Dreammaster Ch. 03byrlincn©
After the dreams of the previous two nights, you are very careful to avoid coffee this day, knowing it will be hard enough to concentrate, to relax, and to sleep, without the added boost of caffeine. Your mind races back and forth across your work, and the most you can do is move between stacks and bid the hour speed. End of day comes and you stand on the platform, watching your trains pass, only realizing your omission before the third departure. As the train glides down the rails toward your station, you lean against the poles, wishing there were someone behind you, holding fast to your hips, leaning both of you in the direction of movement.
You beg out of dinner plans with your friend, Sondra. She would only have given you endless details about her upcoming vacation, and you see no point – you know she'll give you the same endless detail after the vacation, so why hear it twice? Instead, you eat the half of your leftovers you don't toy with, take a long soaking bath, joined by two glasses of Chardonnay, then head off to an early bed.
The wine and the light meal do the trick, and in short order, you have drifted into dark slumber.
As you percolate upward into the dream, you are joined immediately by Weisshart, who grasps you firmly by your elbow and says only, "Come, Gina - we have much to do."
You barely have time to recognize your surroundings - the clearing from last night - before they dissolve and you find yourself indoors in a kind of atrium, the pungent aroma of some unknown incense hanging heavy on you. What light there is comes from oil lamps scattered haphazardly around your body, laid flat on a broad table and naked. Somewhere back and to your left, you hear water splashing - perhaps a fountain. You start to sit up and realize you haven't the strength to lift your upper body.
Seeing the concern on your face, Weisshart says, "Don't worry - you'll be safe here - Cassandra won't find you."
"What do you mean? Safe from her? What are you saying?"
"She's dangerous, Gina. I didn't realize until last night just how dangerous she is. But to protect you, we must act now."
"What do we have to do?" you ask with uncertainty and deep confusion at the notion of Cassandra being a danger to you. You struggle to lift yourself upright but can only manage to raise yourself a few inches.
"Gina - I can protect you, but you have to give yourself to me completely. Not to worry, though - I'll make it easy for you." He passes his hand in front of your face and when it is gone, you are no longer alone on the table. To your left is a woman in the middle of two men. She is on her hands and knees with one man before her, his obviously thick cock straining her mouth. Behind her, the other man, his cock making deep, urgent lunges into her pussy.
On your right, a young couple, maybe early twenties, in missionary position, her legs locked around him, hips rising to meet his thrusts. She removes her near hand from his waist, and lets it fall softly upon your belly. She looks over at you, and you both blink in surprise. She is the young photographer whose gallery show you attended with Sondra a few weeks back. A smile of acknowledgment passes between the two of you before she turns her head back. Her hand remains on you, however, drifting back and forth across you, driven by her partner's slow, rhythmic thrusts.
Other hands gently part your thighs as you yourself are joined by a man whom you don't recognize. On his knees before you, he draws his fingers across your inner thighs. His lean body invites your eyes downward, from his broad chest to his well-proportioned uncut cock. Though he strikes you as "generic hunk," you won't complain until you sample his technique.
He wastes no time - bending immediately to part your labia with his tongue. You feel his hot breath upon your damp flesh. His fingers continue their dance on your inner thighs as his whole mouth - tongue, lips, and teeth - attend to the pleasures of your clit. Occasionally, he plunges his tongue (his unusually long tongue, you discover) into your pussy to savor your fresh nectar. With no small effort, you place your hands on either side of his head, encouraging him to delve deeper. You rotate your hips in small circles, grinding yourself against his face, as your breathing becomes more labored. He points his tongue at the underside of your clit, laps gently at it, then flicks, and your thighs snap tightly around his head, then release. He repeats this on and off, alternating with attention to both your outer and inner labia, until you begin to tremble the moment you feel his tongue on your clit.
His finger probes your ass, gathering your flowing moisture, and slipping softly in, stopping for a massage of the outer ring with just his fingertip, then as you relax, gliding in to the next knuckle, then another pause with gentle swirling motions, then the final plunge to the base of the finger. With each knuckle, you feel the disorienting downward plunge of white water rafting – slow and calm, then a rush of sensation. He continues to tongue you and at this point, you would swear that his tongue is several places at once. The sounds of passion coming from the other couples grow louder and more ragged. The threesome on your left is making the most noise, the two men grunting in time to their thrusts, and the woman emitting a slowly escalating whimpering moan, the waves of her passion splashing up then receding, each time going a bit higher with each thrust from the partner in her pussy.
By now, the woman to the right, gasping throatily under her own passion has let her hand drift downward toward your trimmed outcropping. Her hand rests lightly between your clit and your navel, sheltering the place, and holding the passion inside. Now and then, it awakens and rubs lightly, then returns to stillness.
Your skin begins to flush – you feel your muscles tensing and relaxing all at once, your ass clenching down on your partner's fingers, milking ripples inside your unoccupied pussy. Your orgasm is approaching – with every suck and nip now, you shudder a bit, surging along with the heightening moans of those around you. Your splayed legs drop and lay slack then pop up again, fighting strong gravity as they seek to draw your eater deep within you.
Without warning, your partner flies backward, throwing out his arms as he is wrenched around, spiraling into the darkness. "Enough!" announces Weisshart, "Now is the time." and he appears in front of you, between your legs. You stare straight at him, a twisted grin on his face; his hands, his cold, cold hands gripping your sides securely. Your eyes travel further down, and come to a halt, beholding the most enormous, engorged red cock you could possibly imagine. It grazes your inner thigh, and chills you to the bone – you try to back away on the table, but you still have no strength in your limbs, and his cold, iron grip holds you fast. "Now is the time," he repeats, glistening black eyes fixed on you, "Soon, she won't be able to touch you again."
Sheer terror keeps you from crying out; whatever holds you to the table keeps you from struggling. His cold beast of a cock hangs down and half-lays upon your stomach as he hefts your body closer. As he takes cock in hand, doubtless to begin insertion, he too is thrown back, this time by a streak that appears from behind your head and sails over your body – crashing into him and dragging him to the floor. In their tumbling through the half light at the edge of the lamps, you can barely make out waving red hair. In a surge of panicked hope, you imagine it to be Cassandra, but have no idea any longer of who is saving you from whom.
Lamps are extinguished, pots shattered, oil splashed everywhere as the two tumble back and fort trough the shadows. The scene is made more bizarre by the fucking taking place in the shadow of the violence. The couple to your right, however, begin making sidelong glances that direction and finally, when both look over simultaneously, fade into nothingness. You assume they are real, and were finally disturbed from their dream enough to waken. Cassandra seems to be taking the upper hand, pouncing on the figure of Weisshart now in slow retreat, though you still notice him eying you as he maneuvers around the room. Cassandra keeps herself between Weisshart and you, slashing at him with her fingers, now grown long and wiry, topped with long nails that glisten even in the soft lamplight. Weisshart makes a sudden lunge to his left and Cassandra lashes out, off balance. Weisshart sees his opening and throws his shoulder against her, sending her sprawling against a column. As she crumples there in a daze, he sees his opportunity and sprints toward you, grasping hand outstretched. You watch in numbed horror as this wraith-like winged creature rises up behind him, closing the distance in an instant. Streaks of blood spatter you as the creature's talons shoot through him just above his shoulder blades. As he falters, you finally feel the heavy blanket that held you to the table lifted. At the same time, the threesome to your left flickers and disappears, leaving nothing behind.
The wraith rises into the air with Weisshart and flings its now limp adversary into a corner, then retires to the far corner of the room. You watch apprehensively for a time. No knowing where to flee to, you sit and regather your strength, waiting for some sign of activity from where you last saw Cassandra.
Thought the room is by no means cold, you sit tightly coiled, shivering. You weep softly, trying to figure out how to break the dream spell and return to your own bed. As you resolve to rise and search for some means of escape, you spy Cassandra limping in from the shadows. You tense, but wait on her approach. She rolls herself slowly onto the table on the far side, clearly exhausted. You scoot away, keeping your eyes on her and ask slowly and deliberately, "What - do - you - want - from - me?"
She gives a wry, pained smile - taking a moment to reply, "It was foolish... I should have come to you directly. Instead, I asked Weisshart to introduce us. I had no idea what he was doing the first night. By the second night, I doubted his motives. Almost too late tonight, I realized he was going to rip your soul from you and devour you."
You stare at her, then ask skeptically, "... Before you had a chance to?"
She shakes her head, driving a tear from her eye. "No - I wanted to know you, and then I wanted to care for you. If this is too much for you, I'll understand. I won't pursue you."
Long moments pass, the wheels of the night turn. You watch her breathe, neither of you speaking. With a shrug, you slip off the table, and walk slowly off into the darkness.
In a moment, you return, water dripping from your cupped hands. You pour it into a shallow depression in the stone table, dipping your fingers in to wipe Cassandra's dirty, sweaty, blood-flecked face. Over and over you dip and wipe until her face begins to shine. "I've never known any vampires" you think to her "I've especially never known any silly, romantic vampires." and a smile crosses your face, and surprises her into a soft smile as well.
"Is he really dead?" She nods in reply. "Is any of the rest of this real?" She shakes her head. "Are you real?" She nods her head. "And if he had taken me...?" She looks directly into your eyes, and shakes her head slowly, with a grave finality.
Trembling overcomes your body. "I need to be somewhere real. Right now!" At your insistence, she rises up and effortlessly swoops you up in her arms, saying "Come with me." Your eyes close...
... and reopen, and now you are wrapped in your downy comforter in your own bed – time, 10:30, and Cassandra is sitting alongside you in the dark, stroking your face.
"You are real."
"Yes" is her only reply before she leans over and kisses both your temples.
"No more dreams tonight – only sleep. We'll see each other tomorrow. I promise."
One last questioning look from you, and she replies, "You'll be safe. I promise." You believe her.
Your eyes close and you float through uninterrupted oblivion until your alarm wakes you for work in the morning.
The day passes – each task provides a handhold to draw you closer to nighttime. The queue of calls to return tomorrow, not today, grows. Always in the back of your mind are two Cassandras: one continually stroking your cheek, and another endlessly flinging the impaled Weisshart into the dark.
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