Dream Sequence #1

Copied over from fetlife, thus excuse the references.

Out of order even more than posting Sequence three first, is posting the first second.




Seems there isn't going to be any semblence of order to this at all, assuming I share sequence number two at all.



I am choosing to share this dream because it is more than a dream, it was a night terror, something that still haunted my vision and mind after my eyes opened, after I came out of the hell in my mind to the real world. I don't suffer night terrors often, so when I do, they do tend to send me for a bit of a whirl even now.



I am also sharing this, because it occurs to me that my third dream had nothing at all to do with BDSM on a BDSM social site. Even given that they are private journal entries, everything I have written on this profile has, one way or another, pertained to the BDSM world in some regard, be it through personal thoughts, ideals, hopes, or even venting my brain before implosion.



This one has BDSM laced through it. Which is to say if BDSM were darkness, pain, and torture. So you know, maybe to you extreme masochists out there, this is right up your alley, or the rape fantasists, or the sadists with aspirations to something more than they can do in a scene without hearing a whimpering beg of "red" from the bottom.



Part of me wants to label this as erotica, as opposed to a journal entry, except... I don't find this sexy, I don't find it attractive, or a turn on, or a fantasy. I find it a whisper of what is hidden deep inside of me, the darkness spoken of previously in who am I...



Final author's note before I get into this, yes, I'm hesitating, and yes I'm delaying the inevitable spewing of the mental juices... This instance did not flow like sequence three, or even sequence two, or four... It was broken, shattered, like seen through a strobe light, or a bad night of binge drinking where you remember bits and pieces of the evening, but you can't quite piece together the whole thing. This is going to read like that, it is going to move, flow, pick up, and drop off, just as I remember it... And the reason I remember it, is because it was there when my eyes opened.... With that... Dream Sequence One.........



...Oh! And before I forget...



##TRIGGER WARNING



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I place a gentle kiss to her forehead and run my fingers through scarlet strands of hair, a light smile passing my lips, sardonic and amused, "Your darkness doesn't scare me you know." She says through her lashes as she looks up to me, a teasing smile upon her lips.

"It should," I reply simply, the words leaving my lips with a hush of breath, almost a sigh, a whisper as the last teases out as though they never meant to pass my tongue, "it sure as hell scares me."

She laughs gently and spins away, looking over her shoulder, "Why shoulder it scare me? Darkness is fun!"......



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He approaches me in the club, the music blares, the munch surrounds me, friends, strangers, acquaintances, and even those I dislike come in and out of focus. I'm slowly drinking my whiskey and coke... It's strong. I like that, the caramelization of the liquid washes over my tongue like honey, and I glance at him, tilting my fedora up slightly to get a better glance.

He's well dressed. Far too well dressed for this kind of social event. The suit has to be tailor made, I recognize this, though I don't know how. He's attractive, almost distractingly so. Women watch him, men watch him. He's the man that other men want to be, and women want to be with. His hair is black and slicked back, but a single lock falls down in the middle of his forehead, his eyes are blue, the kind of blue that one might find in the heart of a glacier, and just as warm.

"You are... Malebranche?" He asks me, even his tone fucking reeks of perfection, a smooth baritone. I have this unresistable urge to hurt him, no one should be -that- perfect. What kind of 50 shades cocksucker just walked in here? And what the FUCK does he want with me?

"And you are... Who exactly?" My eyes flicker over him briefly, then they look behind him. There she is, red hair framing pale features, lithe body posed on the bar. She's not watching him, though, she's watching me. I didn't know who he was, but I somehow knew she was the cause of this meeting.

"I'm....." The audio cuts out. His name isn't important. Why should it be? He's not the focus here, even I know that, even as I recognize him, he's not near as perfect as he was moments before. When did his eyes turn green? Where did the trench coat come from? Wasn't he wearing... No... She's here now.

"You said your darkness is scary. Well, *garble* here says he wants to see it. So do I." She smiles winningly from his side, touching my knee gently. Of course she does. Of course he does. Why am I here? Walk away, just turn and walk away......



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A house. We're pulling up. It's not a house, no, that is an understatement. This is a manor, large. Dear god this place must cost a fortune. When did I agree to this? I feel it though, an eagerness. It's inside of me. Gods why is it inside of me? Tiled roof, very nice. Much better than shingles. Why do I notice this? The door is double, large gargoyle knockers upon it, he doesn't knock. Why should he?

His key goes into the lock, and opens the right hand side. He steps in and I follow, and she comes behind. This cannot possibly end well. I just met her, and now, now I'm going to hurt her. Not just hurt her until she says red, no... The darkness, it is stirring there, deep down inside of me. She mocked it, taunted it, and it was now deciding... Lunch.



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The room is dark, lit by torches held in wall sconces. Such a new age house, why torches? No, not torches, they're lights, luminescent, they just vaguely resemble lights. He's here, so is she, and so is... I don't recognize this woman. Brown hair falls down in waves over her shoulders, hazel eyes look at him adoringly, her hourglass figure would be enviable to most women, and desirable to most men, her face is plain, though, her lips flat it seems, her breasts I judge instinctively, 38DD, they fit the roundness of her hips... 36 inches maybe? My eyes are drawn to him, to *her*, and then to this mystery woman.

He looks to her, "you wanted to be with me. You said anything I wanted to do to you, I could. Do you still stand by that?" He looks at her, even I can see the boredom in his eyes, the condescending tilt to his mouth as he smirks, there's no mistaking that for a smile. Never for a smile.

She does. She mistakes it, she must mistake it for encouragement, because she looks to the her, and then to me, with confidence, her chin raises, her shoulders square. She's being bold, "yes, I meant it, *garble*, even if you want your perverse orgy, I meant it."

His lips part, now he's smiling. It's sinister, it reminds me of an image of the cheshire cat, not the one from the original Alice in Wonderland, no, the one from American McGee's Alice. The Emaciated creature with notched ears and a grin that sends chills through little children, and even some adults.

"Good," he says, "Because I've decided what I want to do to you." He looks to me, and his smile recedes, but only slight, "What do you need?"

I hand him a list. I don't know where the list came from, but there it is, and he is reading it. He nods and...



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She is watching, her eyes are darting back and forth now, she seems much more unsure of herself. This empty room with the wall sconce lights has changed. It's not so empty anymore, the lights flicker over walls no longer bare, wooden floors no longer empty save for four sets of feet.

The walls are covered. Wooden boards with spokes sticking out, dozens upon dozens, housing floggers, paddles, crops, flails, canes, a scourge, rope... My mind imagines it, and I see it out of the corner of my eye. The room is full, beyond full. It is teeming with tools.

A table off to the side, where did that counter space come from? The table is small, and flush to the counter, upon it is a rolled leather scrip. I recognize it. I owned one once in the past. So long ago. I know what it contains. How long since I've seen one? Seven years? No, eight. When I lost it, and all my other tools and toys to Dawn in the states.

I hand him a piece of paper. He hands it to the girl who seems much more nervous, his voice is assured as I step across the room to the table, "Sign this, now, or we are done here and you will never be with me." She takes it, I don't even know if she reads it, I know she signs it, my eyes are for this table, only this table, and this rolled up leather skin.

So much detail, the darkness growls. It knows what this is, too. It missed it, it missed what it could do, even if it rarely ever was used. I untie the cord which holds it closed, and I roll it open in one single motion. The gentle "chink chink shhhh" of metal against metal and against leather whispers through the room as though to say, "hello my old friend."

Hello, indeed. Knives. Needles -not the kind for needle play, much nearer to sewing needles, long, thick, thin, short, and all sharp-. A shudder passes through me, and a shadow sifts from my body, whispers sweet nothings in my ear, twists around me like a serpent, rolls over the table, and seems to inhale the scent of the oiled and tended metal, before shifting once more into my body.

The darkness is there, and a light enters my eyes. I know that light, the slow, cruel smirk that passes my lips, I know this too. It's what occurs before the bad happens. Oh bobbi where are you now? Where are you when this is coming out of hiding. I don't want this poor woman to suffer this. But I do. Oh how I do. I inhale, the scent of leather and sweat fills the room, I can almost smell her screams already.

I choose the broadest blade from its sheath. I draw it out, and test the blade against my arm, barely has it touched than I see the crimson burst forth, flowing up around the silver sheen of the blade and falling to drip to the floor. I wipe it clean, and... BANG! Slam the blade into the corner edge of the counter top. The blade chips, parts around the granite. BANG! again, higher up, andother chip, another dent. BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG more and more, I see the etching in the blade coming to life, the ragged cuts, the near serated edge. Not serated, no, this was worse. It was ragged and no longer looked new, no, it looked like a piece of scrap metal you might find in the back of an old garage. Don't touch it unless your tetnis is up to date.



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I hold a knife in my hand, she's backed into the corner now. He and *her* are to the other side of the room, watching, seeming almost curious. I look to the girl, and to the knife in my hand. My hand moves back, then snaps forward as the blade leaves my fingers and aims downwards, with a solid, "K'THUNK!" it hits the floor, perhaps a foot in front of her. Five feet separates us.

"Allow me to spell this out for you, I am what death looks like. I am what pain feels like. I am how agony thinks. I am the alpha and omega of your demise. You have one avenue of escape. Pick up that knife. Get through me, to the door. One chance, only one. You pick it up and escape, or you fail. If you pick it up and fail. This will hurt far more than you will ever know. He wants me to break you, and you will feel it in a thousand ways." Delivered calmly, in a gentle tone. I know how I look, heavier, small hands, glasses, fedora, dress shirt rolled up over the elbow, blood from one cut already. I don't look like much.

She thinks the same, apparently, because the knife is in her hand, and she lunges for me. I step blithely to the right, out of her range, my left hand slaps the blade further out, but I feel it make contact, feel in the tug of the fabric more than pain, the parting of the flesh seems to happen to another, my left arm is sliced shallowly, but my right hand already moves, and the strike to her sternum brings her low before the knee to her jaw sets her back against the wall dazed. The knife clatters away.



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She's bound. To a cross. I recognize it. I used to own it. It rises at a 50 degree angle from the floor, for the bottom half of the large X, then it tilts harder to 30 degrees at the center, forcing the person bound to lean back uncomfortably, or bend forward provocatively. She is bending forward.

I have a blade in my hand, it's a stiletto. The blade narrow, I can barely even see the tip so fine is the point. I flip it over casually in my right hand, I touch it to her back, she cringles, I see a pearl of blood seeping through her cream blouse.



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She's naked. Tears stream down her face. Aside from the single pearl, there is no wound on her, no mark. She's simply humiliated. Offended. Hazel eyes look to me accusingly. I ignore her. My hands go for the buttons of my shirt.



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I look to *her* and beckon her over. "Bandage this, I can't work if I'm bleeding." She looks to the naked girl, there's a shine... Is that lust in her eyes? Silly child. She turns her attention back to me, she wraps the wound on my upper arm, and the one on my forearm, both shallow, neither a danger. I look to her, my fingers move up to cup her chin, "Watch, little girl. This is what you aren't afraid of." I push her away, she stumbles back to him, I turn to the woman.



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Screams. Oh sweet screams. I know they hurt her. How they hurt her. It's something to savour that sound. Yet this, this is the beginning. I hold a flogger in one hand, the other holds a cat of nine tails. I alternate, using my right hand for every strike. Across her back, which is turning red from the abuse, across her ass, her thighs. I purposefully strike the cat across her shoulder, wrapping the strike around her entire body to strike her breasts which hang freely in the position she is bound. She screams.



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The crying, the begging, "Please..... Oh god please...." I hear her. There's no words in my throat. Words... What are those? Do I remember them? The shadow is no longer within me. It is around me, suffusing me. I feel it. It isn't around me, it IS me. Gods... No, not gods, there are no gods in this world, only demons, devils, and the scourges of hell... Hells scourges it feels good. I have a cane in one hand, a knife in the other. Her thighs are bloodied, her breasts drip crimson tears onto the floor which mixes with the salt of her real tears. Snot and mucus has turned a plain face into something horrendous... Something erotic to the darkness though. Her eyes are squeezed shut. SNAP! The cane hits across her back. Not even remotely safe, safe... What is safe? She is a beast of burden, a creature, a project... If she lives, it is safe.



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Has the screaming stopped at all? Has she spoken anything other than "please" in a long agonizing voice since yesterday? Has it been a day? Two? I don't remember. He stands in the corner, his arms crossed, his lips are thin, pressed together. He's losing his stomach for this. *She* is crying, quietly, I see her shoulders shaking gently, but she can't peel her eyes away. I know how this looks, my bare chest is covered in sweat, causing the hair to stick together, appear thicker, my back is a sheen of if. My eyes are intense, there's that light within their emerald depths. I'm not done. I'm not even seeing her. There is only the project, the target, the victim. The victim. What else could she be? I'm not done. I haven't even touched the knives yet, the scourge, or the flails. So much left. So very very much left.



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Silence.

No, silence isn't right. How dare she, how DARE she! Smelling salts, they waft under her nose, my own nostrils flare. I'm not impressed with this break in my routine. No breaks are allowed. I'm not done.

She gasps for air, "Wh... W... OW Oh god it hurts, ow!" Gibberish. Whatever she is speaking, isn't a language I know. CRA-KOW! the scourge falls across her back, laying it open, I taste the copper sweetness of blood as the backsplash hits my cheek, my lips... She screams... like honey that scream.... There is a language I speak. I know what she is saying now. She is asking for more. I can oblige that request. More.



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The knife is in my hands. I remember this knife. I ruined it. Why would I ruin such a beautiful specimen of steel? The pits and catches of metal remind me why I did it, it was duller now. It was jagged now, and not at all in a manner which resembled seration, except perhaps in the most perverse of ways.

Her back is a mess, her breasts are a mess, her ass, her thighs... They are red, welted, bloodied, torn, wrecked. What the hell have I done so far? There's a pile to the side. Floggers, broken paddles, shattered canes, the scourge with bits of flesh and muscle still attached to the hooked barbs... I've used half of the inventory, and moved on to more.

She can barely scream, her throat is raw, I hear her trying though, like sweet whispers asking why I have slowed down. But I haven't. I have paused to find the best place for this. Ah, but of course. Her cunt has been protected by the cross. It hasn't been touched much at all, nor has her stomach. I have plenty of room to work... Plenty of room to work.......



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She whimpers. There is no other sound from her but those whimpers. She can't scream. My darkness tells me she doesn't know what pain is anymore. Her whimpers seem to tease my darkness with a kindred spirit. Not only has she transcended pain, she has found the true language to agony. Her thoughts are one with mine. I know this, because she has inhaled sharply even before the bucket filled with salt water and vinegar has been dumped across her body and back, dousing the wounds, those open and those closed. I can almost hear the nerves crackling at the assault to their sanctity.



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I lean forward, and whisper in her ear, a single word, "beast." words... I seem to be able to speak again. I know where the come from, the darkness is gluttonous. It has feasted like only once before. It has been sated. bobbi lies in a daze, a new world... bobbi? No, this isn't bobbi, who is this? This woman. She is beast. She is *garble*'s beast. I tamed her.

I see her head nod, gently. She understands. She doesn't speak. Can she speak? No, she mewls. She presses forward into the touch I offer her. She nuzzles the hand. I hear sobbing in the corner. She's there, she's not watching anymore. She's on her knees, her eyes are closed. What did she ask of me? I see it in her stance, I see it as her head raises when she opens her eyes to look towards the sound of my whispered voice.

The room stinks. It's wretched. Sweat, blood, gore, bodily fluids, feces, vinegar... The room smells like death. No other option seems open to it. It smells like death.



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My eyes open, I hear the fan to the side. I hear the whimpering, the mewling, the room smells like death. I taste blood on my tongue, on my lips. The sconces in the wall offer a flickering light that does nothing to ease my trembling.

I feel something against me, a girl? No, a blanket. I'm awake. I know this. I'm awake. It's over. Gods the room smells like death. I can taste her life. I can feel the ache up my arm from all of it.

No, I don't taste her. I taste myself. My lip is bleeding, I bit it when I awoke. The smell, it is fading, the smell of my blanket, cleaned two nights ago, is a comfort. Apples and pomegranates, in that twisted clean detergent smell.

I look down at my hands, they are clean, I lick my lips again, taste the blood. I pull my lower lip into my mouth, sucking gently, but there's more... Gods she bled on me... My hands reach up, trembling to wipe the blood away, there's dampness there. My own tears. Fuck.

The darkness rolls around inside me. I hear it whisper, "I'm still here, Chris. You can cage me. You can tease me. You can try and ignore me, but I'm still here. Always here."

I roll over, unscrew the bottle of coke on my night stand, open the pill bottle, pour one into my hand, toss it into my mouth and take a swallow of coke. It's going to be a long day. Fuck me if it isn't.......



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/end crazy dream sequence.



Some people may read this and consider the detail of the dream itself to sound false. I dream vividly... And this dream was more. I remember perhaps half of my dreams, at least temporarily, usually much longer if I record a synopsis afterwards (which I will do if it was fun, cool, or unique, since I'm a writer it's great inspiration), or share them with a friend, or in my private journal. I shared this one with someone within hours of having it, but I think it would have still been there until now and even longer, even if I hadn't.



I spent two days after this dream randomly getting the scent of death caught in my nose, or the taste of blood on my tongue.



So this is my offering to the BDSM gods, such as it is. Enjoy, or at the least, realize what my darkness is and maybe don't consider poking it. I keep it under tight rein. It doesn't like being poked anymore than a rabid dog.