The Fuck Dream (Part 1)
The first time he had the dream, he couldn’t believe how vivid it was–almost like he’d simply woken up in his bed, in the middle of the night, as happened sometimes. However, despite how vivid it was, it had felt like a dream all the same. The room…it didn’t seem to have a consistent perspective. He was looking out his eyes, and yet also…looking down at himself, somehow disembodied at the same time. But most disturbing of all, was the stranger standing at the foot of his bed. He ended up referring to him as the stranger, because the figures face kept…shifting. Every time he looked away, and then back, the face would have changed. One moment, it was his father. The next, one of his friends from college, another, his first grade teacher. It wasn’t really any of those people though–the stranger…well, he still didn’t know who, or what, it was.
He realized, as soon as the dream began, that he had no control over his body. Once, when he was young, he’d had several bouts of sleep paralysis, and it reminded him of that. It only grew worse as the stranger climbed on top of him, crushing him, forcing his body into a position on his side, one leg up, and he watched as a parade of faces–men he’d seen the day before in passing, old acquaintences from years passed–fucked him. It began slowly, with the stranger tickling his hole with his cock, as he fought to wake up from the nightmare, but soon, the stranger was pounding in deep, ignoring the young man’s cries and pleas, the dream only dissolving away after the stranger came, and he sat up in his bed for real, covered in sweat.
Sweat and…cum. Looking down, he realized he’d shot a load all over his chest in the night. Unnerved, he didn’t sleep again until the next day, when the dream returned again. And again the next night after that. And again, and again, and again…