to feel cottony, thoughts thick and difficult to grasp. It is hard thrusts and long fingernails piercing skin and dexterous tongue and hard bites against my neck. I feel my orgasm approaching quickly, overpowering me and driving me crazy and making me dizzy.

Finally, I feel myself releasing, all fireworks and lightheadedness, moaning loudly into the gag as the tension flows from my body and I fall limp from my bonds.

X x X x X x X x X

I wake up panting and gasping, my body sweat-drenched again. My wife is next to me in bed once more, but she remains sleeping and completely unaware of me. I sigh in relief, seeing that this time I am not hard, and collapse back into the sheets, giving myself time to calm down, for my breathing to slow enough for me to get up.

When I finally feel calm enough to rise, I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and stand, glancing at the clock to see that it is still early in the morning. Still, I know that I’m not going to get back to sleep, so I grab my robe and make my way downstairs, turning on the coffee maker. While waiting for the coffee to be ready, I go outside to pick up the newspaper, thankful that it isn’t so early that the paper hadn’t been delivered yet.

I grab it and bring it inside, dropping it on the table as I prepare my coffee. Finally, taking a sip, I sit down at the table and unwrap the newspaper from its plastic bag, unfolding it so it sits on my table. An article stares at me from the front page, making my eyes widen at the headline:

Underneath is a picture of me entering Anodyne. I stare at the article for a few long moments, disbelieving. Was I still dreaming? Or—