Wet Dreams Gone Awry

I’ve always had wet dreams, on a fairly regular-though not frequent-basis. Lately those dreams have occurred almost nightly, diverging from the norm (for me) by a startling degree. Previously, they were recognizable as reflections of fantasies I’d indulged in during my “me-time”, or elaborations on a passing thought or face. Some based loosely on past experiences. The desires they symbolized were always identifiable: group sex, MMF threesomes, FFF threesomes, MMM threesomes (woohoo-I get to be a guy! Now that’s what I call kinky), and sexual congress in varying scenarios and physically impossible positions.

However, in the past few weeks, I’ve had some truly bizarre ones. Always with the usual sexual motif, they’re fierce, occasionally even bordering on violence. I’m not talking about forced sex, or rape fantasies, just the occurrences of rampageous scrappin’. One-on-one brawls with a variety of instruments, brutal personal vendettas played out on a ravaged battlefield, pursuit or flight down the twisting alleys of a kafkaesque city. None of these were arousing in the least, but scenes set for erotic encounters.

Last week I had a dream about a BBW Indian woman. I don’t find BBWs undesirable at all, but I also don’t have any particular attraction to them, either; i.e., that’s not a fetish* of mine. My dream woman was curvaceous and eminently alluring, her sensuality towering over mine. Much of the sex we engaged in was physically impossible, some of it even difficult to describe, being based more on sensory input than actual acts. I do remember our sixty-nine: she above, me below, almost completely covered by her body. I felt a moment of panic, afraid I was being smothered before I realized that, yes, I could still breathe. I worked my tongue over the hood of her clit and around her labia with an expertise I don’t usually display (or so it seemed to me at the time-it doesn’t seem so extraordinary in retrospect) with relative strangers. My lady was mirroring every sinuous move my mouth made on her. I tried harder, moving from languorous to rapid, in effect telling her exactly what I wanted and receiving it instantly. I slid the palm of my hand over her labia, letting them slip between my fingers, tugging and pulling firmly. Deftly, I curled the tips of fingers as they glided past her hole and opened her up with two fingers. I felt an electric jolt lance through me from the top of my head to my crotch as she did the same. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before, and within seconds she’d increased the sensation, fisting me vaginally and anally, her fingertips dancing over my clit until the scene exploded in white light and faded.

When I “woke”, I found myself cradled in her arms, her lips softly playing over mine. I kissed her back and reluctantly took my leave. On the way out of her sprawling home, I was confronted by her husband and his brother. Both screamed and yelled at me as I stood there stoically, indifferent to their anger. The living room filled with people as his harangue called them out, more men, women, and children of all ages than any home should hold. I was impatient to be away. I reached around and grabbed a lamp and swung at him; missed. Enraged at my ineptness, I pulled out my gun and trained it on him. Still he shouted. I shot him, kicked his body a few times to see if he’d twitch, and strolled past the crowd out of the house. And into consciousness, slicked in sweat, wracked with nausea and self-revulsion.

As incredibly erotic as the dreams are, they seem diminished by the violence that has never characterized them before. I have to wonder if it’s the medication my doctor prescribed for me last month. Perhaps it’s time for a change.

* In fact, now that I think about it, I can’t really pinpoint any sexual fixation that has to do with physical appearance on my part. It’s my partner’s personality and outlook in life that makes it or breaks it with me. That, and the ability to talk dirty. Note to self: catalog fetishes.


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