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Message-ID: <49098asstr$1094123404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Meme Mispelt <meme17@zedzee.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} <*> Dry Spell (Meme Misspelt) caution - see note 
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Date: Thu,  2 Sep 2004 07:10:04 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Summary: I had the weirdest fucking dream today. And Dear Diary, I do mean fucking dream...
Keywords: caution -- see note below
Author: Meme Misspelt
Title: Dry Spell


DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of adult fiction, and is not intended for minors, any 
persons likely to be offended by explicit erotic content, or for 
distribution in any area where possession may violate laws or community 
standards.  


The author retains copyright in this work; you are hereby granted 
license to download, print and/or archive this work for personal use only. 
License is not granted to archive, or publish this work by any means in 
any publicly available archive, or physical form, except at 
WWW.asstr-mirror.org, without the author's prior consent.  Please just ask 
first, okay?

The author wishes to gratefully acknowledge the contributions made to 
this story by its editor, a.

Note about codes/content:

This story is not coded. It is supposed to have a few surprises. 
Most of what is described is heterosexual and consensual. This story
includes descriptions of anal penetration of males in a heterosexual 
and/or autoerotic context. There are some references to homosexual 
activity between women. There are no underage participants.

Dry Spell 
by Meme Misspelt


6 p.m. Wednesday June 30

Brutal fucking shift last night. I hate the end of the month. Sometimes 
I hate undergrads, period. I think at least three had waited until the 
night before the project was due to start it -- so even though it's only 
Summer Session, it was just about as busy as it ever gets. Fucking 
arrogant.

Woke up for breakfast with Rachel. Tried to interest her in a quickie 
before we got out of bed. No dice. Not that I'm counting, but it's been 
nearly two weeks.

Went back to bed around 9, after she left for work. The Klepper's lawn 
guys came around 10:30 and woke me up, so I put my earplugs in. And it 
was bright, so I put on the blindfold. Slept like a baby after that.  
Seems a little weird -- like sensory deprivation -- but it sure works.

10 a.m. Saturday July 3 

Rachel just left to go the library to study -- she's got a paper due on 
Tuesday, so we're going to have a crap fourth of July weekend. Lovely 
little hint about how I should be spending more time on my thesis. Gee, 
thanks, Rach. 

No sex, of course. 

Slow night at work -- Fridays are always slow -- and I spent a bunch of 
time kinda daydreaming about sex stuff. By the time I got home, I was so 
horny I could barely stand it.

When I started with the night shift, sometimes Rachel would actually 
wake up when I got home and we'd make love. Seems like a distant memory 
now. I thought this was supposed to happen after you'd been married for 
six years, not just living together for six months.

7 p.m. Tuesday July 6 

Dear Diary, sorry I haven't written to let you know the weekend was just 
as shitty as I expected it to be.

Rach has her night class tonight, so I don't even get to see her at all 
today (on account of how I didn't even bother to get up with her this 
morning). It's just like being single all over again -- here I sit with 
my mac & cheese and a "Seinfeld" rerun that I didn't think was funny the 
first time I saw it.

It's not like Rachel has done anything to make me suspicious, but it hit 
me today -- she could have another boyfriend, and I'd never even know 
about it. After I leave for work, she could go out to a bar and pick up 
some guy and screw him until 2 or 3, and make it back in time to be 
sound asleep when I get home.

Not that I think she is.

But then again, that would explain why she doesn't seem to want much sex 
lately.

4 p.m. Wednesday July 7 

I had the weirdest fucking dream today. And Dear Diary, I do mean 
fucking dream. It's been years since I had a wet dream, and they were 
never like this.

When it started I was in bed with Trudie. It's funny to think that part 
of why Trudie and I didn't work out was that she was too aggressive in 
bed. I think I'm so frustrated now that I could keep up with her for at 
least a couple of weeks. Or at least I wish I could split the difference 
between Rachel's sex drive and Trudie's.

When we were dating it freaked me out when Trudie put her fingers in my 
ass -- so, naturally, now that's what I dream about. In the dream I was 
naked on my belly with my legs spread wide. She was working at least two 
fingers in and out of me, and talking dirty.

"Trudie's nasty boy likes getting fucked in the ass, doesn't he?"

It was a really vivid dream. I felt how rough Trudie was. It was right 
on that edge between being really exciting and actually starting to 
hurt, like she hadn't used quite enough lube.

"You gonna come for me?"

My dick was rubbing against the sheet as I moved, and I was close.

"Touch me," I begged, rolling halfway on my side. "Jack my cock while 
you fuck me."

She just laughed.

"Jack it yourself."

She was always trying to get me to cross lines I wasn't sure I wanted to 
cross.

Remembering that made me kind of mad. It woke me up, or at least I 
thought it did.

I didn't realize it first, but I actually woke up into another dream.

In the second dream I was lying on the bed, face down, just like in the 
dream with Trudie. I couldn't see or hear much of anything, and at first 
I figured that was because I had the blindfold on and plugs in my ears.

And I was still being penetrated. For a panicky split second I still 
thought I was awake, but I tried to move my hands, to take the blindfold 
off, and see what was happening -- and my hands wouldn't move. That's 
what convinced me it was really a dream -- it wasn't like my hands were 
being held down or anything, they just weren't responding. Like those 
running dreams where the air seems to be made of molasses.

The air smelled strongly of pussy.

It wasn't like the dream about Trudie -- the thing I was being fucked 
with felt smooth and solid. More like a vibrator than like fingers. And 
cold and hot at the same time, even if that makes no sense.

Once I realized it was a dream, I relaxed a lot. It was really, really 
good. Always a little harder, a little deeper than I thought I wanted 
... but just a little. It's hard to admit that even when I'm just 
writing to myself, but there it is -- I was getting fucked hard, and it 
felt damn good to lie there and take it. And then I dreamed a hand 
reaching under me to cup my balls and stroke my shaft. A finger tip 
rubbed in a little circle on that spot right under the head.

I exploded.

After I came, I sank back into deeper sleep.

I remember that I dreamed more, but I don't remember what it was about. 
More like a normal dream, snippets that didn't really go together.

I just woke up a few minutes ago -- jotted this down while it was still 
fresh.

Here's the really weird thing -- my ass has the sort of stretchy feeling 
it would have if I'd really had a dildo in it.

And needless to say, there was a big sticky mess all over my shorts and 
the sheet.

I'm gonna go throw the laundry in before Rachel gets home.

10 a.m. Thursday July 8 

OK, how pathetic is this? I had a better day at work than I have in 
weeks. It wasn't like anything was really different, I think getting my 
rocks off -- even in a dream -- just put me in a better mood. The sexual 
frustration thing has just been poisoning my whole life. I'm formally 
deciding that this no-masturbating-when-in-a-committed-relationship 
thing is bogus. I never should have told Rachel how much I used to jerk 
off in the first place.

Anyway, freed from the lust demon's claws, I even managed to have a 
pretty interesting conversation with one of the students. Will wonders 
never cease.

Rachel was a bit nicer this morning, too -- guess having that paper 
turned in is a load off her mind. Still no hanky panky, but guess what? 
Today I don't mind.

4 p.m. Friday July 9 

I'm still feeling kind of guilty about that dream I had the other day. 
Which is weird, because, hello? Subconscious, not really responsible for 
it. But I'm also feeling pretty good. We can work through this, right? 
Rachel doesn't have a paper hanging over her this weekend. We should be 
able to relax, have some quality time. Maybe splurge on a nice dinner 
Saturday night.

4:30 a.m. Tuesday July 13 

Why the fuck do I bother writing things down when I know in my heart I'm 
going to have to come back and say "not so," later? Nice relaxing 
weekend, my ass. I swear, it was a relief to go work tonight (last 
night, whatever).

She nixed dinner on Saturday because we have to watch our spending. 
Which is true, but, come on.

I tried to make breakfast in bed (guess my agenda) for R, on Sun., but 
she got up. And when I tried to give her a hug later, she actually 
flinched.

Things are definitely not okay. 

Fuck.

2 p.m. Tuesday July 13 

Put the earplugs in when I went to bed. Lay there with a crazy throbbing 
hard-on for what seemed like an hour before I finally dropped off. Slept 
right through Rach getting up & showering & leaving. Fine. She's got 
class tonight so I won't see her at all. That's fine, too.

9 a.m. Wednesday July 14 

Got up this morning not so much for the company as to not get bitched 
out about not getting up. Feeling guilty. My frozen waffle was still a 
little frozen in the middle when I ate it -- kinda like the 
conversation. Ice Queen just left about 15 minutes ago.

At least this morning I have something to feel guilty about.

On the way to work last night I stopped at the newstand and bought seven 
of the sleaziest mags I could find. Finally Legal, Hustler, Oui, High 
Society, Club, Swank, and Velvet , all stuffed into a crinkly brown 
paper bag. At $6 to $8 a pop, it's 60 bucks I'll never spend on a nice 
dinner with Rachel.

Instead of leaving the magazines in the car, I pulled them out of the 
bag and shoved them down in the back of my backpack and took them into 
work with me.

It was pretty busy -- clearly there's a couple projects due soon -- but 
by around 2, it had quieted down. There was just one guy at the back of 
the room. He was sweating over the advice I'd given, too proud to ask 
for help yet.

My backpack was sitting on my desk, and I rolled my chair a little to 
one side, so the pack was between the student and me. I reached into the 
bag at random, grabbed one of the plastic sleeves and ripped it. I slid 
the magazine out and onto the desk. It was face down, so I wasn't even 
sure which one it was. I stared at the phone sex ad on the back cover. I 
was conscious of trying to keep my breathing even. I started to flip 
through it.

I got quite a surprise.

The last time I'd looked at a skin mag, they'd been so coy about 
penetration that it was often unintentionally humorous. Lips stretched 
in Os scant millimeters from erect penises. Dildos and penises poised 
fractions of an inch from entry. Sometimes black stars or circles 
obscured what could be a point of contact.

Nearly half of the magazine was phone sex ads, and they played by the 
rules I remembered, though they seemed more fetishistic and specialized.

But when I got to the good part, I realized someone had chucked out the 
rulebook. I'm afraid I may have gasped out loud.

The men and women in the magazine seemed to be from a slightly different 
species, like humans had been crossbred with fuckdolls. Most had no hair 
between their legs, and their bodies were a flat caramel color with no 
tan lines. The men were uniformly buff but homely. The glazed-eyed women 
teetered on stiletto heels. Their breasts defied gravity. 

They plunged fingers into their cunts, even asses. They deep-throated 
transparent and neon-colored toys, then rammed them deep. In a nearly 
life-size, full-page shot, one of the interchangeable blondes pursed her 
lips tight around a cock and her hair curled around the man's shaved 
balls. The women were penetrated in the stag-film roll-call: missionary, 
cowgirl, reverse-cowgirl, pile-driver, doggy-style. They looked blankly 
ecstatic as they smeared goo over their faces and sucked their fingers 
clean.

I closed the magazine and slid it back in the bag. I realized my 
breathing was ragged. The lone student in the back row was still 
fighting his lonely war with C++, seemingly oblivious.

I've got the magazines spread all around me now, as I write this. I'm 
pausing after every sentence to rub myself through my sweats. Natasha on 
page 37 of Club is the same as Sophia on page 78 of Swank. I put the 
mags side by side. I like both Natasha/Sophia's insouciant grin when she 
presses the tip of her tongue against Daphne's clit, and the way she 
looks back over her shoulder, dark eyes glinting, as bulky Hugo invades 
her anus.

The text accompanying each photo layout is as gloriously, hyperbolically 
ridiculous as I remember. Even though it has its origins in the 17th and 
18th centuries (I just looked them up), the vulgar slang amuses me. 

I picture a farmer in a cottage in a murky Lewis Carrollian wood 
carefully measuring liquid into twin wooden pails, grunting as he 
settles the yoke around his shoulders and stands. His wife flutters with 
concern. "Oh, Roderick," she twitters. "It's so dangerous! Must ye go?"

"Aye," he answers her, heavy-hearted. "It must be done, Elly. I've got 
to go and juice the Hungry Quim."

Then there's the plumber, scowling as he clomps up from the basement, 
his boots slapping moistly on the steps. "Yer pipe's burst," he growls. 
"I've got to go out the truck and get my sopping twat."

I notice that the gentlemen's equipment is never mentioned without an 
accompanying adjective.

The stupider and nastier the better, as far as I'm concerned.

I reach my hand inside the waistband of my sweatpants.

I say the words aloud in the empty apartment as I curl my fist around my 
stiff weapon.

Juice-box. Throbbing rod. Quim. Pulsing shaft. Twat. Solid man-meat. 
Coochie. Rock-hard tool. Love-nest. Back door. Secret passage.

Lick, suck, lap, eat, gobble, devour, consume. 

Fuck, thrust, stroke, bang, slam, ram, pump, pound, hammer.

Pussy, pussy, pussy. Cunt, cunt, cunt.

4:45 p.m. Wednesday July 14 

This is getting a little weird.

Got back in bed with the porn mags and a washcloth, fully intending to 
jerk off to them. I was so worked up I was literally dripping.

But as soon as I lay down, I was overcome with lethargy. God, that 
sounds purple -- been reading too much porn. But really, it was like 
being chloroformed. I figured, what the hell, sleep now, whack off 
later. Why not.

I don't really remember putting in the earplugs or slipping the 
blindfold on, but I must have.

Another sex dream. This time I'm flat on my back and an airbrushed 
pneumatic magazine blonde is bouncing on top of me. I'm not wearing a 
rubber, and I've almost forgotten what that feels like. She's slick and 
hot inside and she knows how to use her Kegel muscles. She rolls her 
nipples between her fingers and tosses her head and makes camera-ready 
fuck-faces. I almost expect to see flashes going off somewhere behind me 
as they take her picture.

Then there's a typical makes-no-sense dream transition. The blonde is 
still riding me, but now I'm licking a pussy too -- or anyway, it tastes 
and feels like I am, but I only see the woman I'm fucking. She's leaning 
back, staring up at the ceiling, uttering a long, low, wavery 
"oh-oh-oh-oh." She's bucking so wildly that I almost slip out of her as 
she jounces up and down. So I think to myself, OK, I'm eating out the 
Invisible Girl. This thought wakes me up, or anyway, I think it does. 
Then I realize I'm still asleep.

But just like last week, now I'm in a new dream. I can't see or hear. I 
forget to check whether I can move my hands.

A cunt is clenching around my cock and there's musky wet flesh against 
my tongue. Rachel is kind of uptight about oral sex -- she hardly ever 
wants to be licked unless she's just showered. I wish I could tell her 
that a little bit of sweat is better that a little bit of soap. Hell, a 
lot of sweat. It's been a long time since I tasted a strong salty pussy 
like this. I lap along the lips hungrily, and suck the hard little bud.

This is more vivid than any dream I can remember. Maybe touch, taste, 
and smell are more intense because I can't see or hear. Wetness streaks 
my cheeks. I can feel the weight of two women bearing me down into the 
mattress. My hips jerk upward of their own volition and I feel the 
resistance they meet. The bed is really moving -- the headboard is 
clanging against the wall and I can feel each impact and recoil.

The amount of sensation is overwhelming, and almost immediately I'm 
fighting not to come. I hang on as long as I can as the pressure builds 
like an overloading boiler.

I come for a really long time.

Eventually I sink back into deeper sleep. I don't remember more.

Woke up and started writing this down. I thought I would have to wash 
the sheets again, but there wasn't any mess to clean up this time. 

10:30 a.m. Thursday July 15 

I should probably throw all those magazines out, but it feels like 
flushing cash down the toilet. Can't think of anywhere in the apartment 
I can hide them. Put them in with the spare tire. Fine until Rachel has 
a flat -- then I'll have some 'splaining to do.

5:00 a.m. Friday July 16 

After last week's sex dream, I was sated for a few days but it's 
different this time.

Had a lot of trouble at work tonight.

I know that one of the lab assistants was actually fired a couple of 
semesters ago for looking at porn, and students regularly get into 
trouble with it, despite all the warnings. Not only can the network 
folks check the cached files on each machine, they can look at packet 
transfer over the network. They can tell what machine pulled up a site 
and when it happened.

So I'd get fired if I surfed the Web for dirty pictures -- plain and 
simple, open and shut.

I never used to think about it -- what was I gonna do, jerk off right at 
the front of the classroom? Even if the lab happens to be empty for a 
few minutes, you never know when a student is going to walk in. And I 
never used to think about things like that so much.

And it was pretty busy tonight -- I had quite a few students to help.

But part of the nature of the job is that it goes in fits and starts. 
And every time I had a few slack minutes, all I could think about was 
just how much porn there is on the Internet. Thousands and thousands of 
Web sites. Every fetish I can dream of (and a lot I'd just as soon not).

I sat at the terminal and I made up site names and typed them into the 
browser's URL box. Things like "dirtylittlesluts.com" and 
"hotfuckingaction.net." I didn't know if they were real sites or not. 
Just thinking up the names made me hard. I was careful not to hit the 
button that would try to load the site. I just typed them in, and 
imagined the pictures that could fill the screen if I were careless or 
daring enough to let them. Everything came into my head in the 
over-hyped phrases of the skin rags. Dildo-crazed lesbians. Lusty babes 
rode hard. Sluts need to be stuffed with cock. Wide open wet pussies. 
Horny wives, nurses, cheerleaders, submissives, teachers, and biker 
babes.

When the room was empty for a little while toward the end of my shift, I 
shoved my hand inside my waistband and fondled myself a little bit.

It was a dumb thing to do. Stupid. A slip of the finger could have 
gotten me canned. It would probably end my relationship, too -- if I got 
terminated for looking at porn at the job, I don't for a moment imagine 
Rachel would look on it favorably. I could even be liable for a 
harassment suit if a student happened to see something inappropriate on 
my screen.

Stupid.

So why couldn't I stop myself from doing it?

1:00 p.m. Sunday July 18 

Rachel's off to the library for the afternoon. Weekend's been pretty 
much okay so far. I haven't pushed for sex, so she hasn't bristled. Took 
a walk up to Welch Park yesterday and talked -- it was nice (if hot as 
blazes). We grilled burgers and snuck beers in ginger ale bottles. Like 
old times. Well almost.

What's creepy is how even though I'm really horny, I didn't really want 
to have sex with Rachel. I want another fuck dream. Is that sick, that 
I'd rather have a fantasy than a real woman? But then, the real woman 
doesn't seem interested at present.

Maybe it's a phase. Maybe a lot of couples go through this.

I'm gonna take a nap.

10:00 a.m. Monday July 19 

I don't why I bother being coy with myself -- it's not like I would have 
any self-respect left if anyone ever found this file. So I might as well 
say what I mean.

When I said I was going to take a nap yesterday afternoon, this is what 
I meant.

I was feeling really dirty. I went to Brooks and bought a cheap taper 
candle. I crawled into bed with a towel, lube, and the candle. I was 
thinking about jerking myself off while I fucked myself with the candle, 
but I was hoping that as soon as I got in bed I'd suddenly be 
inexplicably tired and fall asleep and have two sex dreams and get my 
rocks off.

Sure enough, it was like someone threw a pile of blankets on top of me. 
I barely managed to set the alarm so Rachel wouldn't come home and catch 
me in the middle of whatever.

In the first phase of the dream I'm at work. I'm sitting behind the 
terminal, and there's a porn movie playing on it. A blonde is sucking a 
guy's cock, while an off-screen hand uses a dildo on her. She looks 
vaguely familiar, but I don't realize it's Natasha/Sophia from the 
magazines until later, when I wake all the way up. 

There's one student in the room with me. It's a young woman in the 
second row. She has mousy brown hair, but she's very cute. She looks up 
past her monitor and sees that under my desk I'm rubbing my dick through 
my pants. She smiles, and I realize that she's got a busy hand too.

I suddenly know that she's looking at the very same Web site I am. Then 
as I look at her more closely, I realize that she's the woman on the 
screen, only without makeup and dyed hair.

The movie scene changes. Now it's a low-angle shot of a woman pulling 
her skirt up and tugging her panties aside. It's the student -- I'm 
watching her masturbate in front of me and on the screen at the same 
time. The camera zooms in until her pussy almost fills the screen.

I lean forward and stick my tongue out.

I lick the monitor and I taste her.

I wake up into the second dream.

I find myself on my hands and knees. I'm licking the woman from my dream 
the other day; I recognize the tang of her.

I know what's going to happen next, and it isn't long before it does.

The object entering my ass is hard and smooth like a candle, but bigger. 
It's cold at first, but it swiftly warms. 

It's teasingly gentle to start, but not for long. Soon the force of the 
thrusts is driving my face hard between the spread legs in front of me. 
My fingers reach up to find handfuls of soft flesh and stiff distended 
nipples.

I'm almost there long before moist heat engulfs my cock. Before the 
dream decides if I'm fucking a mouth or a cunt, long shudders wrack me 
and I'm spending into it, pulsing over and over.

When I finally wake up, I bury the candle in the kitchen trash, even 
though it looks pristine -- in fact, there was no mess anywhere that I 
could find. 

I'm not exactly surprised that this morning my ass is pleasantly sore.

9:30 a.m. Tuesday July 20 

After I wrote about the latest porn dream yesterday, I read over the 
last month's worth of entries -- since the last time Rach and I made 
love. I've had incredibly vivid sex dreams in which I can't see or hear, 
when I'm actually wearing a blindfold and earplugs. I come like 
gangbusters, but (mostly) leave no physical evidence. And the dreams 
have physical consequences that amaze me.

I think Doyle once had Sherlock Holmes say something to the effect that 
once you eliminate everything possible, whatever's left must be true, 
even if it's improbable.

It seems very improbable that strange people would break into my 
apartment in the middle of the day and have sex with me while I'm 
asleep. I'd wake up, for one thing. Unless maybe I was drugged, which 
could account for my falling asleep very suddenly.

Before I went back to bed this morning, I put the chain on the front 
door. I don't think we've ever latched the windows -- we're on the 4th 
floor, why bother? But I went around and forced them all shut anyway. 
God did it get hot and stuffy in a hurry.

Guess what? No funny dreams.

I think I'm losing my mind.

In other news, I was able to keep my hands out of my pants at work. So 
that's a plus. And R. seemed to be in a good mood at breakfast, too.

6:30 p.m. Wednesday July 21 

Maybe somebody will read this when they drag me off to the loony bin.

Yesterday morning before I went back to bed, I took all the same 
security precautions.

Then I felt compelled to look through Rachel's dresser drawers. I can't 
explain it. I don't do stuff like that.

In the bottom drawer I found bondage restraints. At least I can't think 
what else they could be. Lots of elastic ankle- and wrist-sized loops 
and straps and buckles.

I pulled them out. I can't explain this next part, either. I sat on the 
bed. I slipped my left ankle into one of the loops and buckled it around 
the bedpost at the left foot of the bed. I did the same with my other 
foot. It was hard to do, a bit like a yoga move. My legs were held very 
wide. I leaned back into sleep.

In the first dream, I'm cuffed to a bed, flat on my back, just like I am 
in the waking world. I have to hold my neck up to see what was making 
the sounds I was hearing. It's awkward and effortful.

This is the first time Rachel has been in one of my dreams. She's on her 
hands and knees at the foot of the bed, mostly obscured from my view. 
She's bookended by men I don't recognize. They have the chiseled 
anonymity of the magazine guys. I can't really see what they're doing, 
but one man's hands rest on Rachel's shoulders and the other's are on 
her back. Their hips move forward and back steadily.

Rachel is moaning happily. I've never heard her sound so excited, so 
uninhibited.

My cock twitches on my stomach like a beached fish.

I watch for what seems like a hours.

Eventually Rachel climaxes, in seeming synchrony with the men. It's 
theatrical and unrealistic. I'm a little annoyed. Not only is it 
overdramatic, but Rachel never comes without clitoral stimulation. 
That's not unusual, and I don't have an ego issue about it. My 
subconscious should know better.

But by now I know this is part of the pattern -- something in the first 
dream violates continuity and forces the transition into the second 
dream.

So I'm quite surprised that I don't "wake up" right then.

Rachel sags wearily to the floor. I hear a chuckle I haven't heard in a 
long time, and Trudie stands up slowly. Like a predator she crawls onto 
the bed and over my body. She pauses briefly to tease my dick with a 
dangling nipple, then presents her face to me. Cheek, chin, other cheek.

I lick the taste of my lover from my ex-girlfriend's face, then her lips 
engage mine in a cunty kiss.

She pulls away, rears back. She toys with her clit for a few seconds, 
and reaches her other hand behind her back to squeeze my ball sac 
gently.

Then she moves away. She unfastens my right ankle from the bedpost, and 
lifts my leg over to the other side. She's at least as strong as I 
remember. I have to roll over on my side.

That's when I wake up into the second dream.

In silence and darkness, the action is completed. My right leg bound to 
the left post, my left leg dragged across. Slowly I'm flipped onto my 
stomach.

I'm invaded. It's rough, and my eagerness for it shocks me a little.

A tongue licks my lips, enters, duels with mine. Reversal of the old 
joke: first I'm fucked, then kissed.

After a while, I feel hands along my side, lifting me up from the bed. I 
can't tell how many. I feel like I'm flying. I'm pounded mercilessly 
from behind, and I love it.

The woman kissing me pull away and starts to crawl underneath me. Her 
lips begin a slow journey across the hollow of my throat, down my chest, 
over my belly.

Below me my tongue in turn finds a neck to nuzzle, breasts to nibble and 
suckle, an expanse of flat stomach dotted by a navel. 

Hot exhalation teases my cock as the woman's cunt moves under my mouth. 
I lick hungrily and I am hungrily licked.

I'm getting better able to withstand these levels of stimulation. I 
don't have to fight not to come instantly, I can relax and enjoy it for 
a while. The pressure builds slowly, inexorably, but gradually.

I come. What an inadequate sentence. The words are all useless, 
atrophied by hyperbole.

When I woke up for real, I was still bound as in the dream, on my 
stomach, not on my back.

It was really hard to release the restraints in this upside down 
position -- my shoulders kept digging into the mattress and getting in 
the way of reaching the bedpost. Took a lot of twisting and grunting. 
Almost as bad as trying to suck my own dick. Finally, I realized I could 
sort of pull myself up along the strap. Once I got one hand on the post 
itself, it was easier.

Didn't see any come on the bed, although after all that contorting, I 
might have smeared it into oblivion.

So obviously, theoretically, I could have unfastened and refastened the 
restraints in my sleep -- I did it while I was awake. But I don't think 
that's really what happened.

No indication that the doors or windows or anything had been tampered 
with -- not really surprised.

10:00 a.m. Thursday July 22 

What really bugs me is that either I'm crazy, or I'm cheating on Rachel 
for real.

Maybe it was cheating when I first realized that I'd rather have a wet 
dream than be with my girlfriend.

I never thought that was exactly healthy. Wasn't proud of it.

But I also didn't think it was any different than masturbating. And 
Rachel thinks that is cheating, but honestly, I think that's ridiculous. 
Especially given the current drought.

I'm pretty well convinced now that something is actually happening, as 
impossible at it seems. 

I feel something tugging at me right now. A whisper below the edge of 
hearing. Get the porn mags out of the trunk, bring them in, tease myself 
with them for a while, then go back to bed.

A promise of something really special. When I blink I almost see 
something. My cock is dancing in my pants. I want, I want, I need, I 
need.

I'm going out.

4:30 p.m. Thursday July 22 

I stood in the parking lot for about 10 minutes with the trunk open, 
blinking at the glossy covers magazines in the harsh light. Lucky all 
the good people of the world had gone to work. It took a really long 
time for my eyes to adjust to the light -- feels like ages since I've 
been out in the daytime (but it was only Saturday).

Got in the car, started it up. Leaving the parking lot, I felt like a 
piece of taffy being pulled, but it was much easier once I was on the 
road. Drove to Starbucks. Grande.

Didn't trust myself to go back to the apartment. Went to the library 
instead. Looked up -- are you ready for this, loony bin boys? -- incubi, 
succubi, and (for extra credit) lamia. 

Taken very seriously in the 16th century. Typical inconsistency, but 
some common threads. Several writers describe incubi and succubi as two 
forms of the same entity, capable of taking on either male or female 
shapes. Many references agree that the phalluses of incubi as uncommonly 
large, solid, and cold. They are often said to have two of them. 
Although demon sex is not always described as pleasant, in quite a few 
accounts, it is so much so that mortals are "spoiled" for more normal 
pleasures and waste away if the demons are cast out.

(Is it just me, or is really weird that all these churchy types spent so 
much time writing about demons' cocks and what they do with them?)

Some obvious possible explanations, especially on the incubus side. 
Medieval men confronted and overwhelmed by the female libido literally 
demonizing it. Some stories (especially. with young victims) would today 
raise suspicions of abuse. Also, if a married man is caught in a 
dalliance, he might be better off claiming to have been tricked by a 
demon than knowingly balling his neighbor's daughter or some such. (The 
poor women got no leniency either way -- the men were tempted and  get 
confessed and redeemed, the women were corrupted got executed. Go 
figure.)

I'm not really considering this stuff seriously, am I?

But if I'm not crazy, what the hell (pun intended, I guess) is going on?

Time for more coffee.

4:30 a.m. Friday July 23 

I think it's safe to go to sleep. I hope. I'm so tired. I haven't slept 
a wink. My mind is on the blink. I can't sleep, can't stop my brain, 
it's three weeks, I'm going insane.

I've never had one of the dreams when Rachel was there. But I don't know 
what the rules are.

2:20 a.m. Saturday July 24

Still shaky. Hard to type.

Can't believe how long it took for me to figure it out.

First things first.

Last night was fine. Three hours of normal shuteye. Got up with Rachel, 
showered, etc. She asked what was up, and I told her I was going to the 
library to work on the dissertation. She was very pleased. I felt like 
crap for lying, then it occurred to me that it didn't necessarily have 
to be a lie. Dug out my notes. It seemed like it would be easier to 
leave the apartment if I wasn't alone, so I offered to drive her to 
work. More Star$ coffee, then library. Hard to get back into the swing 
of research, esp. on no sleep, but I managed. It felt good. Chanced a 
little catnap in the car in the late afternoon -- murderously hot, but 
mercifully dreamless. Got home just a few minutes before Rachel and 
managed to avoid any weirdness.

It was a Friday, so work was very slow, which gave me time to think.

That's when I put it together. Takes either male or female form. Victim 
is uninterested in normal relations. It hit me like running face-first 
into a brick wall.

There were three kids working on a project together. They left at about 
1:30 a.m. and the place was empty. I scrambled around for some tape to 
fasten a note on the door, and locked up. I might get in a bit of hot 
water, but I won't get fired.

I let myself into the apartment very quietly. I didn't turn on any 
lights.

I could hear plenty long before I got to the bedroom. Rachel had never 
vocalized that way with me, but it was obviously her voice, muffled or 
not.

The bedroom light was off. I stood outside the closed door for minutes, 
listening. Rachel's voice. Squeaks. Moans, seemingly male and female 
both. The slap of skin on skin, the moist sounds of penetration.

I was achingly hard, but I couldn't tell if it was my own reaction or 
imposed upon externally.

I'm pretty sure that something didn't want me to open the door, but the 
reluctance may have been all my own, because I overcame it eventually.

I turned the doorknob as quietly as I could, willing the latch not to 
click.

I wasn't sure what I expected to see. Would it look like men and women? 
Scaly horned monstrosities?

I saw nothing of whatever it was. I never saw Rachel's body suspended, 
only saw her form falling into the mattress. The temperature seemed to 
drop 50 or 60 degrees in less than a heartbeat. I was literally 
shivering too violently to stand, and I fell over against the bed. 
Rachel's eyes were open, pale white in the glow from the window. She was 
unseeing.

The July heat reasserted itself quickly.

By the time I had stopped shivering, Rachel's eyes were shut. Her 
breathing was deep and steady. Going back to check on her now. I think 
we'll be safe for the night.

1:00 p.m. Saturday July 24 

Rachel's fine. Just left for the library.

You think you know someone, but maybe you never can. I think we were 
both at the point where we really needed to confess, and we overlapped 
each other in a crazy babble. I won't even try to represent our talk. We 
both laughed a lot. I think that was a good sign. A big relief (at least 
to me, and I think to her) to learn that we're both much more sexually 
compatible than the other thought. Rachel wished she'd known a bit more 
about my past history and what I was and wasn't too uptight to like.

It was not necessarily a relief, exactly, to learn that I've been living 
with a witch, but it does put some things in a useful perspective. It's 
nice to know I'm not crazy. Although I agree that consorting with the 
powers of darkness is not a good first-date topic to raise, I think 
before moving in would be a good time to come clean about such things, 
but what's done is done.

I also still think that it might be better to talk things out with your 
lover before summoning a lust demon to gratify you.  But I have to admit 
that I was more inclined to deny and withdraw than engage in dialogue, 
so I'm not blameless. Still, she couldn't have just bought a vibrator?

She also said she didn't intend for the incubus to mess with me, but she 
didn't quite meet my eyes when she said that. I almost wonder if maybe 
this wasn't exactly how she wanted things to work out after all.

And finally, she claims she never said what I thought she had about not 
masturbating. Doesn't seem to remember it. Thinks that either I 
misunderstood, or that she was joking, or both. I have my doubts about 
that, too -- seems like a pretty good way to ensure that I got to the 
sort of fever pitch of arousal that would make me irresistible to the 
incubus.

But I can't say I have any complaints with how things have worked out.

Anyway, I'm really tired -- long night, and I haven't gotten much sleep 
the past few days. I think I'm gonna go back to bed.

11:00 a.m. Sunday July 25 

Wow.

Rach says that incubi are not exactly smart in human terms, but I still 
didn't want to give away our plan in the last entry. Just in case 
something was looking over my shoulder, so to speak.

So, yes, I went back to bed. I could feel the draw from the bedroom as 
soon as Rachel left the apartment, and it took all my willpower to 
finish up my diary entry first.

I felt the familiar lethargy in seconds. I lay back on the bed and sank 
into sleep.

Since I know a bit more about how the incubi operate now, I shouldn't 
have been surprised. 

The dream started with Rachel and exactly the sort of double-dicked 
demon I'd pictured as I was waiting outside the door last night.

Even though I knew now that that incubus would sexualize virtually any 
image floating around my subconscious, I was a little freaked out. It 
wasn't the sort of thing I was comfortable being turned on by.

It was enough of a cognitive shock to get me into the second stage right 
away. I "woke up."

This time was a little scary. I knew that the demon's physical form was 
determined in part by my own expectations and desires. Knowing that made 
me less certain what form it had. Was I engulfed by a vagina, or a mouth 
-- or something else entirely? My overwrought brain was tried to conjure 
pictures from the pressures and scents around me, and I wasn't sure I 
liked all the pictures that were forming. The phrase "vagina dentata" 
popped into my head and wouldn't leave. I tried to think it was Rachel's 
mouth bobbing on me. My brain kept wanting to add someone yellow-eyed 
and leathery-skinned behind her, even though consciously I would have 
been happier to have it gone from the dream entirely.

All in all, I was very glad when Rachel showed up. 

As we'd arranged, she came in wearing a blindfold. Apparently the fuck 
demons are terminally shy about being seen, which is why I scared it 
away the other night. But as long as they're invisible, they're 
comfortable. There wasn't a way to tell it that it was welcome to visit 
us both when we were sleeping together -- human language is beyond their 
grasp. (Or their language is beyond ours.) But Rachel was pretty sure 
that walking in on it would work.

I couldn't see Rachel at first -- I was blindfolded -- but I felt her 
presence like a warm radiance filling the room.

I felt her fingertips on my forehead. They seemed to lift the blindfold 
away, although I knew it was a metaphor -- Rachel was pulling me deeper 
into a dream state.

I opened my eyes, blinking at the sudden light. The room was a blur at 
first, but it slid into clarity. Rachel was kneeling beside me on the 
bed. She was wearing something black, lacy, and crotchless; a tall 
peaked hat; and a wicked grin.

Rachel was also kneeling between my legs sucking my cock eagerly. My 
horned man heaved behind her. I willed him to look less monstrous, and 
he complied somewhat.

"Nasty," Rachel said approvingly. There was a glint in her eyes I'd 
never seen before. "I like it." She threw her knee over my leg, trapping 
me pleasantly between her legs.

It was a long night. I lost track of which was really Rachel and which 
was the dream Rachel that was the demon. I fucked Rachel and kissed her 
clit simultaneously. I fucked Rachel and Rachel licked me and herself -- 
or the dream of herself -- at the same time.

I came, but instead of sinking into oblivion I stayed in the dream, 
hardened again, came again. When I flagged for a few minutes, there was 
Rachel and the demon, and Rachel with Rachel, and Rachel with men and 
women that were her own dreams, not mine. She seemed inexhaustible, and 
before long I would rise again.

I think the incubus must have tired before we did.

Eventually, I sank out of the shared dream into normal slumber.

I woke up happily tangled with Rachel, one leg all pins and needles. I 
shifted it gently, and she opened her eyes to smile sleepily at me.

10:00 a.m. Friday July 30 (FILE DELETED) 

I love Rachel, I truly do. I think that's of my own free will.

But she kept so much of herself from me for so long -- did the woman I 
fell in love with ever really exist?

I'm in way over my head, and I'm frightened.

My dick is certainly happy (no more mega-marathons since last weekend, 
but a demon dream sex session every night since). Any fantasy Rachel or 
I can conjure is ours.  A couple times we've flipped through one of 
those magazines I bought, and invited one or more of the models from the 
photosets into our dreams. Rachel's imagination is more vivid than mine, 
and she has an endless cast of characters for us to play with. I can 
fuck any woman in the world, as long as I'm not jealous of Rachel, and 
as long as I don't mind that none of it is real. As long as I don't mind 
that what it takes to get Rachel off -- and me too, now  -- is something 
dark and otherworldly.

The incubus's power seems to guarantee I stay hard no matter what the 
scenario. The double-penised incarnation I imagined for it has become a 
regular in our bed. To my increasing unease, it gets more bestial night 
by night. I already get the sense that Rachel may push my boundaries 
farther than Trudie ever did. 

They're only dreams, she says, so there are no consequences no matter 
what we do in them. No limits except those we set ourselves.

I wish I knew for sure where Rachel would stop.

And what does the incubus take in return for all of these fun and games? 
My life essence, my soul? Rachel says I don't need to worry about it, 
that I'm protected. But there's a trap: if I believe her when she says 
she didn't mean for it to mess with me, then her control over it is less 
than perfect, and maybe I'm not so safe after all. If I don't believe 
her, then should I trust her when she says I'm safe?

How can I ever be sure I'm not just some passing amusement?

I probably shouldn't even be writing this down.

In fact, I should just delete this.

10:30 a.m. Friday July 30

Well, it's been quite a month, but everything seems to have worked out 
great. I think the dry spell is over for good -- Rachel and I have been 
romping in our private fantasyland every single night/early morning when 
I get home from work. I had no idea how wild she could be. It's 
thrilling.

Job is going well too. I'm looking forward to the break before the fall 
semester starts.


-- Meme Misspelt
-- http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/meme_misspelt/www/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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