Lives and those that dream them
I dreamed all night long of fanciful encounters.
These encounters were in dimly lit rooms, cramped with low ceilings, scarred by bad paint jobs, crowded with strangers in glaring vinyl and latex.
I still see clearly in my mind's eye the writhing and closeness of the crowd as they would sway forwards and backwards; side to side, rhythmically in time with the thrumming bass beats of a mechanical sounding club-dub deep track. Sweat dripped, bodies ached. Colors swirled about, lancing off the reflective surfaces of the neo modern, polished steel furniture sparsely guarding the shadow draped wall.
In the corners of the room, of which there were more than four, masses of leather clad succubi huddled together; their eyes darting over the throng laden with a hunger that no tangible substance could satiate. Their wickedly revealing bodices swelled in sync with the techno grind music as their minds surely swam with lust driven images of base carnality and beastial desire.
The beats and rhythm continued, the tempo slightly increasing its pace as the raw sounds began to be interlaced with a higher pitched digital succession of ringing tonality and electronically manufactured riffs and cuts. The lights began to dance about in a manic passion darting as if blind predators stalking an ever evasive prey. As the music climbed in tempo, as the volume rose from sublime to overwhelming, the mass of fetish bound enthusiasts redoubled the efforts of their orgiastic contortions. What had once been a subdued swaying became a synchronized heaving. Where once arms had hung limply, where heads had been bowed, where torsos did subtle figure eights; now became a flailing of arms, heads tilted back as if praising invisible gods found in the beat, torsos manipulating the air searching for release. The crowd begin to draw itself in; they were a star at the end of its life - condensing, swelling in mass even as its surface decreased.
As bodies grew closer a new sound lifted itself above the music. The dancers, if what they were doing now could actually be considered dancing and not something altogether more vulgar yet strangely unrepulsive, began moaning. The beat came faster. The bodies came closer. The moans and primal sounds grew louder even yet. The creatures in the corners, these squads of feral, dispersions of lust made manifest, began to let their own hands roam. They rubbed themselves in seductive ways, they rubbed one another; it was as if they were unaware of their drifting petting. The thirst in their eyes for release was unbound and unquenchable.
Then it stopped.
The music ceased. As it did, the crowd let out one last mass of sighs, cries, and screams of unfiltered pleasure. Their arms lifted as one; a final act of praise to the quickly fleeting gods of lust. Backs arched. Eyes were closed, yet lifted upwards. From the center, in a slowly growing opening a new participant began to emerge.
My dream-self was taken in, trapped as I was in this bodiless voyeuristic state.
As the hole in the center of the crowd parted, as the black clad dancers were still trembling in the midst of post orgasmic earthquakes, they lifted her up over head. She was bound all in white.
Her dress was white vinyl latex, form fitting, glistening, and tightly bound, clinging to her breasts as if a second skin. The dress was a sleaveless number with a high collar; the black ribbon she had used for enclosure began well below the belt line and continued its sinous journey up her spine, criss-crossing through silver eyelets until its terminus bear the base of her skull. The dress made two severe plunges at the hip, a "v" in front and in back from which flaired a thickly pleated series of skirtings. The vinyl of the dress was broken only by the black leather inserts that made up the interior folds of each pleat. Where the dress ended at her ankles, she could be seen to be wearing a pair of glossy black leather, spiked heel boots. The boots, the dress, and the elbow length white vinyl fingerless gloves on her arms each were adorned with small silver spikes. She wore a single silver ring on the middle finger of her left hand.
The crowd lifted her high as if for sacrafice and began to move her across the room. Responding like lions in a Roman pit meant for a hapless Christian, the women in the corners descended on the vision in white, their Queen, and with open arms accepted the apparent offering of the crowd. These angels of all thoughts impure and taboo then drift with her towards a stage that had been draped heavily in thick velvet curtains the color of deepest plum. The succubi then ascended the stage steps, the White Queen held high over head, and I could not help but be reminded of a funeral procession.
Again, my formless dream-self hovered high over head taking each moment in. I could not turn away; all thoughts of lucid control were given up to the moment of the dream.
Once they had their Queen on the stage, they propped her up and began to rub and caress her all over, not just with their hands, but with their entire bodies. The effect on the Queen was instantaneous. Her eyes sprang open, her head lunged back in purest ecstacy, and it was at that moment her eyes made contact with mine.
Recognition stunned me.
This dream vision Queen, Titania's own daughter, was known to me! She seemed to know that even invisible, I lingered about the scene. Our eyes locked and I looked into the hazel depths of the woman that even now lay sleeping next to my mortal frame in the waking world beyond this dream where our naked bodies were huddled together in the dark of night. My dream self realized this, and the subsequent waves of emotion and purest lust transmitted from her eyes to my soul stirred me from the blessings of this dream and back into the cold reality of a crisp January morning.
I awoke.
As I rolled over, the dream still lingering heavily in my memory, the pre-dawn light allowed me to barely make out the sillouette of the White Queen of my dreams sleeping next to me. I extended my face towards her, carnal thoughts and compulsions urging me to do more, and softly kissed her forehead.
Today would be a good day, and each day hereafter would only be better as long as she was with me in both this waking world and the dreams I play in at night.
I still see clearly in my mind's eye the writhing and closeness of the crowd as they would sway forwards and backwards; side to side, rhythmically in time with the thrumming bass beats of a mechanical sounding club-dub deep track. Sweat dripped, bodies ached. Colors swirled about, lancing off the reflective surfaces of the neo modern, polished steel furniture sparsely guarding the shadow draped wall.
In the corners of the room, of which there were more than four, masses of leather clad succubi huddled together; their eyes darting over the throng laden with a hunger that no tangible substance could satiate. Their wickedly revealing bodices swelled in sync with the techno grind music as their minds surely swam with lust driven images of base carnality and beastial desire.
The beats and rhythm continued, the tempo slightly increasing its pace as the raw sounds began to be interlaced with a higher pitched digital succession of ringing tonality and electronically manufactured riffs and cuts. The lights began to dance about in a manic passion darting as if blind predators stalking an ever evasive prey. As the music climbed in tempo, as the volume rose from sublime to overwhelming, the mass of fetish bound enthusiasts redoubled the efforts of their orgiastic contortions. What had once been a subdued swaying became a synchronized heaving. Where once arms had hung limply, where heads had been bowed, where torsos did subtle figure eights; now became a flailing of arms, heads tilted back as if praising invisible gods found in the beat, torsos manipulating the air searching for release. The crowd begin to draw itself in; they were a star at the end of its life - condensing, swelling in mass even as its surface decreased.
As bodies grew closer a new sound lifted itself above the music. The dancers, if what they were doing now could actually be considered dancing and not something altogether more vulgar yet strangely unrepulsive, began moaning. The beat came faster. The bodies came closer. The moans and primal sounds grew louder even yet. The creatures in the corners, these squads of feral, dispersions of lust made manifest, began to let their own hands roam. They rubbed themselves in seductive ways, they rubbed one another; it was as if they were unaware of their drifting petting. The thirst in their eyes for release was unbound and unquenchable.
Then it stopped.
The music ceased. As it did, the crowd let out one last mass of sighs, cries, and screams of unfiltered pleasure. Their arms lifted as one; a final act of praise to the quickly fleeting gods of lust. Backs arched. Eyes were closed, yet lifted upwards. From the center, in a slowly growing opening a new participant began to emerge.
My dream-self was taken in, trapped as I was in this bodiless voyeuristic state.
As the hole in the center of the crowd parted, as the black clad dancers were still trembling in the midst of post orgasmic earthquakes, they lifted her up over head. She was bound all in white.
Her dress was white vinyl latex, form fitting, glistening, and tightly bound, clinging to her breasts as if a second skin. The dress was a sleaveless number with a high collar; the black ribbon she had used for enclosure began well below the belt line and continued its sinous journey up her spine, criss-crossing through silver eyelets until its terminus bear the base of her skull. The dress made two severe plunges at the hip, a "v" in front and in back from which flaired a thickly pleated series of skirtings. The vinyl of the dress was broken only by the black leather inserts that made up the interior folds of each pleat. Where the dress ended at her ankles, she could be seen to be wearing a pair of glossy black leather, spiked heel boots. The boots, the dress, and the elbow length white vinyl fingerless gloves on her arms each were adorned with small silver spikes. She wore a single silver ring on the middle finger of her left hand.
The crowd lifted her high as if for sacrafice and began to move her across the room. Responding like lions in a Roman pit meant for a hapless Christian, the women in the corners descended on the vision in white, their Queen, and with open arms accepted the apparent offering of the crowd. These angels of all thoughts impure and taboo then drift with her towards a stage that had been draped heavily in thick velvet curtains the color of deepest plum. The succubi then ascended the stage steps, the White Queen held high over head, and I could not help but be reminded of a funeral procession.
Again, my formless dream-self hovered high over head taking each moment in. I could not turn away; all thoughts of lucid control were given up to the moment of the dream.
Once they had their Queen on the stage, they propped her up and began to rub and caress her all over, not just with their hands, but with their entire bodies. The effect on the Queen was instantaneous. Her eyes sprang open, her head lunged back in purest ecstacy, and it was at that moment her eyes made contact with mine.
Recognition stunned me.
This dream vision Queen, Titania's own daughter, was known to me! She seemed to know that even invisible, I lingered about the scene. Our eyes locked and I looked into the hazel depths of the woman that even now lay sleeping next to my mortal frame in the waking world beyond this dream where our naked bodies were huddled together in the dark of night. My dream self realized this, and the subsequent waves of emotion and purest lust transmitted from her eyes to my soul stirred me from the blessings of this dream and back into the cold reality of a crisp January morning.
I awoke.
As I rolled over, the dream still lingering heavily in my memory, the pre-dawn light allowed me to barely make out the sillouette of the White Queen of my dreams sleeping next to me. I extended my face towards her, carnal thoughts and compulsions urging me to do more, and softly kissed her forehead.
Today would be a good day, and each day hereafter would only be better as long as she was with me in both this waking world and the dreams I play in at night.
Until the next dream wakes me, I remain...
Son of Simp
posted by Son of Simp at 11:50 AM
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