Dreams of Desire

"Désirée!"

In the darkened stateroom Howard thrashed about in his troubled sleep until his long limbs were hopelessly entangled in the bed linens. Like a drowning man trapped within a powerful undertow struggling to reach the surface for a breath of life-giving air, he fought to bring his mind to full wakefulness, to escape the dream. His lean body quivered as his erection began to erupt, lustily spewing his seed all over the bed linens and all over himself in the process. He shuddered as one final tremor resounded throughout his body and his climax subsided at last. The hem of his dishevelled white nightshirt was bunched around his waist.

Bright blue eyes flew open, and, for the barest fraction of a second, he stared uncomprehendingly into the darkness. Perspiration glistened on his naked white flesh, sleep clouded his brain.

Almost instantaneously the drug-like effects of his dream state and accompanying orgasm began to fade. Just as the euphoria had completely dissipated the reality of his situation came crashing down upon him. That damned, bloody dream again! Bloody hell!

Where was he? Oh yes, the ship. He remembered now. By now the ocean liner must have entered the South China Sea en route to the Orient.

The ship?!! Oh bloody hell! he thought, as another appalling realisation came to him. His twenty two year old niece and her maid were asleep in the very next compartment to his. He could only pray that the echoes of his own voice which he had heard resounding through his small stateroom a moment earlier were only another element of the all too vivid dream, and that he hadn't actually shouted her name out loud while his dream-self was caught up in the throes of passion. Paper-thin walls and an adjoining door connected his accommodations to theirs. Had they heard? Had she heard?

Désirée! Please, God, don't let her have heard me!

From where he lay upon the rumpled linens, Howard need only turn his head slightly to the left in order to gaze out through one of the open portholes that graced the centre the far wall and through the left one to view the crescent of the moon hanging low in a cloudless, black velvet sky. The moon's shimmering likeness moved and glittered like quicksilver across the blackness of the gently rolling swells, casting its silver-white reflection up onto all of the exposed surfaces of the ship. The brilliance of the moon through the porthole provided sufficient light to dimly illuminate the cabin's interior.

Howard propped himself up on his elbows and gazed around the cabin. The moonlight was more than adequate to allow him to observe the mess he'd made of himself and of his bedclothes.

Again!

Bloody hell, he berated himself. Bloody, bloody hell!

It was the first time in months that he'd been haunted by that infernal dream. Perhaps its recurrence now was due, at least in part, to the subtle but relentless motion of the sea, causing him to sleep much more deeply than usual. Perhaps it had more to do with his proximity to Désirée day in and day out, for, other than the hours spent sleeping or reading in his cabin, there could be no escaping her company now. For whatever reason, the dream had not disturbed his sleep since he had left his home in the south of England in late spring. For nearly three months he'd been free of it. He'd almost convinced himself by this time that after being in such close quarters with Désirée he would no longer be haunted by the recurring dream that had cursed his slumber for so many years.

'Recurring nightmare', he reminded himself. Even now the intoxicating scent of the young woman herself seemed to linger in the air, as it always did in the dream's aftermath. The subtle fragrance that whispered her name in his brain like a mantra. Furiously he grabbed a fistful of the crumpled linens and began to wipe away the residue of his dream from himself and his nightshirt.

The final humiliation, he thought angrily as he made a vain attempt to expunge the evidence of his illicit desire. Finally he gave up in disgust, stripped off his soiled nightshirt and flung it against the far wall of his cabin, now thoroughly disgusted with himself.

He was more than embarrassed, he was mortified. Night emissions and vivid, sexual dreams are the bane of adolescent boys, he reminded himself for the ten-thousandth time, not of grown men! Certainly not of a man approaching forty years of age!

After the half-hearted attempt at cleaning himself he dropped back on the bed, naked, his long legs still entangled in the sweat dampened linens. In spite of the cool air in the cabin, the thin layer of perspiration that clung to his pale skin glistened in the silvery moonlight. Lying flat on his back, he stared at the darkened ceiling. His moist skin felt clammy, his pubic hair was still matted with sweat and semen. He should get out of bed and wash himself, he reasoned. At the moment he just could not bring himself to move.

Of all the women in the world why did this one torment him so? His own niece! But why? And why did he have to experience such illicit dreams of his own niece? Why did Désirée haunt him so? Not merely her physical beauty, surely. Perhaps it was a family curse after all. A curse passed down from father to son, generation after generation, this lustful urge to have carnal knowledge of one's younger female relatives? The desire to prey upon innocent, vulnerable young women just as his father had preyed upon his sister so many years ago?

Howard stretched out on the bed and allowed the cool night air to caress his overheated flesh.

He could not help but wonder what that young Austrian physician he had recently read about would make of these remarkably sexual dreams? Might Dr Freud point out that his illicit desire was tied to his niece's uncanny likeness to her mother, Howard's long dead sister? No, Howard was a logical man. All of that psychoanalytical nonsense seemed entirely too complicated. From Howard's perspective, a far more likely motive was that he desired his niece Désirée because she represented the ultimate female, the woman he truly could never have. She represented the ultimate in the feminine ideal. Young, beautiful and untouched. And if she followed through with her plans to join the convent when she returned home from his voyage, she would forever remain so. A perpetual vestal virgin who could be safely placed upon the highest pedestal as the ideal female. What could possibly be safer for a man determined to remain a bachelor than to lust after the one woman he could never hope to possess. That was the simplest explanation of why he lusted after his own niece, and the simplest hypothesis most often proved to be the correct one. His niece was beautiful and innocent, unquestionably vulnerable and utterly unattainable. If that was the rationalization of why he desired her, he hoped it was the only one. Because, God help him, he did desire her. He lusted after her. Since blossoming into womanhood, Désirée had become an obsession in his heart and in his brain. One by one all other women were compared to her, and all paled in comparison. No other woman disturbed his sleep. No other woman haunted his dreams. None like his beautiful Désirée.

Lying in the darkened shipboard cabin, though fully awake now, the essence of the vivid dream stayed with him. If he closed his eyes he could almost smell the delicate perfume of Désirée's skin, almost taste the flavour of Désirée's full lips. He could almost feel the warmth and the softness of Désirée's naked flesh against his...

Bloody hell! He cursed himself again for his moral weakness.

The nightmare - this appalling nightmare that refused to release him from its relentless grip - had begun years before.

Pushing himself up on his elbow, he reached out and snatched up the feather pillow from the floor beside the bed. It must have been sent flying as he had thrashed about in his sleep. He punched the pillow irritably, then flung it back toward the head of the bed. He dropped back onto it and resumed his vigil of staring up at the ceiling. His mind was filled with vivid images of Désirée. Her flawless white skin. Her long blond hair shimmering in the sunlight. Her large blue eyes. Her full, red lips. Try as he might, he couldn't rid his mind of them. Images from the dream. And memories. Sweet memories from the past. Memories of his sweet little Alex as he had known her as a child. Sweet memories of years past, before these terrible dreams began.

But in his mind there were also the very disturbing memories. Memories of that hot summer night. That dreadful night and the living nightmare that had spawned these vivid dreams. Like the dreams, these were memories that he was unable to escape. He had not touched her then, but he had wanted to. God forgive him he had wanted her even then.

Throughout the intervening years he dreamed of her. Often. More often than he felt comfortable with. As a rule, the dreams were entirely innocent. Sometimes in his dreams, he envisioned her as she appeared in those tiny photographs she would send. Though it was nearly impossible to make out the details from the grainy snapshots, he could only imagine how she might resemble their beautiful mother more and more with each passing year. Sometimes in his dreams they sat together quietly, uncle and niece. Side by side. Sometimes they built sand castles on the beach, sailed the red toy sailboat off on wondrous adventures or waded barefoot in the warm surf. In these peaceful dreams, he might find himself holding her small hand, just enjoying their closeness and the warmth of her soft hand against his. And she would smile up at him adoringly as she always had. And upon seeing her lovely face, upon observing those charming dimples, Howard would find he had no choice but to smile back.

But then there were the other dreams, dreams which came upon him without warning. Regardless of whether his mind was occupied with the latest business venture or numbed by drink, by cocaine or morphine, the dreams came unbidden. As he slept the sultry young woman would steal into his thoughts and into his bed. Naked and beautiful, and eager for his touch. The seductress would caress his naked flesh with her delicate, soft hands and kiss him with those full, sensuous lips. And his dream-self experienced no shame in savouring his niece's soft kisses, in holding her lithe body in his arms. No shame in exploring her delicious nakedness. In pulling her close and suckling those mouth-watering, cherry red nipples. No shame at all in spreading her slender legs and burying himself in her. Burying himself in her so deeply that he could no longer be certain where his body ended and where hers began. In these dreams he delighted in each incestuous escapade, shamelessly plunging his throbbing shaft into his niece's body. Thrusting into her until his passion exploded deep within her womb. Invariably he would awaken at the moment of ejaculation, calling her name as his phallus shot fountains of semen into his rumpled, sweat-soaked sheets and nightshirt. All over himself.

"Désirée!"

Although his rational mind knew that a man can in no way be held responsible for the actions of his unconscious mind when he is asleep; year after year the recurring dream continued to plague him, and with each new episode he was mortified anew at what could only be perceived as an unspeakable flaw in his character. What kind of a monster must truly lurk just below his thin veneer of the Victorian gentleman that he presented to the world? What kind of a monster could harbour such wicked desires for his own niece? With each fresh occurrence, the sweet scent of her skin remained vivid in his mind for hours; sometimes days, afterward. However distant, Désirée refused to disappear. She remained forever his obsession. A phantom that came to him in the night. A beautiful, insatiable succubus that haunted his nightmares, night after night, year after year.

As Howard lay on the bunk in the unlit ship's cabin, Désirée's likeness loomed in his imagination, just as she had appeared in the dream. Beautiful and naked. And, oh, so desirable. Even though he had so recently released his seed his body once again ached for her.

Bloody hell! Why had he volunteered to come on this voyage and accompany Désirée and her maid?!

Volunteer? Hell, he bloody well insisted! What could he have been thinking? He asked himself as he lay naked on the bed, gazing at the silvery-white sliver of moon visible through the porthole. Even as his mind formed the question, he knew the answer. He had hoped that by to accompanying her on this long voyage he might prove the old adage true: Familiarity breeds contempt. He had convinced himself that by being forced to see her, to spend time with her every single day, he would soon learn to view Désirée in the same light that he viewed all other females, with no small degree of contempt.

It certainly hadn't worked out as he had hoped. Damn the woman! Far from breeding contempt, he was intrigued, he was fascinated by her! In a few short weeks, he had gone from being attracted to Désirée to being absolutely captivated. And there was, apparently, not a damned thing he could do to stop himself! With each passing day he found her to be more of an enigma. The more he saw of her; the more he learned about her, the more of a mystery she became to him. Even though she was a young woman, she was, without doubt, one of the most intelligent woman he had ever met.

Not that they always agreed. On anything. Far from it. But how he enjoyed their discussions, their disagreements, and most of all their arguments. And she was remarkably quick witted as well. And her dry humour often took him by surprise and never failed to make him smile if not laugh out loud. Even if the laugh was on himself. And, by God, there was no denying the young woman's beauty. But hers was a beauty that went far beyond what his eyes could perceive.

His lust had become a living thing. It was alive in him. Try as he might, he could not stop thinking about her. He wanted her!

Even now her fragrance was still so very vivid in his mind. Stretching upward over his flat stomach, his reawakened erection pulsed with every beat of his heart.

He spent the remainder of the night just lying there on his bunk, glaring at the ceiling, trying not to think at all.

Two more weeks until they reached Bombay. Two more weeks of this torment.

Damn the woman!