Author: Rykaine PM
[SLASH] His waking world is one of structure. Peaceful and Puritan. But when he lies down at night, Carmine is swept away into dreams where a goldeneyed lover ignites his passions. He longs for these dreams to be his reality. warning: tentaclesRated: Fiction M - English - Fantasy/Romance - Words: 835 - Reviews: 9 - Favs: 9 - Follows: 10 - Published: 12-28-06 - id: 2296470
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
At night he dreamed. Dreams that would make his Mama blush redder than the cherries that grew wild on the hills over-looking the pond. Dreams that would make his Daddy haul him outside and beat him 'til he couldn't walk straight. Dreams that, should any of the town ever catch wind of them, would see him beaten and tarred and dragged though the streets in shackles to be hanged in the square as a lech and a hedonist. For daring even to dream of such licentious and depraved acts. For finding pleasure in them at all.
Though such knowledge did little to stop his dreams. Even less to keep him from the pleasure he found in them. There had been a time when he felt shamed by them, by his response to them, both in the dreams themselves and long after, when he lay awake and panting in his bed, exhausted and tired, and feeling no more rested in the dawning light as he had when he had lain down the night before. But he had also felt sated. And full and warm and content and whole in a way his waking world never had. Never could.
In his dreams he was loved and touched. Sometimes by one man, sometimes two, others by so many it was impossible to tell how many stroked him and teased him. Kissed and licked. Nibbled and bit. Thrust against him and inside him, burning him from the inside out with the force of their passion until he woke, roaring into his pillow, his skin still tingling, his entrance burning and bruised and moist. Always he was alone when he awoke, yet he never felt it. The memory of the touches remained, the feel of their solid weight surrounding and embracing him stayed with him.
The men of his dreams were faceless, but for their gold and silver eyes. Hair the fell almost to the floor, silky soft and ranging in colors from the whitest blonds to the inkiest blacks drifted all about him like gossamer curtains, adding to the sensations of fingers and hands. Hands so much larger than his own, arms twice the width of his, thighs larger than the limbs of the oak at the bottom of the hill. Yet their skin was so soft, satin against his own. Their touches were so gentle, so light. And yet so skilled, bringing him to the edge and far beyond, night after night, dream after dream. So beautiful, the men of his dreams.
Sometime, though... some nights, he did not meet with these men at all. Some rare nights, there was another who stood over him. A pale shadow of a man, with skin that felt so cool and yet left his feeling as though burned by the sun itself. Rough hands, like the sandpaper he used to fashion and smooth his carvings. They caressed his face and tangled in his hair, sending shivers down his spine. A voice, course and deep like the growl of the wolves that hunted in the meadow, whispered in his ear. Encouraging words, seductive words. Words meant to excite, made him flush even as he gasped with need, made him bolder. Eyes the color of sunset watched him in intense fascination, arousal making the shine like burnished gold.
And all the while, there slithered around him the slick, smooth tentacles that seemed to originate from the man himself. Their copper scales glinted vibrantly from an unknown light source as they crawled up his legs and arms, wrapped about his waist, twined around his wrists and ankles, holding him down, denying him the ability to touch in turn, stretching his legs apart, holding him open. They brushed across his nipples, found and caressed the sensitive spots in his flesh. Pressed inside of him, pushed deep and deeper, setting him afire, making his blood boiling, driving him to completion over and over again.
He had screamed the first few nights he had experienced these dreams. The flood of emotions, the strength of his orgasm too overpowering for him to maintain his control, for him even to remember to show restraint, to feed his ecstasy into his pillow. These were his favorite dreams by far. He had felt guilt at first. For finding such pleasure and satiation and fulfillment in such a way. From such a source. But no matter his denials to himself, or his initial struggles to free himself from the dreams, once the man had stripped him bare and allowed his tentacles free range over his body, it was all he could do to stay a sleep. To keep from coming too soon. To prolong their time together. Every night he lay down, hoping that night would be one in which he might again meet his golden-eyed lover.
And sometimes, in the light of day when he should have been working at his chores, he wondered if ever he would meet his lover beyond the borders of his dreams...