What is My Dream Trying to Tell Me?

Image via Pixabay

I dream in color, and I dream a lot, but I don’t always remember my dreams. If I wake up and start talking about them or thinking of the smallest details I can remember, they’ll stick with me. If not, they’re gone into the ether – poof!

As I woke from this particular dream, I told myself, “Remember this…remember it. Don’t forget it. It’s too fucking good and strange, and what the fuck does it even mean?”

The written word isn’t enough for me to convey it all the way I experienced it and remember it. I wish I could write it technicolored and strange as it happened, but I will try…

The edges are fuzzy, as they are in dreams. Details only come into focus in small ways. Everything around me is dark but a light shines from within, or is it around?, the person in front of me.

On my knees, eyes closed. I know what’s coming, but I don’t know if I want it.

“Open your mouth, girl. You know you want this.”

John Brownstone’s voice isn’t enough to soothe my nerves. I want to do what he’s asking but I’m scared. What if it isn’t the way I imagined it? What if I’m not enough? Worse, what if I don’t like it?

“Go on, babygirl. Open up.”

My stomach tightens as my jaw drops.

“Tongue out.”

I knew that.

A warm, silky smooth cock strokes my tongue. It’s too smooth. Is this a real person? As warm come fills my throat, I know it is. How did they come so soon? Didn’t we just get started? Where are the veins and ridges I’m used to? Can a cock be androgynous?

Too many thoughts. Too much time to think.

Time stands still. I’m left on my knees, hands behind my back, eyes closed, mouth open, but I hear yelling.

“I won’t do something that’s nonconsensual. Forced isn’t my fucking kink!”

Wait? Who’s yelling?

With dawning realization, I understand it’s the owner of the eerily smooth cock, and they’re in John Brownstone’s face.

Oh no, that won’t do.

Standing, I’m still in the dark, but faces come into view. At least this person’s face does. Is this person male or female? My 90s teen self recognizes the look as what we used to refer to as butch. My 21st century self doesn’t know if this is the right word but it’s the phrase that sticks in my head. I don’t know their pronoun but instinct tells me “He” doesn’t fit – regardless of the taste of semen coating my mouth.

“Excuse me! Don’t you dare yell at him! I don’t do anything I don’t want to do, and we’re playing with consensual non-consent over here.” I take a deep breath. Yelling always makes me nervous, like I’m going to come apart at the seams. “I wanted to be there, and as long as you did too, everything is cool. Don’t you yell at my Daddy!”

My tone is more forceful than I recognize or even intend. Don’t fuck with my Daddy or claws I pretend I don’t have emerge.

But I can’t stay mad. There is something warm and welcoming about this person – who’s name I still don’t know, who’s description feels like “butch” in my head but I don’t know and I don’t ask. I don’t know how to ask those things, and I’m not sure I should. It doesn’t really matter.

The scene changes…I’m lying in bed, curled up next to this person, marveling at the memory of their very real, but smooth cock now tucked away in their jeans. I feel secure and warm. It’s a good place to be.

A door opens somewhere and a stream of people enter. All but one is a stranger. They’re all friendly, though. They want to pet and touch and be touched in return. One person pulls out a needle kit and wants to thread a corset of ribbon around my wrist. It makes me nervous and feels natural. Of course they do. Doesn’t everyone sew ribbons around their wrists? And look, it’s purple!

Speaking of purple, don’t I know that?…Professor Sex! I’m instantly happy in a babygirl way. A naked babygirl way.

I raise my arms for a hug while still cradled with my new friend who’s murmuring something about a repeat of our earlier scene.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Because I can still feel their shaft on my tongue even after, I presume, hours have passed.

But first I need my hug from Professor Sex. I don’t ask why she’s naked, too. But now I’m nervous. I’ve only ever touched another naked woman in my life, and it was in the heat of a threesome that made me feel wild and untamed. This is more deliberate. A naked cuddle in what is already a strange situation that feels natural. Holding the two competing sensations in my head makes me dizzy.

My hand trembles as I follow the curve of her body. She’s soft, like me. But clearly more relaxed. Her purple hair mesmerizes me. She looks into my eyes with a calmness I want for myself, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

Just as I become comfortable while sandwiched between two warm bodies, it’s time to sew a purple ribbon around my wrist. Everyone backs away to give the person with a needle – who I cannot see but know is there – space to work. I’m cold and alone, and the sight of the needle under my skin both fascinates and repels me. It hurts but only slightly. The more I stare at it, the more I convince myself it should hurt more. I begin to fre and look around for my new friend with a cock I can’t stop obsessing over and John Brownstone. The pain intensifies and she’s gone, my purple-haired friend. I miss her so and my wrist begins to hurt as I stare at the needle, just when I think I might scream…

I wake up.

Welcome to Masturbation Monday! I have no clue what my dream means either, and anyone who wants to educate me on the correct use of the term “butch” is welcome to do so. I know the old terms we used in the 90s probably aren’t the right ones anymore. So yeah, no sex as I think of it, but strangely erotic in it’s own way. If you’re looking for more smut, you know what to do. Click the button below!