Hornes Syndrome

"Tonight," she informed me, between desperate windings of our tongues, "you are not leaving me, John."

I lasted long enough to thrust my way inside her and then, like a volcano spewing molten lava, hot juices cascaded from me, filling her, claiming the right of first passage into her womb, where miraculously, no egg awaited us for fertilization

Her orgasm, I believe, was even greater than mine.

Epilogue

It's years later now, and Trace and I are both married.

Her husband is an FBI agent out of the Washington, DC field office. His name is Robert, and although he's a nice enough guy, and we get along as well as brothers-in-law can, I suppose, it's still a little unnerving having my sister married to a cop. She talks in her sleep, if you remember.

Janice was one of Trace's closest girlfriend growing up. They lost contact after high school, however, Trace attending Penn State, my dad's Alma-Mater, with Jan ending up at, of all places, the University of Utah. No, she's not a Mormon.

Unfortunately, my marriage to Jan took the same path as so many do these days: to court. Jan and I separated four months ago; I moved into an apartment, and kept the cat, while she got the kids. Trace also, has two kids.

In the early morning hours after our first successful dream-coupling, I woke Trace up and confessed everything: How I had entered her bedroom in the dreams, disrobed her and attempted to force sex upon her, how I awoke in my own bed to complete the wet-dream in frustration. She confessed something as well: For her, the dreams had begun the same week as her pill regimen. They became progressively more explicit and frightening to her, until the night she had brushed past me in the upstairs hallway, topless.

"I acted like it was nothing," she admitted that morning. "But the instant I got into my bedroom I threw myself onto the bed, knowing that I had just shown my boobies to my brother. I was so embarrassed. And then that night . . ." She shrugged, red-faced at the memory.

I then recounted my own anxiety and frustration over the incident. "Truthfully," I told her. "I had wanted you for a long, long time, but nothing like after that night."

What happened between us after that?

Before retiring to our respective bedrooms at eight o'clock in the morning for whatever sleep could be salvaged, we promised to discuss things again that night. And we had discussed them . . . in Tracey's bed, in the nude, and at great length. Thank God Mom and Dad hadn't come home until Sunday afternoon.

And what about now? you say. Do we still dream together?

You bet we do, only now we do it in my bed.

THE END