Chapter 2: The Party
I was lying on a large, comfortable bed. My upper body was propped up by pillows made of clouds. Each pillow was different; one was blue and irregularly shaped. It held my head up. Another, placed behind my torso, was reddish-orange; it had a Mandela design that would have drawn my interest if my eyes weren't already fixed on the form that stood near an open door made of light and glass.
The being was almost formless, like a slab of clay before the mind's eye. But then it, or I – I was unsure which- slowed down, or cleared, and the artist began to work. The surrounding angles softened and cooled, and my vision began to clear. Beyond, a balcony formed; past that a white backdrop materialized. Water dancing with rocks below an invisible bluff proclaimed its existence to me.
I noticed then that the backdrop was not white, but was rather a moon, large and fixed in a starless, black sky. The moon bathed the balcony in white light, producing moving shadows on the balcony's marble floor. It entered the room through the open entrance where the form, which now became a figure, stood. It didn't illuminate; the light seemed to bend down and away from the figure in a kind of magisterial assent. Because of this, the figure stayed in limbo, unfinished by a discerning eye.
However, where there were no clean lines or distinctions, there was a kind of potential beauty --a word at the tip of the tongue, a blank page of an unfinished novel-- standing there looking at me. I'm not sure how I knew, but it was female. Maybe it was the "femaleness" of which Plato spoke: the pure transcendental female form, the fountain from which all femininity poured. Standing there. In front of me.
She moved. She lifted her sleek arm toward me and gestured. Suddenly I found lace lying on my wrists. I couldn't move my hands. The restraints were deep red, like the lustful kiss from someone unknown. They weren't tied around me or attached to the bed in any way. It was like someone placed them on my wrists nonchalantly. Still, I was caught.
Who was she?
She gestured again. I felt cloth around my ankles, holding me tight.
She gestured again. My legs and arms spread out, helpless to her silent decree.
The curtains fluttered. A cool breeze ran up my exposed thighs and tickled my balls. I noticed then I was naked below the waist, and that my cock was one my few parts unfettered. The curtains behind her fluttered again, and I braced for the result. I shuddered as Mother Nature teased my full balls and growing cock with wispy kisses.
In my unnatural pleasure, I noticed that where the moonlight stayed clear, the unassuming touch from the wind traveled with abandon. The sheer fabric she wore flowed over her arm, then the rest of her like a river. The ripples moved from back to front, down to up, converging at her chest. I knew her nipples were hard as the wind played its sensual game. She moved her hand outward, and my shirt opened. I gasped. My cock throbbed in mutual agreement.
She extended her other hand out, and the wind took its cue. A column of air flowed under and around her until it opened and released the gown, which then fell to the floor. At that point the curtains stopped and the music of the wind ended. Her nakedness elicited a pavlovian response in me: my heart rate increased; my nipples, my neck, my balls, and my cock --all of me actually-- tingled in delicious restraint.
I tried to pull up a name, an image, a face, to impose upon her, but nothing was found. However, my body remembered her. It tried to brake free and crawl to her, to do what it could to get her to touch it, caress it, kiss it. Fuck it. She noticed my need, and came toward me. I saw her hair; it was long and blond like strung gold. Did I smell lavender? I moaned as she drew nearer. Whoever she was, I needed her. Now.
My lips trembled as her face appeared. She was beautiful. Blue eyes. Smooth skin. Not a blemish except for a sexy model-like mole on her lower cheek. Allowing her hair to run over my bound legs, my captor slowly crawled onto the bed. I moaned and tried to draw myself up toward her, tried to bring my hands to her smooth skin as her hair lightly caressed my sex. But I was held tight by her dark, sensual spell. She smiled.
"Soon." She whispered as her lips passed over my muscular chest. God. So close.
"Mine." She said. The word blew across my lips. I was so hard. Throbbing. Blue eyes lined up with mine. I felt her heat. I tried all I could to touch her, but her skin was always an inch away. Pleasure so close. If I could I would have jumped off a cliff, fallen into her mouth, her eyes, her femininity.
"Please," I said. "Touch me."
In one fluid motion the woman I knew but didn't reached for my cheek and leaned in to kiss me. My eyes closed... Who are you?
*** Serene ***
I jerked up as my clock radio blasted "Rock You Like A Hurricane" by the Scorpions. Damn. It was the fourth time I have had this dream in the past two weeks; each time it ended at the same place, before her body pressed against mine, before she fulfilled my subconscious needs. And every time I woke up with a hard-on, the last thing on my mind, her name, was the first thing to fade away. The dream, however, did not. It began to sneak into my day like an uninvited guest.
At work, after crunching ones and zeros for a few hours, the dream woman would enter my mind. The code on the monitor would shift and change from ordered lines and columns to a mass of letters and numbers that would coalesce into large breasts that needed my strong hands, lips that needed to be tasted, and blazing blue eyes that commanded sensual obedience. I don't know what was worse, the aching hard-on that arose from my broken thoughts, the work stoppage, or the aching notion somewhere within –where old memories lay of lost toys and hidden fortresses on top of large oak trees– that she owned me. If I were to tell someone about this dream and its effect, I would equate it to what the male black widow spider must feel: caught willingly by the temptress. Maybe it's a good thing I didn't talk to someone. I might have been locked away in some dark underground asylum and would have missed what was to come.
Three weeks after the first dream, I had a party to attend. I received the invite at the gym. That night was like any other. As usual, I found the muscle bound guy at the front desk focused intently on a magazine that had emblazoned on the front page: GET HUGE FAST, THE PYRAMID WAY. This time he gave me more than the obligatory nod.
