It was full dark when he awoke. He didn’t “wake up” because waking up required completion of a particular set of steps: opening eyes, rubbing eyes, sitting up, flopping feet to the floor and so on. The owl sounding back in the oak and the singing underlayment of the crickets told him that it was still deep night. If he looked at the clock he’d be ruined so he kept his eyes gently closed and slipped back under.
When he next stirred, the dim light of dawn slithered through the fog and painted the room in shades of gray. He opened one eye slowly and, with his tongue, pushed the wet pillow out of his mouth. What the hell was that dream? He simultaneously couldn’t remember nor shake it. He knew he was being pushed down-someone was on him-holding him. He felt the weight in the small of his back and recalled the pain of someone behind him-above him really-slapping his ass. Slapping his bare ass while he bit down on….it was his pillow. It had to have been a hairbrush or a paddle-something-it hurt too much to have just been a hand spanking. He thinks he was alone in this dream. The night before last, when he was caned, there had been an audience.
The pain that existed only in his head dissipated as he became conscious of the true ache of his hard-on trying to burrow its way into the mattress. He rolled toward her side to allow it free range. That side of the bed was as empty as it had been for two months.
First, after she left, there had been the sex dreams; the coupling, lapping, sucking, teeth clicking and fluid swapping that had left him cold. In fairness, the sex with her had been fine but the dreams left him with nothing. Following within a couple of weeks were the conversation dreams which hardly interrupted his sleep at all. It was hard enough staying awake through her conversations when she was there in the flesh.
Now there were these pain dreams. And not just pain but punishment; whippings, paddlings, spankings canings…and humiliation. There were gigglers in the audience and people holding him down. He remembered smelling fire and women-more than a couple-talking about branding him as he lay tied on the ground. These were the dreams that were now bringing him the hard-ons. Where would this end? He feared the night when he would feel someone on top of him, crushing him-spreading his cheeks and…Christ!
He shook his head and sat on the edge of the bed. Outside the window the thick fog obscured all. He stood and grabbed his pants then paused wondering how he was going to get a pair of pants over that. Why even bother; there was nobody in the house but him. He bobbed down the hallway to the kitchen-a lone flag bearer in the most pitiful parade.
The coffee, on a timer, was brewed and waiting for him. By the time he had poured his first cup and added cream the dream had faded and he was well deflated. Things seemed to slip back into their state of abnormalcy. He stepped naked onto the porch and sipped his coffee listening to the honks of the geese growing fainter in the fog as they too flew the coop.