You’re sitting at your keyboard again, tentatively playing your favourite song, Wild West Hero. It’s night time, and late, and there’s a sliver of moonlight peeking in through the curtains. You mangle a chord and curse. You’re usually very good at this, but for some reason, your skills have vanished. What’s wrong with you?
A hand slips past you and plays the right chord. A shiver travels up your spine. Who else is in your house? You live alone. No one else should be here.
But someone is here. He presses against you as he sits behind you on the piano stool. A head perches on your shoulder and a pair of hands begin to correct your playing, resting gently on top of your hands. You want to speak, to ask who’s here with you, but you can’t. You just watch your hands, his hands, mesmerised. You’re too busy trying to memorise what he’s playing so you don’t fuck it up again.
In a blink, he’s gone again and you’re left alone, a faint sweat on your hands and an itch on your neck the only sign he was even here.
You wake, and you’re sweating a lot for a cold July night. You’re painfully aware that the dream you just had wasn’t as innocent as it had seemed. You bring the blankets up to your chin and lie there in the darkness, trying to go back to sleep again without touching your cock.
“It’s just a dream,” you whisper to yourself. “Just a fucking dream.”
But then you always had vivid dreams, and you remember them all, and you will remember this one when you get up tomorrow.
You’re playing again, this time a little better. You don’t quite remember everything yet and make another mistake. He returns again, his body warming your back, as he shows you how to play it properly. He doesn’t chide, or tell you off, and this time he whispers praise in your ear when you get it right. You shiver at the sound and swallow as a hand rests innocently on your thigh.
“Good,” he says. “You’re doing marvellously.”
You dare not look down as his hand slowly moves up your leg.
You’re not so shocked this time when you wake. You let the dream linger, the hints of sexual tension still exciting even though you’re not dreaming anymore.
You think about it too much and you end up having to beat off before you can sleep again. His voice lingers in your mind, and it all sounds so familiar you barely want to acknowledge who it is. Who it really is. His words bury into your heart as if he’d really said them to you, swelling your confidence in your own abilities for once.
This time, he wraps his arms loosely around your waist as he watches you play. You’re on your own this time, he’s not guiding you now. Your nerves flair up. How can you possibly get it right in his presence? You’ll never be as good as him. Never.
He whispers encouragement. A finger brushes your cheek. Concentration is failing. You screw up again and watch him correct you, anger still constantly absent from his voice. You mumble an apology this time. In response, he whispers that it doesn’t matter and presses a soft kiss to your jaw bone.
This is getting ridiculous now, isn’t it? You roll over onto your stomach, curling up as you try and forget what you’re still dreaming about. It’s not working and you brush your fingers against the spot on your jaw where he kissed you.
Perhaps your infatuation with this band is getting out of control. You don’t remember dreaming about anyone else this way. You cringe as a hand shifts between your legs anyway and you rub yourself through your pyjama pants until the arousal goes away.
His hand slips under your shirt this time and his fingers trace faint circles on your skin. Fingers brush against your cheek deliberately and his whispered praise becomes far more intimate.
You close your eyes as his hand teases the waistline of your pants, not ready to stray beneath them just yet. You’re not sure you can bear this taunting for much longer. You’re painfully aware of your arousal now in a way that hadn’t been present before.
The word barely touches your lips as it’s spoken; it’s an almost silent plea for relief.
“You’re not ready,” comes the whispered reply. His accent sends shivers down your spine.
“When will I be fucking ready then?” you hear yourself murmur into the darkness.
He’s getting to you now, you can feel it. It takes longer to get rid of the arousal, still imagining his touch as you stroke yourself.
For the first time, you feel ashamed. If the dreams just went away, life would be perfect. No more waking in the middle of the night with a dire need to masturbate. No more shame as you glance at your keyboard, flitters of dreams clouding your vision.
For the first time, you wonder about your obsessive nature. Are you really as normal as you had convinced yourself you were?
He’s less subtle now. You still play and he rubs your groin through your pants. He’s not touching you yet, not yet. He did manage to coax your shirt off and it lies on the floor as your slender body reacts to the cool air.
He kisses your neck, his tongue traces around your ear, he caresses your skin and staves off the chill. He wraps his arms around you and murmurs against your skin.
You’re completely entranced. You lean back against him and your hand finds its tentative way to his thigh. Should you reciprocate? Are you even worthy enough to reciprocate? Why are you even doing this? Aren’t you supposed to be straight?
A small gasp escapes your throat as his fingers slip beneath your waistband. He doesn’t touch you, he just moves his fingers slowly, gently caressing your skin. The closeness just makes you harder and you shiver again.
Being awake again isn’t fair. Not when you were so close. You can still feel his touch. Why is it he’s eliciting this response from you? No other guy has ever made you aroused. You’ve lusted after women, and probably always will. What the hell are you now?
“I’m not gay. I’m not,” you say, as if that’s all you need to say to make everything stop.
But you remember his voice and his touch and your certainty disappears. You whimper in the darkness as your arousal demands attention and a hand comes to the rescue once again.
He slips your pants down your thighs this time. You’re still letting him lead, still too afraid to reciprocate. You’re not sure how to reciprocate, even if you weren’t so afraid to do so. You don’t want to disappoint him. Perhaps if you weren’t still sitting at your-
“Shh. Come to bed,” he whispers, clasping your hand tightly.
You feel a sense of relief, as if he’d read your mind and his invitation is what you’d been waiting for this whole time. You’d never have had the courage to invite him to bed! As if he’d ever want someone like you.
He still keeps behind you, but it’s become comforting now, like he’s holding you up and supporting you in a way no one else does. You lie down on your side, him behind you, and you close your eyes as his hands roam, slipping your clothes off.
Another incomplete dream. You’re utterly frustrated now and tears gather in your eyelashes. Why can’t it just be over? You peer beneath the sheets at your groin. For once, you managed to come before you woke up. And now you have a mess to clean up.
This is getting humiliating. You’re not supposed to be having these sorts of dreams now. You’re too old. Aren’t you?
Instead of going back to sleep, you shower under lukewarm water, trying to stop thinking about him and sex. You end up wanking again, getting rid of the built-up lust before you finally go to sleep around 4am. You’re so tired when you wake two hours later, your alarm demanding you get up. You’d sleep in, but you can’t think of any decent excuse that will fly and reluctantly leave your bed.
The keyboard has been left behind this time. You’re both naked. You glimpse his face as you run a hand along his jaw line. His arm holds you still while he finally touches you at last.
You’re still pressed against him and can feel his own arousal. This is so weird, but you’re so turned on you don’t even care. He turns you around and you face him at last after so many dreams with him merely behind you, guiding you, touching you.
He kisses your lips and you’re quite sure you’re about to die. You hold him back, somehow finding enough coherent thought to reciprocate. He’s perfect. Utterly perfect.
Your hands tentatively explore his body, watching how he reacts to you. He continues to whisper praise in your ear, building your confidence as he caresses your arse and your thighs.
You’ve given up sleeping in clothes anymore. They just get dirty. The doona seems to be hugging you very close tonight, as if emulating the way he’d been holding you. The memory just makes you hard again.
Half an hour later, you finally stop wanking and fall asleep again.
You’re lying on your stomach. He’s hovering over you, still whispering, a slicked up finger probing inside you. Perhaps he’s finally going to sleep with you. After all this teasing, it’d be a disappointment if he didn’t.
He strokes your hair and whispers comforting words as he prepares you. You relax, grudgingly, at his command, not sure you can relax in the hyper-aroused state you’re in.
And then, it happens. It’s the strangest sensation, having him pushing inside your arse. You’ve never been fucked like that before, but he seems to be making it a rather pleasurable experience. He’s slow and gentle as he pushes in all the way. He tangles his fingers in yours and presses a kiss to your neck.
“Shh,” he whispers. “It’ll be alright.”
You’re too drowned in pleasure to hear him as he pulls out and thrusts in again, a hand slipping around to stroke your cock. You think you’re about to die.
Your brain is evil. You wake again, unsatisfied. This is really getting frustrating. If you weren’t so scared of admitting how turned on the dreams are making you, you’d call your girlfriend for sex.
You check the clock. It’s not even midnight, you really had gone to bed early, hadn’t you?, and it is a Friday night. Perhaps she wouldn’t mind a call. You’re sure you have to fuck something or you’ll never get to sleep.
“S-Sophie? Are you busy?” you say tentatively.
“I was about to go to bed. You alright?” she says.
“I need you. Would you come over?” you ask.
“It’s late, Andrew. Can’t this wait?” she says.
You stare down at your persistent erection and swallow. “Uh, no, no it can’t. Jesus.”
She sighs. “Alright, I’ll be there in ten. Don’t spoil it for me.”
You do your best to disguise your real affections, your dreams still flitting through your mind as you have sex with her. It’s almost comforting, and for the first time in a fortnight, you have someone sleeping in bed with you as you finally manage to drift off to sleep, nothing but smut filling your mind and dreams.
The next night, he returns. You’re still unfulfilled. This time, he’s sitting up in bed and he’s guiding you as you lower yourself onto him. Folding your legs back, you lean against him and exhale as he pumps your cock. You’re forced to be active this time and it takes more whispered praise and much encouragement before you manage to get it right.
You’re really not used to this sort of sex, but in dreamland, it clearly brings immense pleasure anyway, so you find little to complain about.
Everything seems far more intense tonight. Just as you expect to wake up, you don’t. The pleasure builds up until you come at last, unable to voice anything at all as he holds you against his body.
More whispered praise as he lingers and doesn’t move you away. You enjoy the closeness as he rests his head in the crook of your neck.
Soon, everything fades away and you’re alone again, his absence making you miserable. You curl into yourself and cry, trying to keep the pleasure going.
You don’t wake this time. You keep sleeping, whimpering pathetically as you get your relief at last. You wake up late, though. The lack of arousal is a strange feeling after so many sex dreams.
Something in your hand makes you open your eyes. There’s a small round metal spaceship. That you recognise it instantly makes you hesitate. Where had it come from?
You sit up in bed, holding it up to give it a better inspection. You look all over it, but there’s no date, no ‘made in china’, nothing. It belongs to no one. There is an inscription around the top.
“One day you’ll fly with us to the stars,” you murmur, reading the words.
You hold it close to your chest and wonder, for a moment, what the hell has been going on. Perhaps it’s better you don’t know. No one would believe you anyway.