Dreams are curious things. At once personal and universal. Stories our subconscious tells us to organise and make sense of the events of the day. As such dreaming feels a deeply human preserve, storytelling being our most treasured and powerful tool, but it’s necessary for the survival of a startling array of species. I dream, my Master dreams, the rats W/we keep next to the bed dream. So too does the lizard in O/our living room.
Precisely what form these basal reptilian dreams take is a subject for another day and a different platform. The dreams which interest me at the moment are the horny kind. Dreams may and often do manifest fears and anxieties, but the more charitable ones will throw a hitherto undreamt of* (*lol) fantasy our way. These are frustratingly scarce in my case, barring one memorable episode featuring a blonde shortstack domme who, having thoroughly brainwashed me, proceeded to run a wet cloth through one of my ears and out the other, then yank it pleasurably from side to side, brainwashing me literally as well as figuratively.
Ah, dream physics.
But as I say, my dreams get kinky all too rarely. I can count on my fingers the number of real life acquaintances who’ve shown up to use my pathetic, squirming body while I sleep (discounting somno, but again, that’s for another day), and considering how horny I am during waking hours, this strikes me as acutely unfair.
This past month however, the ratio has shifted. My Sir, Imaginatrix, whom I really should have known better than to let inside my head, has invaded five of my dreams in as many weeks, each time with a strikingly different use for me in mind. Given that material for this blog is currently thin on the ground, I’ve decided to include them here (hey, it’s real life play in the sense that I lived through it and didn’t technically make any of it up), so, strap in folks, things are about to get trancey (and more than a little weird)…
Toeing the Line
The first of our illusory escapades was much like any of our IRL sessions. Sir’s feet were dirty. She ordered her toy to clean them. I crouched before her as she lounged in bed, dutifully lapping the dirt and crud from her divine soles until they were sparkling. So far, so normal* (*yeah).
In for the Long Drool
Dream number two! Featuring no actual number twos (sorry)…
This one took place in my own room and was, I recall, comprehensive. As is often the way with dreams, however, I’m only able to retain one detail all these weeks later, that of Sir straddling me in her nylons and using me as her spittoon. At one point she challenged herself to see how long an unbroken string of drool she could make me take down my throat, for which she had to invoke my (very handy) ‘freeze’ trigger. Further proof that hypno makes everything better.
Enslave the Date
An interesting one here. Not especially erotic, more an undercurrent of smut than anything else. We went to the theatre (outdoor, before anyone starts clutching their pearls), then followed it up with a romantic dinner. Nothing kinky to the untrained observer, but I was in fact Sir’s obedient pay piggy, having been hypnotised to eagerly foot the bill for every aspect of the date, no matter how extravagant. Findom has only ever been a theoretical kink of mine as it’s not feasible for me to actually practise, but my god it’s hot, and never more so than in its subtle but pervasive use here. Top marks, me.
Toilet Stall
Having relayed all of the above to Sir, and been greeted with characteristically gleeful taunting, I resolved to be as bratty and uncooperative as possible in our next (inevitable) encounter. Unfortunately, where myself and Sir – and hypnosis – are concerned, brattiness is given short shrift. And this is where those who felt short-changed by the lack of number twos in dream number two can get their… um… ‘fill’.
Sir found me midway through making toilet. I was bursting and needed to go more than anything, but with a quick trance and a simple command, I found myself unable to void my bowels. I sat there, huffing and panting as Sir smirked and ordered me to masturbate to completion with my log still stretching and straining in my guts. An order I was obviously powerless to resist.
Is there such a thing as a constipatrix?
Lamp to the Slaughter
Finally, one of the more elaborate and imaginative scenarios my subconscious has dreamed up* (*one day I’ll learn how to use asterisks), possibly ever. It also made an impressive amount of sense, to the point that it could function as a story in its own right, if an odd one.
Back at Sir’s, I had been cast as her live-in house slave, doing chores and making the place presentable in preparation for her return home that evening, all whilst wearing the obligatory skimpy maid’s outfit. I was interrupted in my work however by a cryptic text from Sir, advising me to practise my ‘Pixar toilet trick’. Confused, but knowing better than to ask questions, I made something up, and returned to my chores.
When Sir eventually got in, she brought a bevy of close friends with her, and ordered me to go and get ready to share what I’d rehearsed. I did so, but just as I finished preparing I heard Sir loudly invite those assembled to watch a complicated card trick I’d been honing, and realising I’d been duped, hopped awkwardly into view, my legs tightly bound with duct tape, lightbulb in mouth, loo roll in each hand, and a fiery blush blossoming across my cheeks.
As I began my dance recital, much as a toddler would, to the whoops and laughter of Sir’s delighted guests, it dawned on me why Sir might have given herself the name ‘Trix’.
JenDragon 