Dreaming

I dream vividly most nights and remember a lot of my dreams. I often dream in colour and with sound, dialogue, etc. and they often form the basis for my stories and flash fiction, though mostly in genres such as SF, urban fantasy and horror (which I generally publish under another pseudonym). Dreams are very productive for me, but they're not usually X-rated.

However, here's my dream from last night...

***

It's my first day at a new job, lecturing at a university. I've barely met the other staff but they seem harassed, workloads piled up to an implausible level.

The head of department finds me and asks me to go with him to his office. It's a windowless room in the basement, not an obvious choice for someone who's supposed to be in charge. 'I like your style,' he says. 'You're not like the others, you say what you think and let your emotions out.'

What? I've always been told I'm quite private about my emotions.

There's a couch in his office, reminiscent of the one you'd see in the museum in Freud's apartment in Vienna. (There's a picture of it on Wikipedia's page on Freud – but I didn't find this until late this morning. I visited the Freud museum in the 1970s.)

Lying on the couch is a young guy, young enough to be a student.

'Even as head of department,' he explains, 'I have to keep freelance work going. This young man is here for therapy for his depression.' (I have, incidentally, known lecturers who keep second occupations going, ranging from guitarist in a rock band to keeping a smallholding to selling used car tyres – though the latter wasn't, needless to say, in the UK!)

'So what am I doing here?'

'I'd like you to help me with his treatment. We're going to play a trust game.'

I know about trust games from training courses and suchlike. The classic one is standing in the middle of a circle, allowing yourself to topple in different directions while those around you take your weight and push you from one person in the circle to the other.

So who am I supposed to be trusting? The guy in 'therapy' or the head of department?

The game is this: we stand face to face, embracing each other, and move our feet backwards until each of us supporting the weight of the other.

I'm aware at this point that a woman has entered the room. She's in her twenties, casually dressed in jeans and T-shirt, very short cropped hair, the kind that used to be called a lesbian buzz-cut.

'What happens now,' the head of department explains, 'is part of her therapy. I find it's more efficient to have clients help each other in this way.'

What the woman does is this. She kneels down between me and the guy, in the triangular space between our bodies, and I feel her unzip my flies, massage my balls, pull out my cock and take it into her mouth.

Is she doing the same with the other guy? I don't know; his stance is rock-solid and he appears lost in his own headspace, though my hips are flexing back and forth and the sensation I'm experiencing is exquisite.

The thought crosses my mind that the head of department may be standing to one side with a camera. Is blackmail how he keeps his staff in line? But no, he appears to be absolutely serious, focused on this somewhat deviant version of therapy.

The woman is enthusiastic in working her lips and tongue around me, pushing my cock to the back of her throat. I'm still supporting the weight of the other guy, he's still relying on me and I stay locked in position with him.

What kind of 'therapy' is this for the women? Is she learning to accept, trust, take the cum from an anonymous cock? And what's with the lesbian buzz-cut?

I have no answers, just go with the pleasure of the moment.

***

Offer of interpretations, anyone?