It was getting to be a routine. She would finish reading, turn out the light and go straight to sleep. No conversation, in case we broach the forbidden subject which used to have us arguing almost every night. How long had it been? Two or three months. It felt like twelve. And never an explanation. She lay there with her back to me as I stared at the ceiling. Lying in the dark, in my own house, with my own wife, my erection straining against the bed sheets, unsatisfied again.
Jerking off just wasn't the same, although it had its benefits. I could imagine anything I wanted. This was my release, my salvation. Lorie never featured in my daydreams. Her coldness, distance and unfortunate ineptitude in bed couldn't be part of my private thoughts. Instead, I conjured up amazing, fantastic, sexy women. Over the weeks and months, they became characters with their own desires - for me, of course - staggering libidos, riotously inventive sexual imaginations, and endless stamina. They could go for as long as I needed them.
My dreams started in the last few hours at work. I would never masturbate there - a fantasy with one of my girls followed by the dull reality of my desk and computer just wouldn't do. I would build up the fantasy over a couple of hours, alone in my white-walled cubicle at headquarters, half my brain on the stock market and the other half constructing elaborate plots, characters, encounters... Then, when I got home, I would adapt the plot to suit my mood and, when Lorie fell asleep, slowly bring myself to an orgasm while the whole private movie played out in my head.
It worked, after a fashion. It got me off. But it was a lonely way to come, made more lonely by the presence of an attractive girl in bed next to me. But was she was always "tired" - I knew that to be a lie. Perhaps she was fucking someone else. Whatever, man. This marriage is going nowhere and as soon I can, I'll leave and fuck my way through the young beauties in the office. But for now, I'm limited to my left hand and my over-active imagination.
Tonight's dream has been building up since about 3pm. It's one of my best, an adaptation of a recurring theme. I love this one, and especially love playing around with it. There's so much latitude. I should write for the screen, or pen an erotic book. I'm a genius, in my own mind.
You see, I like the idea of being obliged by some powerful force to perform sexual acts with huge numbers of girls, one after the other. I've imagined it a thousand ways, and made the girls available in any number of highly original fashions, but tonight's is my favourite so far. Is Lorie asleep? Her breathing's slow and regular. Its been about 20 minutes since she turned the light off. Guess so. My Time now.
Part 2
"Welcome, Initiate," says the familiar voice. Its always the same voice, a lot like Carrie-Anne Moss from The Matrix. Sexy but inaccessible. Lewd but professional. Tempting but overwhelmingly powerful. Not a girl to be trifled with. "Your task tonight is simple. If you are successful you will be granted access to further levels. Prepare for embarkation."
Why not give myself a nice entry into this little fantasy of mine? I am standing at the doors to a large, expensive hotel. It is dark but I'm in a huge, bright city with a glimmering, neon skyline. I'm the only one there. A car glides into the circle, stops and waits for me. Its something between a limo and a sports car, straight from the high-end dealership of my mind. Black exterior, leather upholstery, all the gadgets. A bar in the back. I get in, relax into the soft leather and pour a drink - Highland Park single malt scotch. I light a Cuban cigar laced with MDMA. This is the way to travel.
The city is alive, but only as much as I want it to be. I watch it slide past the tinted glass of the windows, detached and only vaguely cognisant of its existence. I'm concentrating more on the pungent, pleasant sensations of the scotch. I guess Carrie-Anne is driving. She doesn't say anything. The ride is smooth and fast, because there is no traffic. I didn't want any.
We arrive as I finish my drink, of course. The door opens and it is bright outside. The start of a new day, I guess about 9am. I'm at the gate of a large high school campus. It is a beautiful day and the lawns are have a lush green shine beneath broad, leaning willow trees. A path leads from the gate to a big, modern building with a curved reception hall and broad, single-pane windows. I walk over. The sun is nice on my skin. I've changed into jeans and a t-shirt. Just because I can, I sit in the sunshine on the steps of the building and light a joint. It feels good to smoke up in a school. I blow rings at the flag on the mast, occulting the image, then blow out a small replica of the flag in smoke. It eclipses the original and vanishes. I give my joint to a passing hippy. He smiles and walks on, headphones hissing with fine tunes. A pretty girl on a skateboard passes me and she smiles too. Everyone likes me here.
