Not All Dreams are Really Dreams

It started about six weeks ago----the dreams. They were vague at first; slightly erotic, nondescript images of another person sitting across from or standing next to me. Androgynous, but more hard than soft and more dominant than passive, or, well, submissive.

I didn't think much of it. Even though I had an erection if I woke up after one, it seemed no different than the morning erection indicating pending micturition. ED had not paid me a visit yet, either in the morning or when Charlotte and I had the time and energy.

But during the last two weeks, the dreams turned homoerotic. The person became more masculine each time. He was closer to me than before. I could see His eyes; I could hear His voice but no words. And as He spoke, I could feel myself sinking into the bed as the covers weighed me down. It felt so good to relax and sink, to float downwards as He spoke.

A couple of nights ago, He was close enough to kiss and I dreamed I wet my lips and opened my mouth to receive it. At the same time my legs were lifted and wrapped around His waist. I was lifted so that my ass was exposed, open and inviting. I gripped my ass, opening it wider and moving with Him.

I started to tingle with the beginnings of an orgasm and somehow swam to the top of the covers. When I woke, I realized I was about to have a wet-dream. Fortunately, I was in a hotel room so Charlotte noticing was not a factor. I made it to the toilet, got some lotion and masturbated, cumming in about ten strokes and still sensing the post dream sensation of His French kissing me.

I fell back asleep without any trouble ---it was a really good orgasm.

The next morning the uneasiness lingered, but I had client calls to make. The important one was a 'grip and grin and apology' as I had missed a planned meeting with the COO and his assistant the night before. My plane was not just delayed---it was broken, and so I got out on the dawn patrol.

This was a sensitive account that I had saved a year or so ago. Since then, I would stop by about every six weeks or so to make sure everyone was happy. Usually, I just met with the assistant, Matt, in his office at the end of the day and then a drink or dinner later. Matt was easy going, and I felt very comfortable around him despite the age difference. The conversations continued on the patio or sidewalk when he took his e-cigarette break after dinner and continued as he went with me upstairs to make sure the room was adequate. Matt was so easy to talk to that I always seemed to lose track of time. It never bothered me to undress and brush and get in bed while he was still there; he certainly was never put off by it. And he always let himself out after a little while. He was so quiet, I never noticed him leave.

Like I said, this was an important account and if spending time with Matt kept me in good graces, no problem.

Matt came down to meet me at the desk. We chatted for a moment, I apologized for missing our evening drink, shook hands, a quick guy hug, and then as I turned to go, he looked in my eyes while I promised to be back soon and to be on time. There was something about him that made me always look him in the eye. I always felt so calm and relaxed when I did.

I use a car service in LA: too much traffic; too much wasted time. As I approached the rear door, I saw myself reflected in the glass and the images from my dream flooded back. As I reached for the door, the images looked like Matt--a lot like Matt. I grimaced and pushed them aside thinking it was just the recency effect at work.

But for the rest of the day and the trip home, there was something nagging about it. I rationalized it as the awkwardness you get when you're in the gym and you accidentally look at a guy's dick for a spilt second too long and then you wonder the rest of the day if he noticed. And then the more you try not to think of it, the more you see his dick in your mind until at some point the brain says "enough jackass, move on" and so you do.

I've been home now for three days and the dreams kept coming. No way was I going to tell Charlotte I'm getting hard-ons dreaming about a male client. But this was getting creepy.

I'd never thought much about the therapist's office I passed to and from work. It was among a group of houses converted into professional businesses, sitting alongside CPAs and dentists and lawyer's offices. The sign out front had the doctor's name - Richard Ward, Ph.D. -- with script underneath advertising general counseling, couples therapy and obsessions. I shot a photo to catch the phone number.

I chewed on it through lunch and decided to make the call. As I was walking back to the office, Charlotte called and told me Aunt Peg had another fall, and she needed to go and tend to her. I was on my own for three days. And that sealed it. If I could get an appointment after work, I would not have to fudge my whereabouts.

Two deep breaths and I called.

The receptionist listened patiently while I stumbled around trying to say enough but not too much. He graciously agreed I could tell the doctor more when I saw him, and as it happened, he had a six o'clock opening. He then asked about insurance---you know, you could be wheeled into the ER holding your heart in your hands and the first thing they want to know is do you have insurance---but no way am I putting this on BC/BS. I advised I would pay cash. He was fine with that.

Fortunately, the crises of the afternoon cooperated, and I got out on time. I was about ten minutes early so I waited in the car, not wanting to take the chance of seeing someone recognizing me. No one came out, and I hit the door right at six.

The first thing that struck was how soft the office was--not feminine, just soft colors and paintings and so forth. The receptionist -- a 20-something - greeted me by name and had the clip board waiting.

I whipped through it giving minimal information, and handed it back. As I did the office door opened, and Dr. Ward stepped out. 40-something, brown wavy hair, dark brown eyes, in shape, firm handshake -- the first impression was re-assuring.

Introductions made; we went into his office. Again, a very soft setting. Two chairs in front of a desk, book shelves, paintings of landscapes, the obligatory couch at the wall, and a large screen TV behind his desk.

We sat down at the desk. He looked over the paperwork for a second, and then turned to me and said, "Not much there."

"Well," I replied, "I'm cautious."

"Understandable, but something brought you in here and we're on the clock," he said.

I stammered and shifted a bit. "I'm not sure how to put it," I finally said, surprised at my freezing up.

"Again, understandable," he said. "Let's just sit back, chat a moment or two, try and get you relaxed, and then ease into it." He pulled a keyboard and typed a bit. Slowly the office lights lowered a bit, there was some faint music in the background, and the screen behind him lit up and a series of lines and circles and shapes started moving about slowly.

I grinned and said, "Glad I didn't have drink before coming over, this could relax me right into a nap."

"We won't let that happen, but again, it's your time," he smiled back. "I'll start."

So, he asked some general health questions and then focused more on stressors I might have -- marriage, family, career, friends. And after a period of time, he hit me, "So why are you here."

And it just flowed out. But I had a hard time looking at him--I needed to focus elsewhere while I confessed my problem and the patterns on the screen were still flowing smoothly so I just focused on them.

"I've been having these dreams----------sexual--------more vivid than the wet dreams I had as a kid. And they seem to be about one person is specific."

"Go on," he urged.

"It's a client," I said and stopped.

"Just sit back, take a couple of breaths, focus on the screen behind you like you are doing, and keep talking. So, you are having sexual dreams about this woman?"

I stared at the screen--watching the patterns flow---not thinking.

"It's not a woman; it's a man," I murmured.

"Ah, OK. Now I understand the reticence. Let's take a moment and relax further. You know, once you start watching those images flow slowly across the screen, a part of you becomes detached, wondering what the next pattern will be--trying to figure out the pattern. It's a natural thing to do--to become detached like that. In fact, it's hard to look away. It pulls you in, relaxes you, occupies your conscious mind so you can talk to me about anything. Relax Charles, just watch the screen, detach yourself and tell me more about these dreams."

He was right--I was following the patterns--each one like the one before but subtly different. I could hear him encouraging me to talk more, but the shapes were so soothing.

"Charles," he said, a bit firmer. "Listen to me. You are safe here. You can tell me anything. You can tell me everything. Let the screen bring you in, let it draw you in closer and closer, once you start, you can only go deeper. And tell me what you recall."

And as I stared, I felt myself floating. His voice guiding me. And it all came out.

"His name is Matt. He is the administrative assistant to the COO for a big account. I meet with them about every six weeks. Afterwards, there's a dinner or drinks with the COO and some folks. Matt is always there and somehow; we end up being the last two there. We chat about anything and everything. He has the most unique grey eyes. They hold you. You get lost in them. It's really hard to look away, even when someone else is there or when the server comes. So sometimes we go out on the patio. He has an e-cigarette he likes to use after a couple of drinks. I don't smoke, but the vapor is very pleasant. Always at about 10 or so, we agree it's time to call it a night. He always walks with me to my room. We shake hands, and I get one more look at his eyes. And I turn in."

I pause.

" You doing fine," he says. "Watch the screen and detach further for me please. Go further and further into the screen."

All I can see is the screen.

"And where do the dreams come from?" he asks.

"This last visit was a couple of months ago. And after that I started having dreams about a person being with me, getting closer to me, then close enough to kiss, and then our tongues penetrating each other. I lay down, and raised my legs, offering my ass. The dreams got more vivid each time. And then last week when I was out in LA again, I swung by and met Matt briefly at his office 'cause the flight got messed up. He's the one I'm dreaming about."

And it seemed like I was dreaming as I told him that. I felt no shame. It just came out.

And having done that I felt myself pulling back out of the dream.

But his Voice stopped me.

"Don't resist it---you can't resist it. Once you have fallen into the patterns, you want to stay there. They hold your attention. They occupy your mind. And as they speed up ever so slightly, you find yourself drawn further and further in. Just watch and listen."

The Voice was right. I could not pull away. I did not want to pull away. I was consumed. And having let my problem out, all I could feel was relief and peace.

"Tell me more about what you feel when he kisses you," the Voice directed.

And so I told him.

"Tell me whose tongue penetrates who."

And I told him--describing how I opened my mouth for Matt's tongue, how I took it in, sucking and massaging it. How I could taste the vapor from his smoke.

"Tell me how you end up underneath him."

And again, I told him---Matt would back me up to the bed, holding me with his eyes as I removed my pants and drawers, laying me down and caressing my thighs as I raised my legs and wrapped them around his waist, holding my ass open and he massaged it and then made it cool and wet somehow, arching my back as he entered me, hold his arms as we moved together.

"And what happens next?"

I was breathing harder. He holds me with his eyes, not talking, and then suddenly his back arches and a warmth floods my ass. He kisses me firmly; I latch on to his tongue not wanting to break from this gorgeous, dominant man. But we do break. And he still holds me with his eyes, talking to me for moment, relaxing me, and telling me to lay there until he leaves and then what to do to get ready for bed and only remember our dinner.

The Voice went quiet. I was lost in the pattern waiting for the next command -- neutral, wide open.

A question: "How did this make you feel?"

"Fulfilled, submissive, used, erotic, powerless, alive," I murmured.

Again, a long pause, and then softly, "That's good, you are accepting of your role and your position in the situation."

"Yes," I replied.

That's very good," said the Voice. "Settle back and listen to me as I want to assure you that this is not anything for you to be worried about.

And as I listened, the Voice talked about natural instincts and behaviors to be expected when someone is naturally submissive and pliable and open to suggestions and observations. There was nothing for me to worry about or obsess over. These things were repeated and reinforced as I agreed.

And then gradually I found myself sitting across from Dr. Ward. The screen behind him was blank, the lights were up.

Blinking, I struggled to sit up straighter and had to clear my throat to find my voice.

"Uhmmmm--what was that?" I asked.

"Nothing to worry about," he said. "Lots of my professional patients who see me at the end of the day drift off while talking. It just means you were relaxed and comfortable and thus were honest."

Trying to cover my unease, I quipped, "So this means I'm cured?"

"Oh, certainly not," he said breaking into a smile, "you need at least 30 more sessions. I do have a car payment to make."

"Good one," I said, "but seriously, what's up with the dreams. Why am I having dreams about a client fucking me in the ass?"

He paused for a moment. "Yeah, that's a bit of a puzzle," he said looking up at the ceiling like he was gathering his thoughts.

I waited.

"The puzzling thing is you strike me as more of a cocksucker than just a piece of ass."

Which stopped me in my tracks. But before I could retort, he interjected, "You didn't mention it but have you ever had any thoughts about sucking off a guy---daydreams, wet dreams, fantasies about wrapping your lips around a guy's cock"

I heard it all, but the words "dream" and "suck" and "cock" started to swirl around. Images of a cock started to flash in my mind---soft at first but becoming firmer as I was drawn towards it. A moment or so later, I felt my mouth start to open. And then a dose of cold fear jolted me, and I popped out of it.

"Uh no----never, and there's another word after that----ever, as in Never Ever gonna happen."

"Easy----it was just a question, not a diagnosis," he said gently.

"Fair enough," I said, "But I'm uptight enough about the dreams, I don't need something else to worry about."

"Agreed, but you seemed to hesitate there briefly," he said.

"Shock," I said. "Uhhhm, where do we go from here?"

He came up from around the desk, and so I stood. He gestured towards the door and I followed.

"What I want to do is to get you to be able to relax before bed. Not sure where the dreams are coming from but you seem to have worked yourself into a loop. I want to give you a little computer file you can watch a few minutes before bed. Jason has it for you. I think you mentioned your wife was out of town---so you can take advantage of that to watch it a couple of times tonight without being disturbed. Let's give it a day or so, and then call me back and we'll see how you are doing."

He stopped at the door, shook my hand and went back inside as I walked over to the receptionist.

He had a thumb drive in his hand.

"That was quick," I said.

"Dr. Ward messaged me to get this ready while you were in session. It runs on any media player on your computer. Ear phones are necessary. Also, call the doctor when you start as he may have a couple of instructions for you. The session tonight is $250, credit card?" he said in one smooth, practiced spiel.

"Here you go," as I pulled my wallet.

--------

The drive home was a mess; I barely paid attention to the traffic. He mentions 'cocksucker' and I have visions of dicks. On top of that, who knows what else I said I while I was day dreaming and watching the screen. What a dumb move, and now there's a medical record about me fantasizing about a client fucking me in the ass. Charlotte is going to cut my nuts off and hang them around my neck. At which point the phone rings. Aunt Peg is not recovering as planned; it will be another five days or so. I'm sympathetic, but I can use the time to get my shit in one sock.

At home I pace for a while, down some Tequila and stare at the thumb drive. Maybe it will help. So, I head to the study and plug it in.

A black screen loads. Then a list of things to do first:

• Dress for bed

• Drink a shot of something

• Use headphones

• Call the Doctor at the number on the card

• When told to do so, hit

I push back and go get my pajama bottoms on, pour some more Tequila and toss it down and sit back down at the desk, plugging the ear buds in. I hesitate a moment. Then I take the cell phone and dial the number on the card.

The Doctor answers on the third ring.

"Hello Charles. I assume since you have made the call you are prepared for the session?" his voice was soft and almost purring.

"Yes. Yes, I am," I replied.

"Very good. We made some progress in the office and you're taking the next step by calling me means you are willing to trust me to take you further," his voice was so soft. "Put the phone down, put in the ear plugs and begin."

I hit enter. The same pattern that occupied me in his office appeared and began to move slowly. A moment or so later, I heard his voice telling me to relax, to trust him, to let go, to focus on his voice.

The instructions were random and the tone and cadence varied.

I lost track of time.

There's a number on the screen. The recording is telling me to call the number and tell the Doctor that I'm ready.

I stare at it. The instruction repeats. The screen does not change.

I remove the plugs and pick up the phone and dial. The Doctor answers, "I've been waiting for your call. Now that you have finished the second phase, get up and come open your front door. Invite me in and I will help you to sleep."

"Yes sir," I say and put the phone down.

I open the door. The Doctor is there. "Invite me in and ask me to help," he says softly.

I step back. "Please come in," I manage to get out, my voice catches.

"Thank you, I will," he says. "And by inviting me in you are asking for my help?"

"Yes," I nod.

"And you understand and agree that I know what's best?"

"Yes," I murmur.

"And you will obey me as instructed by the video, because by inviting me in you have agreed to obey."

"I will."

"Lead me to where you were watching the video, so I can retrieve my thumb drive, please. And we'll talk there for a moment."

I turn and make my way back to the study. I go to the computer, where the instruction to call is still flashing. I stop and the Doctor reaches around me and powers off the computer, removing the thumb drive.

"I think this has worked nicely," he says as he puts it in his pocket.

He steps aside. "Please sit," he instructs.

I do and he steps in front of me. He takes his hand and lifts my chin so that I am looking up at him. For some reason I am compelled to look into his eyes.

"That's right", he says. "Look at me, look into my eyes and listen carefully."

I sat still.

"There is a part of you that you have kept hidden, kept suppressed. The dreams you are having is your hidden desire to submit--to be dominated - to please another. They're breaking through. It's perfectly natural. And so, I will help you now understand what you are feeling. Do you agree?