The
Dreams: Part 1
by James
T. Medak
<<
Back
to Stories Index
The blade slashed furiously.
Grunts and sweats followed, dead vines littering his path. Michael
slashed again and again, each swish of the blade reflecting off
coins of sunlight for split seconds. Michael wiped his sweaty brow,
his deep breaths mixing in with the hot jungle air. He had never
felt more exhausted in his life, but knew he had to keep on moving.
He had come half way across the world for this hunt, and he wasn't
going to stop now.
Michael wasn't one for detours, excuses, or giving up easily. It
was mixed into his Swedish heritage (and at age 26, it was more
prominent than ever, he felt), which explained his no-bullshit approach
to just about everything. He stood there shining like the reedy
hero he was: circular explorer hat on, leather backpack strapped
across his tan-shirted back, thick brown hiking shorts firmly fitted
and his size 11s fit nicely in a pair of gray wool socks and industrial-strength
dark brown hiking boots -- nothing was going to stop him. His exposed
appendages were coated with sunscreen, as his pale-white skin burned
quite easily when left unattended. With each wipe of his brow, however,
he felt that he was losing sense of what, exactly what he was after.
All he knew about now was one thing and one thing only: the hunt.
That's what he lived for, and right now, he was completely in his
element.
Another slash from his machete sent shards of green everywhere;
vines became confetti. After walking through the thick of the jungle
for what seemed like hours, Michael finally came to an open clearing,
grass barely rising up to his knees as his eyes caught a glimpse
of the setting sun, making the tops of the trees glow a distinct
orange. It was a glorious sight to see, and standing there, drinking
it all in, Michael felt at rest, at peace. This was a moment he
didn't even know he was craving, but relished it none-the-less.
He let out a pleasant sigh. Everything, right now, felt right.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something. His eyes darted,
his body tensed. He was afraid he had been spotted by some sort
of animal. He turned around sharply -- nothing in his sight. He
turned back towards the clearing, and jumped: it was staring at
him. His grip on the machete slipped ever so slightly upon seeing
it. It was ... a vine. A large, green vine that was pointed directly
at him. The end of it wasn't a thin tip, though: it was rounded,
like the end of a thick sausage, the whole vine itself having the
thickness of a human arm. It was a big, big vine -- and it was ...
well, looking at him. It was like a snake had descended from the
trees, but no, it was very clearly a vine. It wavered in the air,
slithering, almost, cautiously eyeing the human in front of it.
Michael ... didn't know what to think. Although he was initially
quite scared, he sensed that this very much was something that was
... living. He took a step to the left, and the vine followed him.
He took a step to the right, and it followed him again. Michael's
face scrunched -- he wasn't sure what to do.
Moments passed as the two life forms stared at each other. Neither
was moving -- just staring at the mystery that was the other. Michael
then did a very diplomatic move -- he slowly put his machete down
on the jungle floor. He stood up again. The vine "looked"
at the machete on the ground and then placed its gaze right back
on Michael. Once again, Michael went the diplomatic route and slowly
extended his hand towards the vine-thing. At first, looking at the
fingertips, the vine recoiled a bit, and then, cautiously, seemed
to almost "sniff" his hand. It very lightly brushed against
it -- and nothing happened. The vine (which Michael still couldn't
figure out where exactly it was coming from) then rubbed up against
his hand, and did so again. It was almost like a cat looking for
chin scratches -- the vine was enjoying this contact. It slowly
got closer to Michael's body, and was now genuinely, almost playfully
interested in him. It swirled around his face, eyed his clothing,
his boots, his hat -- everything. "Um ... OK" was pretty
much the only thought that was going through Michael's mind at the
moment. If this was first contact with some otherworldly thing,
well, it certainly could've gone worse.
Even as the vine began eyeing him, the "face" of the vine,
as indistinct as it was, began playfully poking him at times, seeing
what was in a front pocket of his shirt, nudging his backpack --
it was getting a feel for whatever this two-legged thing was. What
was odd, however, was when it looked at Michael's shorts. It seemed
to take a rather strong interest in them, waving around left to
right to get a view at them from all sides. It then playfully poked
Michael in the crotch a bit. Michael, being Michael, stepped back.
"OK ... that's ... a bit too far," he said out loud. Yet
the vine was undeterred: it poked him again, this time on the inner
thigh. It didn't hurt at all (it was a vine after all), but it did
kind of tickle a bit. Michael again stepped back and said "OK,
no. That's a no-no place." The vine, however, didn't seem to
care.
In a lightning fast move, the vine suddenly went up Michael's left
pant leg and underneath his boxers. It was so quick Michael barely
had time to react, much less let out the yelp that he did. The soft
face of the vine was suddenly touching his balls, and jumping away
as best as he could, Michael fell to the ground, but didn't shake
the vine. He felt something moist underneath his boxers all of a
sudden, and panicked: the thing was going to eat him! Sadly, that
wasn't true, however, but the "mouth" of the vine opened
up, and immediately swallowed Michael's balls and cock in one foul
swoop. What was weird, however, was that whatever liquids were inside
the mouth of this thing, the second they touched his balls and cock,
he became instantaneously horny. His arms were holding onto the
vine entering his pantleg, desperately trying to get it out, but
right now, his cock was filled with what felt like a year's worth
of pent-up horny tingles (which was weird -- he jerked off just
two nights ago without a problem). This moist mouth suddenly did
a "suck" on his member, and holy shit, Michael had never
felt anything like it. It was like liquid electricity. His cock,
his balls, his entire sexual being shot to life, awakened like a
thunderbolt. Another suck occurred, and Michael's dick was already
beet-red. While his brain did everything it could to still fight
off this intruder, he was receiving signals unlike anything he had
ever encountered before, signals that coded the words "tingle",
"fuck", "tickle", and "cum". This
was all happening so quickly. Too quickly. There is no kind of panic
like a horny panic.
The ripping sound was insanely loud: the leg of Michael's shorts
was ripping, the large vine seemingly wanting to rip the things
off just by flexing. Even with both hands around the green sexual
menace attacking him, he couldn't get the vine out. Another suck
occurred, and Michael practically moaned. Suddenly there was a playful
bump in his ribs. Michael laughed a bit, then panicked: there was
another vine staring at him! He did a quick double take, but suddenly
there was another ticklish bump on the other side of his ribs. Michael
looked and saw yet another vine. Two other vines were now eyeing
their prey. Michael was about to scream or punch or do something,
but before he could: SUUUUUUUCK. A deep throb was felt again on
his steel-hard cock, and Michael almost had to close his eyes --
it was that intense. Even with the main vine wrapped around his
cock and balls, some of that horny liquid it was emanating began
dripping down underneath Michael's balls, slowly into his gooch,
and everything that liquid touched made those areas get all the
hornier. Michael didn't have much time to enjoy it though: the other
two vines began poking his chest and ribs again, really tickling
him. Michael fucking HATED being tickled, but the two other vines
seemed to really be loving it. Even as he vainly tried to fight
the ticklevines off, he felt yet another vine ease its way into
his left sock, pulling both the sock and tightly-tied boot off his
left foot. Michael let out a "No!" in-between chortled
laughs, but before he could finish, another vine was working his
right foot. Two more vines wrapped around his wrists and pulled
the boy taught. The tickling of his ribs continued, one of the vines
going in through his shirt sleeve to try and play with his pits
and hard nipples. The shoes were now off, and Michael was barefoot
on the floor of the jungle, his pale white feet flailing for just
a few moments before those vines near his feet just swallowed his
feet whole. Much like the vine around cock, his feet were plunged
into a moist, sensual place, that horny goo now sliding in-between
his toes, tickling him and teasing him and sending him into ecstasy.
Another suck came on the one on his cock, and Michael couldn't take
it anymore. He arched his back, lost complete control of his body,
precum oozing out his red cockhead, his curved cock trembling, trembling,
trembling...
+++
“AHhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!” Michael screamed, sitting straight
up to attention, panting. Cool air blew across his sweaty face.
Michael looked around: he was in his bedroom in his apartment. It
was the dead of night. He took a few panicked breaths, and then
slowly realized what had just happened: he awoke from a dream. A
very, very strange dream. He heard the dull hum of his air conditioner
permeate the air. Michael's shoulders loosened just a bit: it was
all a dream. That's all it was. His pants turned into simple sighs
-- but something didn't feel right. His eyebrow arched. He lifted
up his bed sheets, and saw ... what looked like a weeks worth of
cum staining them. Holy shit, he must've shot rockets of cum, as
his sheets were drenched, his crotch caked with dry sperm. Did ...
did he just cum from having a dream where vines were sucking his
dick, toes, and nipples? What the fuck kind of dream was this? Michael
couldn't even begin to figure out what just happened. He slowly
got out of bed, almost as if on autopilot, his bare feet touching
the chilled hard-paneled floor of his apartment. He walked to the
bathroom, cleaned himself off, and went back into bed (sleeping
over his cum-stained sheet for the time being). His mind was still
racing around, doing its best to figure out what the hell just happened,
but more importantly, his eyes were droopy and heavy. Confused and
perplexed, his mind slowly shut down and Michael drifted off to
sleep once again.
The next morning, Michael went about his daily routine at a somewhat
slower pace, his mind trying to decipher what last night meant.
It all felt very surreal, very strange, and very much not in his
usual "routine" at all. Why the fuck would he have a dream
about a giant pair of vines getting him off? As he stood there by
the kitchen counter waiting for his coffee to finish, T-shirt and
red pajama pants on, his raw toes doing all that they could to ignore
the cold that was seeping up from the morning floor, his mind kept
drifting back to those too-vivid images that plagued his mind from
last night. Often with dreams, he would try to piece things together,
remember elements or themes but never fully grasping a full narrative
of what transpired. Here, however, he remembered every detail clear
as day. For some reason, he kept going back to that feeling of the
vines swallowing his feet, that moisture running down between his
toes, tingling and exciting his skin whilst tickling the whole way
through.
Michael snapped his head back to attention -- he wasn't going to
keep daydreaming like he was, especially about that. His coffee
finished, but as he went to grab a mug, he stopped moving, shocked
at what he saw: he was tenting in his pajama pants. He was unbelievably
rock hard and didn't even realize it. Was it from thinking of the
dream too much? Michael shook it off. Today was a day for no distractions.
Especially one as "private" as that.
Some 12 hours later, Michael came back to his apartment. Wearing
nothing but a T-shirt, tan cargo shorts, and sneakers without socks,
he was beat, having just done a 9-hour light hang for a local school's
assembly tomorrow, along with programming and cue-to-cueing everything
that needed to be done before Friday. He broke out a Hot Pocket,
grabbed himself a beer, and sat down in front of his computer, loading
up World of Warcraft for the umpteenth time, using it to cool down
after a long an grueling day. Some e-mails were sent, more drinks
were had, and before long, Michael was in bed, dozing away before
tomorrow's workload weighed down on him.
What Michael didn't know, however, was what devious thing I had
in store for him tonight.
+++
The air smelled of hot jazz. The nighttime city skyline didn't look
real: it was all dark blue paint strokes, Van Gogh auras and artistic
splashes. It was like walking through a painting, except the whole
world was a painting. People moved along -- the people looked like
real flesh-and-blood people -- but everything else took on a post-bop
hue, looking like pastels but smelling like the best parts of a
2AM jazz club. Michael wasn't as much walking as floating. He felt
the air move around him, and began to notice his dress: he was completely
bare-chested, wearing dark blue jeans, and flip-flops as well. This
is a look that Michael would probably never have pulled off in real
life, but here, in this world, it made perfect sense. He floated
along into a nearby bar, filled with pool tables and overhanging
lights. He went up to the bar and raised his hand, not saying a
word -- a beer was instantly handed to him. He sat there at the
barstool, chest naked to the world, and no one seemed to mind. There
seemed to be only one or two people in the club anyways, but they
seemed to be always in shadows, paying no mind to anyone but themselves.
So there was Michael drinking at the bar, flip-flops dangling off
his feet as he sat on a barstool. Despite his lack of a shirt, he
felt weirdly ... comfortable. It was a surrealistic sight to behold.
The bar's front door swung open. Michael's head swung around and
saw that it was ... me. His friend from all the way back in college.
I walked in fully clothed, my 6' stature almost matching his. I
had on no jacket or cap like some of the other bar inhabitants had,
just myself looking casual. Michael instantly recognized me as I
walked up to the bar, gesturing to the bartender to get me a drink
as well.
"Hey there Mikey Mike."
"Hey," he responded, surprised to see me there.
"How goes things?"
"Um, well ... I seem to be missing a shirt."
"I've noticed," I quipped.
"Um ... where are we?"
"Only the coolest part of town," I started, "where
dreams come true and lives are changed."
"... are you working for this bar?" asked Michael, dead
serious.
"Heh, no I'm not, Michael. But you know what sounds good right
about now?"
"What?" he inquired.
"A game of pool," I said.
"Um ... OK." He got up with me, both carrying beers in
our hand, as we got to the pool table underneath a single hanging
bulb, and it looked paint stroke blue just like everything else
in this place. Michael started looking for a pool cue, but I stopped
him: "No need for that, Michael. All you'll need are these
..." I held up a pair of jet-black bracelets for him.
"Um ... what are these?"
"Try 'em on!"
Without hesitating, Michael put the bracelets on and ... well, they
were snug.
"How they fit?" I asked, smiling.
"Um, good," he started. "I just ... don't know what
they're for."
I laughed a bit. "Heh ... let me show ya. Lie down on the table
for me."
Being dream logic, any pretense about a pool game was immediately
forgotten. Michael hopped up on the table and laid himself down,
his ankles overhanging on one end while his eyes stared up at the
bare lightbulb directly above him (it didn't blind him however --
it seemed to be quite diffused). I leaned over his bare-chested,
sandal-clad body and simply said "Move."
Michael tried -- yet he couldn't. He tried lifting up his arms,
but those bracelets suddenly felt like they weighed hundreds of
pounds. Michael tried lifting his legs up, but suddenly its like
his jeans were attached to the table -- all he could do was simply
wiggles his toes, causing his flip-flops to slap against his bare
heels a bit. If this were real life, he'd be furious right now,
but being a dream, he seemed to feel indifferent to the whole thing.
I reached over and placed both of his nipples between my thumb and
index finger, and began lightly rubbing, flicking his niptips ever
so softly just to see what kind of response I could get out of him.
Although his body tensed at first, it soon recognized that all my
fingers were trying to do was pleasure him, and suddenly each nip-flick
felt like an erotic little spark, like a flint misfire on a cigarette
lighter, teasing him oh so wonderfully. Flick, flick, flick it went
on. Michael, still confused on what exactly was happening, started
giving in to the feeling a bit, his nipples starting to harden up
and protrude out of his chest as the flicking continued, each erotic
little spark adding to the stirrings that were going on in his crotch.
It felt like a dull firework went off in the base of his cock, his
hardon slowly coming into fruition. It was perhaps even more sensational
for him due to the fact that only his nipples were being touched
-- not even his chest or stomach or pits were getting the slightest
sensation of feeling. Those dull fireworks felt more and more colorful
with each burst, his cock already at standing attention, pulsing
underneath that blue denim fabric. Whatever was happening, Michael
was assuredly enjoying it.
I stopped playing with my mantoy and proceeded to walk down the
end of the pool table where his sandaled feet dangled over the edge,
cute and helpless. I began tapping and flicking the sandals, occasionally
poking his bared soles while I talked:
"You got some nice feet there, Michael."
"And you have a male foot fetish if I'm not mistaken, yes?",
he inquired, no anger anywhere in his voice.
"Yes I do, Michael," I started. "You remember college
so well."
"Well, it's kind of a hard thing to forget."
"Oh I know, but, allow me to toss a theory out there: you have
never been one to think of feet as being sexy, correct?"
I fondled his flips a bit more. "Um, yes, that would be correct,"
he replied.
"Well that I understand. From the outside, having a foot fetish
must seem like the strangest, damndest thing. Someone getting turned
on by the mere sight of someone else's exposed toes? Doesn't make
sense. Then again, if people like you get turned on by a nice show
of cleavage, an exposed pair of breasts, a nice pair of legs --
it's really not all that different deep down, just not as commonly
accepted. However, what people don't know is that much like those
other coveted areas, feet can be pleasured in ways that are highly,
highly erotic."
"Oh?" the immobile boy asked.
"Oh yes," I continued, slowly removing his flimsy flip-flops
from his pale, hairless feet. "Yes. Mind if I demonstrate?"
"Well ... I'm not going anywhere," he said.
I grinned. Two soft slaps were heard as the sandals landed on the
floor. I kneeled down, and immediately inserted my tongue in-between
his toes, slathering in-between them, licking their undersides,
sucking on them, occasionally licking his sensitive arches just
for the hell of it. Immobile Michael flinched, twitched, and let
out light gasps -- this was a completely new experience for him.
Sometimes my tongue waggled about the base of his toes just so that
tickles radiated through him, adding to those tingles he was undoubtedly
feeling. Sometimes I would do a slow lick of his heel, dragging
that tongue across those arches and up to the those toes so that
every groove and tastebud bump on my tongue could be felt by his
too-soft skin, tickling and pleasuring him in equal measure. My
tongue lapped up the tops of his feet, gliding all over, and then
I went back to lightly sucking on each toe, going out of my way
to make sure each and every one was properly serviced, no inch of
his feet left without moisture by the time I was done.
The best part of the whole thing, though, was his reactions. The
toes involuntarily flexing, the occasional quick-pant, the random
groan of pleasure that would emerge -- it was all new, terrifyingly
sexy territory for Michael. And then he felt it -- the first fingernail
scratch across his left heel. He flinched a bit, I laughed a little,
and then the attack began: ten fingernails sliding, grooving, flicking,
poking and tickling his heels. Michael laughed in surprise, his
toes flexed, curled, and drew circles in the air as they tried to
escape their torment, but it was no use: the rapid, teasing scratches
continued. Slowly, the fingernails tickling his heels went up his
feet, across the tender arches, to the balls of his feet, the base
of his toes, the tips of his toes -- a thousand ticklish slashes
all hitting him at once. Michael's ribcage jolted, popped, and tried
to escape, but the tickles kept coming. His bare fleshy soles were
a delivery system for devious, teasing tickles, and the rest of
his body could only contort and twist to try and escape it, even
if the results amounted to nothing more than constant, unwilling
laughs launching out of from his mouth. I loved taking my index
finger and poking in-between each pair of toes, swirling it around
before moving on to the next toeslot. I was fucking loving this.
"Your toes are sexy when they wiggle, Michael," I said
in a teasing voice. All that Michael responded with was more unbridled
laughter. I next cradled his heels in my hand, fingers along the
sides as my thumbs scratched his heels and the base of his arches
-- oh man did he hate this! His toes scrunched in a much as they
could as if they somehow could bend down far enough to stop my fingers
-- but they couldn't. It was really cute seeing how hard his body
was trying to avoid the tickles, flashes of ticklish lightning setting
his feet ablaze with tingles and tickles. I continued scratching
his soles with my thumbnails for about 20 minutes -- there wasn't
a moment when he wasn't laughing hysterically during it.
I stopped, and Michael panted, those occasional aftershocks of laughter
coming out in bits and waves. I walked over to where Michael could
clearly see me.
"So ... ticklish much?"
"Fuck you," me panted out.
My fingers traced across his chest and down to his belt buckle,
then slowly, forcefully traced his zipperline, feeling his still-hard
manhood inside. "I think you like it when I tickle your feet,
Michael." I scratched his shaft through the jeans, and his
whole body tensed again, those half-moans coming out of his mouth
seemingly against his will. I then stopped and looked at his bare
chest, soaked in sweat. I grinned again.
"Michael, answer me this question honestly: do you LIKE it
when I play with your feet?"
"Um ..." he panted, "I um ... I don't ..."
I started scratching his shaft and cockhead through the jeans.
"Michael, do you LIKE IT when I play with your feet?"
"Um ... I mean ... god keep doing that ... I ... kind of ...
I ..."
"Michael, do you want me to really, really play with your big
bare feet one more time?
The scratching was causing his shaft to pump and twitch inside its
denim prison.
"I ... yes."
"What part do you like the most, Michael?"
"I ... I liked it when ... fuck yes ... when you were licking
my toes ..."
"Good boy, Michael," I said as I stopped the scratching
and went down to his feet. "Then you're going to really like
this."
With feverish, horny relish, I began tonguing the tips of his toes.
Michael shuddered a bit, but his toes didn't clench -- they seemed
to almost lean into it. I began licking his entire foot from sole
to toes again, lapping it over and over, and slowly, his feet began
to grow. Michael barely even noticed however, as his feet slowly
growing in size was about equivalent to how horny he was feeling.
They were now size 12s, then 14s, then 17s ... they kept on growing
with each lick. "Fuck yes," he mumbled, my tongue now
resting in-between his big toe and his index toe, slathering back
and forth and back and forth in that big sexy toeslot, tickling
and teasing and moistening all along. The tickles felt good, the
warm, wet tongue felt good, his raging hardon felt great. Slowly
his feet got bigger and bigger, his toes plumper, my licking all
the hornier and furiouser. "Yes," he moaned, practically
dry humping the air above him, "keep playing with my feet.
Keep licking my feet. I love it when you play with my big, bare
feet." The humping was intensifying. "Keep going,"
I shouted. He closed his eyes and moaned some more: "I love
it when you lick my feet! KEEP PLAYING WITH MY ... "
+++
"... FEET!" he shouted as he sprung to attention, bolt
upright in his bed. Michael was sweating, panting, and ... awake.
He looked around his darkened room and ... saw nothing. His body
was heaving and heaving, his chest taking in bucket breaths, but
... it was all a dream as far as he was concerned. He closed his
eyes and took a breath ... and then he felt it. His crotch was sticky
again. He must've cum even worse than the night previous. He didn't
even need to look -- he already knew he was going to have to take
this sheets and put them on a double-cycle to get them properly
clean. Again, it felt like he had just unloaded a month's worth
of seed -- but how could this happen two nights in a row? What was
wrong? He went to the bathroom to clean himself up, but did so with
a strange, nagging doubt floating over him.
The next morning, he sat at his breakfast table, T-shirt, pajama
pants, and barefeet, eating his cereal while staring at the back
of his cereal box, but not actually looking at anything. His mind
was adrift, that surrealistic pool table dream just as vivid as
the vine one. While he was disturbed by the fact that he seemed
to launch a boatload of cum while in his sleep, he was more disturbed
by the fact that I was in that most recent dream, so prominent and
realistic, unlike the rest of it. He stopped chewing for a moment
and decided to take a risk: he pulled out his cell phone and decided
to text me: "Man, you appeared in a very, very weird dream
I had last night."
He chewed a few more bites. His phone vibrated there on the table.
He looked at my response and his eyes went wide with terror:
"I thought you'd like it ;-)"
|