A Dream in Midsummer

The dream starts the same way every time.

I'm lying in bed, in my bedroom. It's night-time, but I'm not asleep; I don't think I've woken up, and ... and it feels like I've been

waiting

, lying in bed sort of ... waiting. The TV is always on, but it's in black and white; it's reruns of something, some old sitcom. And then, sort of ... suddenly, it's just static and snow, but there's still no noise.

I look around my room, because I think, even in the dream, I mean, I think I know what's coming. And I see my bookshelves, and ... and I'm lying

on

my covers, not

under

them, and there's my lamp and my clock, and it's just after 3 AM, and then...

Then, there's this

light

, coming in my window, from outside.

Okay, stop. Wait. This starts before that. Let's go back.

I'm a normal enough person. We could have met, and you wouldn't have known; it's not like I carry a sign, or bring it up while I'm ordering a coffee - double sugar, double cream, also, I'm kidnapped by Faeries for a few nights, every month around the full moon.

I'm not crazy. I'm not saying the dreams are

literal

truth, just that, there's

truth

to them. I don't know if they happen, or ... or they're a dream, but I do know, I do know they're not

just

in my head.

I don't think I've ever

not

had the dreams. I don't remember not having them. I don't remember the first one. These dreams, these ... sixty nights out of the year, or so, it's just ... always been that way. I've known it's not that way for other people.

Anyway. Point is, I know it

sounds

crazy. But it has

effect

. I'd have these dreams, and ... there was ... there was no,

you know

, like, not back then. That didn't come until later.

When I was really young, it was just, I'd go along, and we'd play, just play, you know, like kids play? We'd toss and tumble, we'd climb and explore, and it felt wonderful and free, and there were no rules, and no adults, but we never needed them.

When I got to be a teen, we'd ... we'd dance, in these fields; everyone was wearing these ... masks, so elaborate, and the dresses and the men were in suits and jackets. One of them, he would bring out a fiddle, and he'd play, while we danced in a great circle around him, and he'd sit on this rock...

When I was eighteen, I started to wonder. No, that's not true. I'd always wondered. My mother called me her

faerie child

, and I never knew my father, but ... anyway, one morning, the morning after the ... the dream, I work up early, earlier than usual.

The sun's not even up yet, and there I am, getting dressed, and ... I had to know, you know? I mean, I had to

know

. I would have marks, and scratches from the grass and my socks were filthy and I knew, but I had to

know

.

I made my way out back, to the field. I knew the way, since I'd been so many times, even though I'd never been there awake. So, I'm spotting these landmarks - the bent tree, the run-off stream - and I'm passing over them, knowing which way to go like I'm following a map in my mind, but I've never

been

there.

And I found it. The rock, that ... he, him, the rock he sat on while he played his fiddle. And there was this ... circle, in the grass, all laid out, laid flat down, like someone had ... had

bent

the grass, like someone had come along and bent down all the grass, not trampled, not crushed, but bent it, into this ... Great circle, around this ... this

rock

, this boulder.

And I found the patch of grass where ... where one of them had whispered to me, and ... And I could see, where my hands had dug into the earth, and ... there was dirt under my fingernails, and I lined my hands up and

my God

, I must have been there, but ...

...

So, I'm older, now. I've moved out on my own - Collage, right? And the dream has changed. It's ... it's not just dancing anymore.

Now, as with then, there's this

light

. And it's not always the same; sometimes it's white and sometimes it's green, or gold or red, and I know the colours have

meaning

, I can tell what's going to happen that night from the light, but ... I couldn't tell you now, which colour means what.

So I rush to the window; I always do. And, my bedroom window, in my apartment, it ... it looks onto this alley, and out of one corner, you can

kind of

see this park, but mostly you just see the next building, and during the day there's nothing to see.

But I rush to the window, and look down, and there's this ... well, that changes. It's a different one sometimes, but usually, I think ... usually, it's the same one. And he's tall, I can tell, even looking down at him.

He's got on this suit, and it's black, but

so

black that it's like it's sewn from, I don't know,

darkness

, and his shirt is stark-white and crisp. And he's nearly always wearing a mask, but

what

mask changes. Sometimes, the mask covers his face, and it's wooden, painted elaborately with eyes and eyebrows, a beard of its own, and ram's horns; other times, it's a Domino mask, or sometimes, it

looks

like a mask, but it bends and moves like a normal face, or sometimes he doesn't wear a mask at all.

Last night ... last night, he wore this black mask, simple, a Domino mask; his hair fell down all around it, almost like this ... mane, of chestnut hair, so thick, and ... and ...

... he had these

horns

, rising out of his head, these great, huge,

heavy

looking horns, and they were so

long

, and they curled, like,

back

, over his head like ...

I know. I know. But - but, there have

always

been stories of men with horns like a ram. Always.

Always

. And I mean, I

know

it didn't happen, but it ... it

did

, too. Just listen.

So, he's standing there, beneath my window, like he does every night, and he's holding this

flower

. And I mean, it

looks

like a rose, kind of, but it's so

big

, and full, and I've never seen a rose like that, and he holds it up to me, and I press my hand against the glass, and ...

... and I'm standing there, in the alley with him. And he lowers the rose so that it's between his face and mine, and I reach up to take it from him. His hands are

so big

, so full, his fingers are thick, but they're not plump; they're workers hands, not rough but rugged, like he works with his hands on wood or steel, but through gloves?

I pet his hand, stroking it to get him to give the rose to me, and he does, and I smell it, and it's

not like any other rose I've ever smelled

, different every time. It's full and it's fresh and it's

so

rich, it's more like

drinking

a rose than smelling one. And I look back at him and he's got these ... just

massive

eyes, so broad, and they're this deep, rich mahogany in color...

We basically sprint across the road, because there aren't any cars, but every light in every window is on, but they're all flickering, like Christmas lights or ... or candleflames. We're running for the park, and he's got my hand held in his, and we're just

running

, flat out running, and

how often do you get to do that

, just

run

, so I'm laughing, and we pass that same crooked tree and over that little run-off stream, and ...

... and we're back there. Same as every time. Back, to the rock and the clearing and the circle. But there's so

many

. That's the thing; it's not one or ten, it's at

least

twenty-five, and there's men and there's women, and some are so tall, I feel like I can barely see them all at once and I'm not sure I could reach their face if I stood on my tip-toes, and others are so so short, little, like ... not three apples high, but no taller than my waist. And the

costumes

- they're in ballgowns, and trenchcoats, and pantaloons and jackets, and it's like a fairy tale and a renaissance fair.

Most of them are wearing masks, just like my escort, Domino masks, or the ornately carved masks, or sometimes the masks almost seem to be their faces, with long curved noses, and wild eyebrows, and eyes in vivid purples or blues or greens.

And the women are so, so beautiful, with perfect skin and high cheekbones, and these long ears that just kind of

rise up

, seemingly never really ending, and these lovely little noses and perfect teacup breasts, and the men are so dashing and charming, pure white smiles and eyes that laugh, well-built but not too muscly, lean, but not thin, so

perfect

, and I feel ...

Well, talking about it, and seeing me, all round where they're straight, curved instead of angular, you'd think I'd feel out of place or ugly, but there's so many shapes there; curvy and rounded and straight and narrow and pear-shaped and apple-shaped, and they're

all

laughing, and dancing, and I've never felt quite so welcome or so beautiful.

So I'm dancing, because

they're

dancing, and I can tell you, I don't dance. Away from that field, outside of ... of my dream, I've nothing but left feet, and can't find my rhythm, but my escort takes me by the hand, and this wonderful little curvy wood-sprite, wearing a dress made of leaves and with these ... these

wings

, translucent and glistening like they're glass, but shimmering like skin of gasoline on a pond. She meets my gaze, and she nods, and ...

I don't know if they talk, because I never remember what they

said

, but I know she let me know her name was Acornleaf, and I know she said my eyes were very pretty and that she loved my laugh. And I remember the feeling of her hand, so small and dainty, but with this ...

great strength

, and I remember how we laughed and laughed, as we got spinning, just

spinning

, all of us, in this huge, huge circle around the rock...

Oh, I danced, and danced. My escort, I'd met him before; his name is Rudolpho, and he's handsome and bold. The circle breaks off into smaller groups, and he pulls

me

against him. I can tell there are eyes on him and I, and I'm feeling his hands, one on my hip, and the other one, cupping my ass, pressing me to him. Oh, I know, it sounds so vulgar, and crude, but he was so ...

smooth

, and to feel him, to feel his cock pressing against me from his pants gave me this ...

thrill

, and I'm really glad I'm wearing my good panties, and I can

so distinctly feel them

, because I already want to take them off.

We danced, and ... and I know he was whispering things in my ear, telling me the things he was going to do to me, with me, and I'm blushing and giggling. I can feel his lips brushing against my ear, his hand squeezing and releasing at my buttock, as he uses the rhythm of the music to press against me, and pull away ...

And the song changes, but I never hear it end, and Rudolpho disappears into this ...

crowd

, out of nowhere. But it's like I ... know the moves, and I fall in line. It's somewhere between a line dance and a ... I don't know, a square dance, maybe, and I'm whirling around, being passed around. There's this one of them, he's so, so tall. Not just tall, though - so

big

, so tall I couldn't reach the top of his head, and so big around I don't know if I could close my arms around him, and when he takes my hand, he dwarfs it, just like I did with Acornleaf.

He's Dannal, he says, and I

hear

him with this deep brogue like a Scotsman, and as soon as I hear his accent I feel my knees grow weak. He's twirling me, and I'm thinking we're probably supposed to switch partners but I don't let go, and he laughs and takes me around again. He picks me up, then sets me down; it's part of the dance, but I feel a wonderful rush as butterflies of excitement fill my stomach, and I see his face and his lips and wonder how he's ever going to bend down low enough to kiss me...

When he drops to one knee, holding my hand, pressing his lips to mine; his lips are soft and strong, not entirely yielding, and he smells of rocks and oak trees and

strength

. I throw my arms around his head and kiss him, my tongue slipping between his lips, and he kisses me back, pressing his tongue into my mouth, and I feel my legs tremble; he holds me around the middle while the kiss finishes, and my butterflies are turning into fireworks when the music starts again.

And there's more, so many more! It's this whirlwind of striking women, like Peaseblossom and Mustardseed, and handsome men like Tyrell and Henry, and I ... I feel like there were so many jokes, because I was

laughing

, always laughing, and I remember someone holding their nose and sort of ...

pushing

, and ... like a magic trick, and water came out their

ears

, and it was so funny!

It was Rudolpho and I, then, with the moon moving down from its peak, the lighting lower. He's pressed against me again, but this time I'm on the ground, lying on my back, propped half-up to sitting on my elbows. Rudolpho's lips are hungry and insistent, and my kisses are just trying to keep up.

Rudolpho, whom I've kissed before, he's kissing me like he means to have me, and I'm feeling his pressing his cock against my hip, and I'm in love with the idea, drunk on his passion. I want to feel him touch me, stroke me, rub me; I know I never cum as well as when Rudolpho makes me cum.

His hand runs up my thigh, parting my skirt, and I moan and the feeling of his fingers on my skin, and I feel like I'm trembling and eager. I let myself lean back, pulling him up and on top of me with my kissing, teasing at his mouth with my tongue. He shifts onto me, and I feel the weight of him, as his hand continues up my thigh, and my legs gratefully part for him.

His hand cups the back of my head as his fingers, so thick, so delightfully rough, run over my panties, teasing along my slit and my clit through the soft fabric. I moan, my fingernails sinking into the flesh of his shoulder; his shirt has come off, although I don't remember when. He kisses me again, and his hand behind my head buries itself in my hair, tugging lightly, holding me in place as his forefinger between my legs moves my panties aside.

I'm desperate to be touched by him. It's sometimes months between our visits, and he knows my body so well. His finger traces along my lips, skirting my moist hole. By the time he flicks his finger over my clitoris, it's damp with my juices, and I respond by raising my hips, and barely suppressing the urge to beg for more. He loves to hear me beg, but I love to make him work for it.

His lips are on my neck, apart, and I feel his tongue first, and then his teeth, against the skin there. It's not a bite, it's a nip, and he traps the skin and sucks, to mark me, to make sure I remember, as if I would ever forget. I grip his shoulder more tightly, and pull, as if I'm trying to remotely control his hand, trying to guide it to fuck me more intensely, maybe trying to lead his finger inside, but it doesn't work. It never works; Rudolpho will have me at his pace, will use my body as he wants, play me like a musical instrument and get exactly what he wants from me, and the idea is intoxicating.

We kiss again, and as we do his forefinger pressed against my wet opening, not yet pressing it, more ... more pressing the opening, pulling, as if to open me, to prepare me. I know what I'm being made ready for, and it makes me moan into his kiss and arch my back, pressing my breasts against his chest.

I'm shirtless. I have no idea when that happened, but I appreciate it, as Rudolpho breaks our kiss to press his lips against my clavicle, kissing along its curve. My hands roam over his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, because just the idea of having him using his lips and his teeth on my breasts and nipples is almost more than I can bear. Below, between my legs, his finger is pressed inside me, but no more than a fingertip.

Rudolpho is just barely pressing into my pussy, and he's probing me and pulling at me, stretching me in preparation, and I'm running my hands through his hair. I run my hand along his horn, and it's thick and solid, curving back over his head, and his teeth close around my nipple and his tongue flicks at its tip while his thumb grazes past my clit, and

oh God,

and I cry out, and he snickers and I know he's pleased with himself;

too

pleased with himself.

I moan his name, and we both love how it sounds. He presses his finger deeper inside me, first knuckle, second knuckle, and curls it up, seeking that tender soft spongy spot to stroke, pressing against the inside of me. My hand flies to the elbow of that arm, pushing, pleading, pulling, purring. His tongue plays over my nipple again, and then back to my lips, and we both kiss deeply, pulling with our tongue, kissing each other like we're desperate to fuck each other, and I moan into his kiss.

He pulls his hand away from my pussy, and releases my hair. He adjusts himself atop me, so that he's directly over me, between my legs, holding my hips, and he pulls me down, along the grass, towards him, and I shriek and giggle. He watches my body shudder, and I'm briefly bashful of being bare before him again, but his eyes are lit up and he's desperate to have me, and his face makes me feel like a goddess.

He adjusts his hips to mine, bringing himself, his cock I mean, bringing his cock up and aligned with my pussy, the thick head like a wedge, like a ram, ready to press into me, push me open, stretch me around him, and I'm eager to feel it. My hands are on his shoulders, and his are still on my hips, and I twirl some of his wonderful, long, chestnut-brown hair on my finger, and his eyes catch mine and we both smile, just before he shoves his thick cock into me.

I cry out in surprise; every time Rudolpho takes me, I cry out in surprise; he's always thicker than I remember, and my pussy always responds to that first powerful

thrust

that reminds me of who Rudolph is; a rush of pleasure, a sliver of pain, and it throbs around Rudolpho's cock, pumping once, just once, to welcome it home.

I whimper beneath him, because Rudolpho loves to hear me whimper, it makes him try even harder; and because I love it when Rudolpho tries harder; and because he

is

so full, so turgid and thick and

long

that it's true, it hurts. My hand curled in his hair, and I'm biting my lip and looking up at him. Rudolpho presses his full length into me, and it feels like there's not enough room in my little cunt for both his cock and my cervix.

As Rudolpho presses against the back wall of my pussy, I feel his balls, already tight and swollen, coming to rest against my ass. Eyes meeting his, I nod, and murmur, "Harder", knowing he will

anyway

but wanting to encourage good behavior.

Rudolpho is a dancer, and he has a dancer's body and a dancer's muscles and abs and thighs, and he leverages those muscles when he fucks a girl, like he's fucking me now. His hands have moved to my shoulder, and he's pressing down on me while he flexes his body, drawing his cock a half-foot out of my waiting pussy, and plunging it back in, just a little deeper.

I'm moaning, "Deeper, baby, just a little deeper" each and every time, and I'm remembering mornings after when I wake up and I have this dull

ache

and it makes me smile, every time. Rudolpho is like a machine, a piston, solid and reliable, and keeping up a dancer's beat, deeper, deeper, shallow, deeper, and my voice is getting higher and higher and louder and louder, and I know, I

know

all the other party-goers are all around us, hearing me beg to get fucked.

I can't talk anymore, I'm just making these

noises

, like an animal, but they still mean

harder

and they still mean

deeper

, and Rudolpho, his face is contorting, and it looks like he's growling, and I can tell he's bearing down on me. He's bearing down on his climax, and he's gonna

cum

, and knowing that he's not gonna be able to take it means

I'm

not able to take it, and I scream, not just loud but high, as my pussy

explodes

.