Archive-name: Dreams/dremmach.txt
Archive-author: 
Archive-title: Dream Machine


Chapter 1:  Contracting One's Horizons

His fingers shook as he unwrapped the package.  Finally!  His own dueling
machine!

Actually, he thought as he skimmed the instruction manual, "dueling
machine" was a misnomer.  Unlike Bova's conception, the Q-100 model did not
allow two people to share a dream.  It simply allowed one person to
_control_ a dream.

An extended fantasy, as subjectively real as the chair he was sitting in,
the manual proclaimed.  And as dangerous as wireheading, he thought, which
is why the government required a cutoff switch on every unit.  The machine
would monitor his blood pressure and heart rate, easing him out of the
dream if they approached dangerous levels.  The timer did the same, and it
could be set for six hours maximum.  Six hours of godhood, then back to the
real world.  He had read that bypassing the timer was possible, but he had
no desire to try.  The newsfeeds were full of stories of people who died of
thirst while experiencing non-stop fantasies.

The actual device didn't quite "blend right in with his home entertainment
center," as the ads had promised.  Still, it was fairly innocuous in
appearance.  A black metal box with an LCD display; cloth head-, arm- and
chestbands with velcro closures; tethered sunglasses; and a hand-held
remote control unit.  The box had a cartridge slot, but the company hadn't
released any pre-packaged fantasies yet.  There were dark rumors about bugs
in that technology and private company sanitarium.

Still, the manual was upbeat and straightforward.  He decided to give it a
try.  First, attach the sensors - no problem.  Power on, then set timer -
he'd give it fifteen minutes, for now.  Glasses on, seated comfortably;
press start...

The lenses lit up.  Smoky patterns twisted and twirled in front of his
eyes.  He started to feel sleepy, then drifted off in a matter of seconds.

He opened his eyes.  He was standing on a featureless grey plain that
receded into mist.  After a moment of disorientation, he remembered the
instructions.  "The initial environment was chosen to be as neutral as
possible.  Simply concentrate on your desires to give them reality."

"All right, let's give this a try.  Hmmm... I want.. a palace!  Yeah.  Like
a caliph!"  As he imagined them, the walls faded in around him.  Arabesque
designs, twisted pillars, marble statues; as soon as he thought of them,
they phased into being.  He sat, and a pillow materialized beneath him.  He
looked down at his daysuit.  "This won't do at all!"  Under his gaze, the
woven plastic transformed into loose-fitting silk, as gaudy as had covered
any caliph of old.  "MUCH better.  And now... the serving girls!"

He clapped his hands, and they came.  Veiled, clad in silk that revealed
more than it covered, they slid into reality by his side.  One moved to
massage his shoulders; another picked up a convenient bunch of grapes and
began to feed him.  Gentle breezes from the fan of a third caressed his
brow.

"Enough!" the lord commanded.  "Attend me, my harem!"

The servants vanished.  More pillows appeared on the floor.  Through the
far archway came his wives.  Sensing his need, they were naked save for
their veils.  Each girl's hair was a different shade, but all had the
bodies of goddesses.  As several danced for his pleasure, others dropped
their veils and approached him.  Dropping to their knees, three began to
caress the stiff member beneath the caliph's silken trousers (which, being
inconvenient, simply disappeared).

The redheaded one, always his favorite, brought her mouth down on his
throbbing manhood.  Through dint of daily practice, she could swallow him
all the way to the root, and did.

As her head bobbed merrily up and down, her tongue performing tricks known
only in the East, the blonde girl (very young, even for a harem) placed her
lips on the male sack beneath.  The third girl, a perfect platinum-blonde,
moved up to suck on her lord's nipples.  She knew just how hard to bite.

Even the cushions rearranged themselves for his pleasure, cupping his
buttocks like a giant hand.  He thrust upwards, jamming his organ fully
into the throat of his lovely wife.  This, combined with the suction on his
twin oranges of manhood, brought him to the brink.

"Drink me, my wife!" he commanded, and she hummed her reply.  The dancers
moved ever faster, twisting against each other in obscene rhythms...

Everything faded out.

"DAMMIT!!"  He was gazing through dark glasses at his living room, his
erection painfully tight in his plastine trousers.  The display on the
Q-100 blinked "00:00."

"This time I'm setting it for six hours," he muttered, reaching for the
fallen remote.  Hell, the manual _said_ he could manually exit the
dreamworld at any time...

 *******

Chapter 2:  The Royal Treatment, or To Di For

As an American tourist (circa 1993) in the newly-opened Buckingham Palace,
he wandered off from the group.  Turning a corridor, he heard voices raised
in an argument.

"Bloody hell, Di, you never listen!"

"Sod off, Charlie!  I don't have to put up with your.. oh!"

As he came to a doorway, he caught sight of the royal couple just as Diana
spotted him.  Charles muttered something about "bloody tourists" and moved
to close the door.  Diana stopped him.

"You've always had your way, Charlie, but no more!  I can do anything I
bloody well like now; anything!"  She grabbed the American's arm and pulled
him into the room.  "Shut the door, Charles."

The Prince started to argue, but was silenced by a glare from Diana.
Meekly, he closed the heavy wooden door.

"Just watch, Charlie!"  With that, Princess Di sank to her knees in front
of the tourist.  Deft fingers opened his Bermuda shorts, then tugged out
his penis.

"Now see here..." the Prince began, but Diana shouted him down.

"Quiet!"  Her tongue darted out, licking the head of this stranger's cock.
This regally dressed Princess sucked the end of the shaft past her glossy
lips, her manicured hands (utterly free of calluses) gently massaging the
man's testicles.

Watching his penis disappear into that famous face was incredibly exciting,
but he wanted more.  At his thought, Diana leaned back.

"Any whore can blow a man, Charlie.  It takes a _real_ slut to do this!"
Releasing his scrotum, Diana clapped her hands.  A maid (French, of
course) appeared immediately.

"Oui, madame?  Mon Dieu!"  Blushing furiously, the young girl turned away
from the scene of depravity.

"Come here, Marie," the Princess ordered.  Head still averted, the maid
gingerly approached.  "I want you to take this man's thing in your hand,
then jerk him off into my mouth."

"Mais non, madame!"  But a cold look from Diana quieted her protestation.
With an apologetic look at the Prince, the girl wrapped a tentative hand
around the American's throbbing penis.  Slowly, she began to stroke him.

Diana moved forward, taking just the head into her lovely mouth.  Her
tongue drew lazy circles on the crown.

The French girl soon started feeling the heat of the moment.  She began to
press her body against the man's back, rubbing her lace-covered breasts
against his Hawaiian shirt as her hand frigged his veined cock.  Her other
hand found its way to his balls, sliding them pleasantly against Diana's
perfect chin.

What a scene!  A fragile hand tugging relentlessly at his penis, milking
him into the mouth of a Princess!  And, ears reddening in the background,
her estranged husband, watching it all with jealous eyes.

When the young girl began to suck on his earlobe, that was too much for
him.  He started to come, sending throbbing bolts of stickiness into
Diana's waiting mouth.  As her hand moved frantically beneath her skirt,
she swallowed every dollop.

He saved the last one, though, pulling back to splatter all over her face
and hair.  That perfect coiffure looked so much better with droplets of
semen covering it, he thought.

Diana stood, turning to Charles.  "Now lick it off, Charlie, and I _might_
let you fuck me again.  Sometime."

Ears burning, the Prince complied.  Di's hand pressed tightly against her
sodden knickers; moments later, her body shook with the force of her orgasm.

The room faded out, to be replaced with...

 *******

Chapter 3:  Faculty Parking in the Rear

He walked up the steps to the large brick building.  The nameplate said
"Miss Eliot's School for Girls."  He knocked, and a woman answered.

"Ah.  Dr. Jones.  Do come in.  I'm Miss Eliot."  As she led the way down
the hall, he studied her.  Thin, nearly forty, but still attractive.  Black
hair pulled back in a bun, horn-rimmed glasses, tweed suit; just the right
look for a woman in her position.

They came to a door, with a room number stencilled on the frosted glass.
The voices of young girls could be heard through it, talking quietly.
Miss Eliot turned to him.  "I'm _so_ glad you could take time out of your
busy schedule to assist us, Dr. Jones.  To have an expert of your
caliber..."

He held up a hand to cut off her remarks, then motioned to the door.  "Let
us begin."  She nodded curtly, and preceded him into the room.

An even dozen young women, average age perhaps sixteen, were seated at
small wooden desks arranged neatly within the classroom.  All the girls
were dressed alike, in plaid skirts and white blouses.  They matched in
hair color as well; every one had jet-black tresses tied back with plaid
ribbons.  The girls quieted when Miss Eliot entered and approached the
lectern.  She addressed the class without fanfare.

"Now that the state mandates sexual education for private schools, we have
set up this class for that purpose.  We are very lucky to have with us
today Dr. Jones, author of several clinical studies in the field.  Dr.
Jones, the class is yours."  With that, she stepped aside and turned to
him.

He addressed her as he made his way to the podium.  "Could I ask you to
assist me today, Miss Eliot?  I find it's always best to have an
experienced administrator around on the first day."  She smiled slightly,
and nodded.

Placing his briefcase on a nearby table, he turned to the class.  "Good
morning, girls.  Let's not waste time on preliminaries, shall we?  For my
first lesson, I'll need a test subject.  Miss Eliot, is there one girl who
has misbehaved recently?"

The principal nodded, and moved behind a waiflike girl in the third row.
The girl blanched.  "No, Miss Eliot, please!  I..."

From somewhere, a riding crop appeared in Miss Eliot's hand.  "QUIET!"  The
crop snapped down, leaving a red welt across the student's lily-white hand.
The girl shrieked, then quieted, shivering.

"Come here, please."  He smiled at the girl, and she shyly smiled back
after a moment.  She stood up and approached the front of the classroom.

He caressed her cheek, getting another smile in return.  Moving a chair in
front of the audience, he told her to bend over and grasp it for support.
She obeyed without question.  Very good, he thought.  Miss Eliot trains
them well.

He lifted her short skirt above her hips, then flipped it over her back.
She wore nothing underneath.  "Excellent, Miss Eliot!  I appreciate a
proper dress code!"  The principal beamed.

"Since I'm sure you've all had the basics already, we'll start with a
slightly more advanced subject - anal sex."  The "test subject" trembled,
but held her position.  "The key," he said, reaching into his briefcase,
"is plenty of lubrication."  He withdrew a large tube of K-Y jelly.
Removing his trousers, he revealed a massive penis, already stiff.  He
began to coat the shaft with grease.  As he worked, he continued to lecture
to his rapt audience.  "Too much is better than too little."  Covering a
finger with lubricant, he pushed it up the backside of the girl.  She let
out a squeak, then suppressed any further outcry.  He worked another finger
into her tight bottom.

"I think we're ready."  He positioned himself behind the student and began
to rub the head of his penis between her buttocks.  Her tremors were
transmitted pleasantly to his member.

"Normally, I go quite slow when breaking in a new subject."  The girl
visibly relaxed, even with his penis pressing against her rosebud.  "I
think today, though..."  He rammed the entire length of his cock up her
rectum, encountering little resistance due to her lack of tension.  She
screamed at the invasion, her sphincter clamping tightly - too late!  "I'll
make an exception!"

He plowed into her once-virgin asshole, reaming her fully again and again.
The other girls looked on, enraptured; some began to drool, while others
slipped surreptitious hands beneath blouses and skirts.

A strand of Miss Eliot's hair had escaped its bun.  The principal's eyes
were glazed, then snapped back into focus.  She grabbed the girl nearest
her, pulling the student out of her chair, then shoving the girl's face
under the older woman's skirt.  The girl knew what to do; apparently the
administration followed the dress code, as well.

With that, the student body went wild.  Skirts flew back, revealing a
myriad of dark triangles and ruby lips.  Blouses opened, and firm breasts
(unhindered by bras) slid into view.  Manicured fingers plucked, teased,
pulled - sometimes on their bodies, sometimes on those of others.  Girls
(those that could tear their eyes away from his pistoning shaft) kissed
their neighbors deeply, young tongues moving wetly against one another.
One daring girl mimicked Miss Eliot's pet, sliding between the legs of her
friend to lick and suck at an elusive clitoris.

The bright, attentive young woman in the front row never dropped her eyes,
though.  She was fixated on his penis as it journeyed deep within the
bowels of her squirming classmate.  In and out, plunging into that
vice-like tunnel, provoking gasps and cries from the innocent victim of his
lust.  Well, perhaps some of them were due to his hands on her now-freed
nipples, twisting viciously at the taut nubs of flesh.

His hips moved relentlessly, powerfully thrusting his great penis between
the perfect globes of her buttocks.  She was his completely; when his
scrotum bounced against her mons as his pubic hair ground against her anus,
he knew he couldn't get any deeper.  His right hand moved to her clitoris,
and her body began to respond.  When her head arched and she screamed with
the force of her orgasm, he couldn't hold back.

He pulled his greased organ out of her anus, then turned towards the
exceptional girl in the first row.  "Take it!" he cried.

She dropped to her knees instantly, sliding forward to engulf his great
length in her mouth.  (Fortunately for her, the school had a regimen of
daily enemas.)  His grease-slicked cock moved easily into her throat.  She
had obviously practiced this many times; perhaps with a janitor, perhaps
with her father.  It didn't matter; he had no control left.  Twisting his
fingers in her long black locks, he held her tight against his crotch as he
spurted into her mouth.  His orgasm seemed endless, yet she swallowed every
drop of his sperm, not even coming up to breathe.  When it was done, she
cleaned the grease from his softening shaft with her pale pink lips.  The
pressure squeezed a last drop of come from him, landing on her quivering
tongue like a candied treat.  Smiling beatifically, she looked up at him.

"Can I be your _next_ subject, Dr. Jones?"

 -BEEEEEEEEEP-

He awoke bathed in sweat.  His heart was pounding wildly, and a high-pitched
alarm emanated from the machine.  His face was flushed; he felt like he'd
just run a marathon.

In a minute or two, his heart rate went down and the noise shut off.  God,
his balls were _sore_!  He felt his crotch; it was soaked, and sticky.  His
penis was completely flaccid, and his emptied testicles were tight against
his groin.

After removing the contacts and snapping the machine off, he dragged
himself into the shower.  Then to bed; he'd figure out a safer way to use
the machine tomorrow.

Yeah, right.

 *******

(I'll refrain from saying "More to Come."  :)
