The Museum of Deviant Dreams (Part I)

OK, I'm aware I haven't posted here for a while. I've been writing other stuff. Sometimes I don't have enough mental bandwidth, if I can put it that way, to write blog posts when I'm midstream in another project.

However, here's a bit of friction fiction. It hadn't escaped me that the music festival season is upon us again, so that's the setting. What's here is Part I, which follows Jake's experiences in the Museum. Part II, which I'll write probably in the course of the next week, follows the experiences of Dee.

Happy reading...

***

Any big music festival, there’s the surreal, sleazy, sexy all-night area. The weird block. Like this one. Jake and Dee, both dressed for sweaty fun and looking for the surreal, weird and sexy. Picking their way along the makeshift mud street in wellies. Functional black ones for him, delicate flowery ones for her. Crowd’s out in force, out looking for fantasies, for inexplicable strangeness to tell each other later when they’re sober. Bodies rubbing up against each other, slipping, sliding.

Jake and Dee hang onto each other, looking at the freak parade, the trannies who these days it’s better to call T-girls, Dee admonishes him; the muddy plushies, the rubber-clad dominatrixes, the fairies, the anime cosplay characters and the people who look like they just came out of a LARPwarp.

It’s not sex. Not quite. But almost. Jake’s glad he’s not drunk, Dee’s glad she didn’t do that acid tab. Feels like acid anyway, just walking in the crowd.

And here’s a place, The Museum of Deviant Dreams. Interactive exhibits, it says underneath. Lots of people hanging around, because a couple of cute women wearing not much apart from body paint are hanging from a kind of trapeze structure over the door at the front of it, just beyond the reach of drunk and stoned hands. Well, maybe they’re women. Hard to tell. If they are, they’re wearing strap-ons. If they’re not, they’re transsexual and massively erect. What they are, beyond any doubt, though, is very gymnastic and very sexual.

Flashing lights around the entrance, music pulsing through it from the back of the venue. The music’s tribal and primitive and electronic with a lot of sub-bass matched with vocals that could come straight from a magic ritual. Maybe they do. Maybe that’s what’s actually happening, inside.

Jake notices Dee’s skinny T-shirt is damp with sweat, her nipples engorged. He notices his cock is engorged. He holds her arm, her biceps, a little more tightly.

“This one? This looks good.”

She laughs and nods, the mingled noises of the crowd and the music making real conversation impossible. They push through the gaggle of people, his grip on her arm turning to handholding, and make it to the entrance. He turns to her and she smiles, he kisses her, turns to walk down the short corridor, is confronted with two curtains. One says “Museum” and the other “Enter At Your Own Risk”. Jake plunges through the Museum curtain.

And he gets an instant hit of darkness and depravity. Because he’s standing in a passageway with big glass windows, like the windows of giant fish tanks. No fish, though. The first window has a woman behind it, naked, kneeling on hands and knees. In fact there are straps on her wrists and forearms, calves and ankles, holding her in that position. She has a ballgag in her mouth and she’s looking at him with big, pleading eyes. Behind her is a rod connected to a set of mechanical gears and eccentric cams, run from a giant electric motor. The end of the rod is connected to a dildo buried in her cunt. In front of the whole display is a big red button the size of a dinner plate, sign above it says push the button. He pushes the button.

Motor rotates, cams and cam-rods push and pull, the whole fucking machine – because that’s what it is – thrusts the dildo, pumps it in and out of the woman. The woman screams soundlessly and her eyes roll up in her head. It’s not clear to him if she’s experiencing pain or pleasure. Perhaps both. Jake watches, fascinated, unable to take his eyes off the spectacle.

When the motor stops, he sees her drooling through the gag, beads of perspiration on her body. A faint trembling in her breasts as they hang down, in her belly and thighs. Only then does he see a notice, a placard inside the tank, explaining something about how a university lecture on sex once demonstrated a fucking machine to students and everyone involved got disciplined. A loaded word, in that context, Jake thinks.

And then there’s the next window. Here there’s a naked woman strapped to a wooden chair, blindfolded, pads attached to different parts of her body, evil-looking clamps like the ones for charging car batteries attached to nipples and labia. Looks painful enough to start with. There’s some text about Stanley Milgram and some psycho experiment. Jake looks closer. Psycho experiment? No, psychological experiment.

Push the button. She jerks and writhes in her bonds. Faking it, or real pain? Push the button again. Jerk, writhe. He can’t tell.
Push the button. Jerk, writhe. It looks hot. He suddenly likes the effect. Push the button. Her toes are curling, sweat dribbles down her face.

In the interests of sex equality, or something like that, the third window is a nude guy, stretched out on a big wooden cross. He has an impressive erection. There’s a thin chain wrapped round his balls, one end of the chain running to a pulley on the opposite wall and then hanging, tension on the chain caused by a weight. It’s not clear what the button will do to him.

One way to find out. Press the button.

Some kind of vibrator attached to the chain, making it quiver and pulse. Jake saw it shimmering under the lights. At the same time, some glass tubes he hadn’t noticed between the guy’s legs are now glowing purple and throwing out sparks. And the guy seemed to actually like it, judging by the way his erection jutted out proudly. Jake wasn’t unused to seeing cock, because he’d played football, been involved in horseplay in the changing rooms. The things men do in changing rooms, sometimes… he’d always wondered how sucking another man in that setting can be cool and later, in the pub, the same guys become total homophobes. That said, he wasn’t particularly into cocks, wasn’t what you’d call a connoisseur. It didn’t do it for him, sexually. Not like seeing the women. But then Dee would be enjoying this tank, these visuals.

Jake turns, does a doubletake. Because it’s not Dee’s hand in his. Instead his paw is linked to that of a fairytale/nightmare creature, a woman – he thinks – whose diaphanous neon yellow outfit hides much less than the red and black stripes of body paint on her face, arms and ribs, and who sports small silver fairy wings and much larger black bats’ wings.

“The last tank is still empty,” she points out playfully. “You’d be the ideal specimen to place inside it.” Her free hand rests briefly against his chest, delivering what feels almost like an electric shock, before crawling spider-like across his stomach to feel his penis and balls. “Oh, yes. Very definitely an ideal specimen.”

Jake doesn’t take this at face value. He expects it to be a rite of passage, an experience he must undergo in order to access the venue. A lot of clubs do it these days, try to give you a headfuck before you can make it to the bar and dancefloor.

And where did Dee go…? She does this to him a lot. In shops, in clubs, he’ll walk three steps and turn round to find she’s disappeared. Distracted by a seeing friend, a special offer, something shiny, she’ll just take a different aisle or backtrack a few paces and he’ll spend the next twenty minutes looking for her, to discover her somewhere obvious but unexpected, and probably even annoyed he’s taken so long to get to her – because “I’ve been waiting here for ages”.

He figures that when he walked through the “Museum” curtain she must have been suddenly moved to take the other door, “Enter At Your Own Risk”, assuming they’d lead to the same place. Which might or might not be a reasonable assumption. She should really backtrack and…

…but the fairytale nightmare has him by the cock now, literally, having unzipped his Bermuda shorts and yanked it out, all ten erect inches of it, using it like a leash to pull him on through the display. Which is some kind of indication she might have meant what she said about him being a “specimen”.

There’s a hidden door, just a plasterboard partition on hinges next to the fourth, empty, tank. Behind it, to Jake’s surprise, is a room that already seems crowded with three women, or he thinks they are but the lighting isn’t that good and the costumes are confusing and trigger weird associations in his brain – a zebra-striped alien, a dancer wearing wellies and a corset and nothing else but who has a long whip coiled in one hand, a psycho nurse like the one who treated him in hospital when he was a kid – except that nurse didn’t, as far as he can remember, have a pair of handcuffs and some chains hanging from the kind of tool belt workmen sometimes wear. And they’re surrounding him, saying things like “My, he’s a big boy” and “He’s going to be fun!”
And what the fuck is going on with the naked, blindfolded woman in chains who’s sitting on a small chair in the corner?

So next thing he knows, his clothes seem to have disappeared and with four pairs of hands roving over his torso and thighs he’s pulled through a little door and playfully chained to a wooden frame like an upside-down Y and a crossbar he can rest his arms on. Somewhere back of his brain, some piece of random knowledge, says it’s the shape of a Chinese symbol for ‘Tai” – “big”. And they’re telling him how big he is and how it’ll all be a lot of sexy fun.

Playfully chained, but effectively chained all the same. Jake can’t move. And he’s not only big, but he’s going to stay that way because the head nurse character produces and applies a very industrial-looking, tight-fitting cockring.

After than, the purpose of the naked chained blindfolded woman becomes clear. She’s attached to a whole other piece of furniture in front of Jake, something that looks like a chair except it’s on a hinged base and had a close-fitting headrest. She’s positioned exactly so her lips close around the tip of his cock. Someone presses a switch, and unseen machinery tilts the whole chair, with her on it, so she’s being rocked back and forth. There’s some messing with the length of travel on the chair, the speed if it, and so on.

Then they’re alone. The two of them, Jake and a woman he’s never seen before, in a glass tank, with her poised to suck him any time someone looks through the glass window and presses the button to find out what will happen.

This is a situation so random and surreal Jake has no idea how he should react. Can he assume the women on the end of his cock agreed to this? Is a performer? Because Jake himself feels he’s been entranced, seduced, into a situation which while pleasant, isn’t exactly what he expected. Is it nonconsensual? Well… now he’s actually in this position, not exactly, because it’s unsurprisingly pleasurable. What exactly is he concerned about? That Dee will walk past and see him there? Throw a stroppy fit because he’s being “unfaithful”? And what’s she doing by now, presumably somewhere else in this venue?

He tries not to think, to relax and be in the moment, and then that becomes a whole lot easier because someone pushes the button.

Just not quite for long enough that he gets to come.

Over the next three or four hours people push the button a lot. The thing about coming stops being a problem, because the nameless woman gets to cough, gargle and swallow the same amount of protein she’d get from a four-course dinner. And after that it starts to be a problem, because he can’t stop coming, his erection’s been held by the cockring for so long it’s painful, and he feels dehydrated from the amount of spunk he’s ejaculated.

So he’s pathetically grateful when the head nurse and the demon angels come back to release him. Them. And the relief of having the cockring removed is tremendous.

They don’t give him his clothes back, though. Instead, he finds himself part of a tangle of naked bodies in the back room. He recognises the girl from the fucking machine, the woman who was being electro-tortured, the guy from the third tank. The blindfolded chained woman stays blindfolded and chained, toyed with by everyone, fucked by the third tank guy who surprisingly seems to have a huge erection despite the stuff he’s had done to his cock. Maybe because of it. Jake can’t work it out. The woman seems to get off on staying like a prisoner, slave, something like that. Fuck knows what’s in her head.

He gets a drink, a smoke, time to relax and talk, hands moving on skin. At some point he’s having his feet massaged, a demon-angel is straddling him, riding his cock which amazingly has recovered from its treatment, and he’s eating out the woman who’s been on the fucking machine. It’s all very debauched. More than an afterparty, more like the exclusive post-afterparty hardcore sexfests he’s read about in clubbing and music mags. The ones where any bizarre fantasy is not only accepted but expected, where sometimes bodies need to be disposed of at the end.

Except it’s not quite as unrestrained as that because the head nurse keeps a check on the fantasies being enacted, and sharp things get quietly removed. She doesn’t want to have to dispose of bodies, evidently.

Finally the nude chained woman gets her blindfold and chains taken off, and everyone congratulates her on lasting the full twenty-four hours of sex slavery. Seeing her face, Jake remembers he’s seen her before, playing bass in one of the bands early on the first day of the festival.

He thinks it would be cool to talk with her and maybe fuck her. She’s already drunk a pint or so of his come and he’s already had several rounds of sex with the others here, but still.... Jake reckons he’s on a roll here, going for the male universal fantasy of non-stop sex for hours with a harem of willing females. Willing females who have arcane techniques to ensure he’s fully and massively erect time after time.

It doesn’t happen because… well, other stuff happens instead. And maybe that’s how it’s meant to be for the woman, that he remains a completely anonymous cock?

The efforts he’s encouraged, required, and proud to make, though, take their toll. He loses track of time, and of whether he’s actually fucking or just dreaming it, sleep-fucking or fucknotised so he’s in a deep hypnotic trance.

He has no memory of getting back to the tent. He half-wakes, a shaft of sunlight angling in on the canvas, and shifts position. Feels his clothes under him, though he’s not wearing them. Reaches out and can’t feel Dee next to him. Fuck knows where she went.

All his muscles hurt and his dick’s lost several layers of skin, it feels like. He needs to rest.

Next time he wakes up it’s almost dark outside. Still physically tired but mentally refreshed, if unable to comprehend what’s happened. Not only does he not know what time it is, he doesn’t know what day it is. He can remember snapshot images, moments of sensation, odd phrases. Despite feeling tender, his dick is again perversely erect. As though that is now its natural state.

Gentle snoring beside him says Dee came back at some point. He reaches out to feel her naked beside him. She stirs, still asleep. Grasps his arm, folds it around her, won’t let it go. They stay like that. His arm loses sensation but he enjoys the gentleness of it.

[To be continued...]