Dreaming

“Dreaming, after all, is a form of planning.”

I have been reading a lot about how people have been having vivid, even disturbing, dreams during this period of lockdowns and restrictions. I have had my share too, most recently, finding myself in Australia with no money and a hotel bill to pay. I knew I had money in my savings account, lots of it, but I could only transfer this to my current account by actually going into the building society branch in England. And I had no money to go back to England to get the money I needed to eat and have a place to sleep in Australia. I was marooned. I woke up, sweating and shaking at 4 am. And not in Australia! And this is far from my weirdest dream.

None of these dreams, however, has been about sex or, for that matter, kink. I have, instead, daydreamed about these pretty much constantly. having taken a break from the kink sense for mental health reasons last winter, and my planned return having been unavoidably delayed, it is a year since I last played. Sex, too, has not been part of my bodily life for a while either. But kink and sex remain integral to my life. They have migrated into my head and I dream aboit them.

I have written a lot of stories both on this blog and elsewhere and these stories have drawn more directly on my own past than anything I have written before. They have been both therapy and catharsis. They have also served to draw a line under aspects of my past, a clearing of the decks for 2021.

And I am dreaming of the future now, of what I will do when fetish clubs open, when sexual partners emerge from the COVID darkness into the light of the new world I have dreamt for them. My dreaming has been a long course in self understanding, and most definitely a guide to action. Come 2021 I will be a better lover, a more attentive domme, (though possibly a mote sadistic one). But my dreams are only part of the plan. The rest we do together, and I look forward to being taken into the dreamworlds of subs, play partners, of lovers.

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Anita

“Right on the edge of fear was where trust could grow”

Cherise Sinclair

When I was a boy I wanted to be an amoeba. I liked the idea of being a creature that didn’t have to bother with sex. I adored Debbie Harry,  I masturbated till I was sore, I took my mother’s magazines to bed, I picked a model from the fashion pages and made her my wife, my lover in my fantasies. I imagined the house we would live in, the dinner parties we would host (which were oddly similar to the ones my parents hosted  but they were the only templates of adulthood I had), the bedroom where we would make love. I wanked to her in quiet adoration but when the sticky ejaculation flowed out to matt my pubic hair and dampen my pyjamas I felt a desperate sadness. These were things that would never be more than fantasy for me. Women belonged on posters, in magazines. In real life they were to be feared. Feared because, some time, a woman might ask me for sex. I avoided girls at at school. I took up trainspotting. I don’t even like trains. I found my fellow trainspotters weird. Yeah I know, I’m weird too but compared to these guys? But it was a safe environment, a long long way from sex.

I was 37 and a virgin when I met Anita. She was a few years older than me, divorced with 2 grown up children. I guess she was lonely. She must have been. Why else would she have been interested in me? But we starting meeting up. Just a drink in the local pub, a country walk. I liked her. She had a ready laugh, she could talk about football, she began to look after me. On my birthday I took her for dinner. She bought me a present, shirts and I realised she might be looking for more than friendship. That evening she invited me back to her house for coffee.

Coffee. And it’s not always with granules is it? I made myself comfortable on the sofa. . She poured whiskies and sat next to me. We talked, she sat closer, pressing her knee against my leg, played with my hair.  When she sat on my lap and pressed her lips gently against mine I felt sick. I was alone with her in her house, the bedroom was directly above us, the bedroom, the bedroom. Shit! The bedroom! This is real. This is going to happen. I felt my head go light as she took my hand and led me upstairs.

I failed. I cried. I apologised to her, told her I felt a failure. She cradled my head against her chest. kissed me gently on the top of the head, assuring me it was fine, she wasn’t angry,  it would be better next time. I unburdened myself there and then and 20 years of pain flowed out onto the soft sheets, like waters from a broken dam. She hugged me close, reassured me.

Next time, she kissed me gently, moving her lips from my mouth, down my body to my cock,  she took my cock into her mouth and sucked and licked and flicked the end with her tongue until I was hard. I knew I could keep this erection.  I knew I could. I wanted this. My fear was gone as she lay back, took me in her had and guided me into her wet, warm cunt. It didn’t last long. I felt the foreskin rolling back, felt wonderful sensations I had never known before. I pushed in and out  as she told me what to do. I came, felt the pulse of the ejaculation, saw a brilliant array of lights and colours as I sank down onto  her and submitted to its force.

I was spent. I was high on the joy of the moment. Anita sad she hadn’t come but that she was happy for me. She would come next time. She had enjoyed it anyway and next time would be even better. I cried as I thanked her. I knew that she had dome something special for me, something loving. She had taken my fear and turned it into trust.  And as for amoebas well………imagine one splitting into two and the second  is so much better than the first. It wants to fuck. It needs to.

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