The Dreams: Part 2
by James T. Medak

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Michael really, really liked this drum pattern. It always lead right into the chorus, which was explosive and fantastic. This is just the kind of music that Michael needed to make sure he didn't kill anyone with a 10-pound light.

Right now, Michael was doing what he did best: crawling around in some theatre scaffolding, affixing lights according to his elaborate design, and doing so while one of his own playlists blasted from the sound booth, a mix of gloriously overblown film scores, strange techno-hybrids, and a few rock songs with quirky lyrics. Michael was at home.

He still had a few stray thoughts enter through his head though, mainly pertaining to what the hell was going on with his batch of surreal, hyper-sexual dreams that he had, one of which featured me quite prominently. He never got a response from me after I told texted him that I certainly hoped he was enjoying those dreams, but whatever: Michael had some work to do, so by gods he would do it. Never hurts to be distracted from curious oddities like that by just diving into some intensive, precise physical labor.

After hanging and positioning about ten more lights, a strange thought occurred to Michael: what show was he lighting? He looked down on the bare black box stage below him, and didn't recognize anything. This wasn't like any set he had seen, and even though he "knew" what he was doing, he had no idea as what he was doing, or whyfor. He looked around at the fellow crewmembers dressed up in typical run-crew black ... and nothing struck him as being familiar. He could see these bodies move around, but their faces were ... hazy, unmemorable. It's almost as if he was surrounded by anonymous figures, indistinct and barely existing.

As he finished screwing in one last night, he heard the light scraping of metal on concrete. Lying practically flat on the metal grid above the stage, he saw a figure drag a simple chair across the black box floor, the metal legs making a sound that cried out for attention. The figure then placed the chair right there on the stage, facing toward the empty house where the audience would sit. Michael then noticed that the figure was also carrying a black bag of some sort. The figure set it down next to the chair, then sat down on the chair, and looked right up at Michael, who gasped a bit:

The figure was me.

"Hello, Michael," I started.

"Um ... hello there." His words had question marks dangling from them.

"How are you?"

"Um, what are you doing here?"

"Well," I started, rather casually, "I'm here to see you, Michael."

"Um, well, I'm kind of in the middle of a light hang."

"No you're not," I said rather bluntly. "You're in the middle of a glorious, glorious experience. I've been thinking about this for some time, Michael."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked, angered by this confusing line of answers I was spewing.

"Well, Michael," I began, grinning the whole time, "you no doubt know of my particular sexual proclivities. I'm intrigued by certain things, and really good at other things. For whatever reason, I'm intensely curious about you, Michael. The things I could do to you, the things I could make you feel and experience. It's all very, very intriguing to me. Now, please don't misconstrue what I'm saying: I have no interest in you romantically, and never will. I'm just up for a bit of fun is all. You like a bit of naughty fun now and then, don't you Michael?"

"Yeah, but not like this," he said, almost pressing himself up from the grid ... before realizing he couldn't. He tried bending his knees inward but they weren't moving. He tried moving his arms, but they weren't moving. He looked to his left and his right and saw that some of those anonymous crewmembers had tied poor Michael to the grid spread-eagle using long lengths of black shoelace, rendering the wire-y haired boy completely immobile and several feet above the ground.

"What the hell is this?!" he yelled.

"The start," I quipped. "The start of something I'm going to really, really, really enjoy. Oh, and you will too. In fact, let me have my friends help you out."

I snapped my fingers.

Instantly, the crew up in the grid began working towards undressing Michael only a bit: one unzipped his cargo shorts and pulled his flaccid cock out so it was pointing directly at the black box floor. Two more peeled off his sneakers, revealing sockless feet that could only point out and squirm only so much whilst bound. Another crew member straddled Michael's backside, his hands going underneath Michael's shirt to run along his backside before reaching around to start playing with his nipples, which also pointed directly down to the floor.

"Have at it boys," I declared, and they were off. The two crew members at this feet began to lightly run their fingernails over Michael's deliciously soft feet, already sweaty from a day's work of light hanging, those nails drawing sexy patterns in his sensitive soles, each zig causing him to suddenly cough out an unexpected laughter, each zag making bubbles shoot out his throat entirely against his will. Michael HATED being tickled, but he kind of had to take it, even as another crew member started flicking his nipples, rubbing their tips, swirling his own fingernail around those nickels of flesh, teasing and toying with the boy with absolute relish. The one who unzipped Michael's pants was taking his time, slowly working his hands across Michael's cheeks, sliding a finger across his gooch, focusing only on teasing the boy, definitely not pleasuring him.

The sudden nature of all of this is what was throwing Michael off. He fought as hard as he could against his nip teasing but goddamn it felt good. His toes scrunched and flailed as much as they can, but each scratch on his bared footflesh felt like lightning being etched into his skin. He came upon the cusp several times: that edge of simply fighting the sensations being force-fed into his system and giving in to the whims of his tormentors. His nips were flicked, his feet were tickled, and -- 'lo and behold -- he was getting a hardon. His brain could barely process all the teases and torments, his ribcage hemorrhaging laughter, everything becoming a weirdly erotic blur all at once.

I snapped my fingers again. Everyone stopped except the guy playing with Michael's nipples.

"I see you're enjoying this, Michael," I noted aloud.

"I ... just ... just ..." Nothing was fully formed in his mind right now. All I know is that the pale-skinned boy was tied in the grid above me and sporting a nice bit of hardon right now.

"Well, Michael, you're undoubtedly aware of my fetishes. Male feet. Tickling. Oh, and this one which is just a fun -- do you happen to know what edging is, Michael?"

"It's ... I dunno it's ..." His words were padded out with canyons of confused silence.

"Well, here, instead of explaining it to you, let me show you."

At this point I reached down to the bag I had placed right next to the chair on the stage floor. I opened it up and pulled out what he thought was a very dirty rag made of material that seemed fancier than a mere rag -- he couldn't make it out (especially with his nips being rubbed every few seconds -- what a terrible distraction!). I also got out a transparent plastic bottle that seemed to contain some sort of golden liquid. I put a good amount of the goop into the center of the rag and held it calmly in my hand.

"You're going to hate this, my friend."

I snapped my fingers.

Suddenly, Michael felt a very, very strange feeling in his cock. It trembled a bit, although still hard as diamond, and then ... it began to grow. Not in width -- only in length. It was growing out to be seven inches, 10, a whole foot ... and then it kept growing. It was slowly getting longer and longer, the tender pink helmet that was his cockhead staying exactly the same size -- he just now had a shaft that was longer than he was. Michael couldn't explain the feeling but ... it felt weirdly pleasurable. The longer it got, the hornier he got, as if suddenly the extra room allowed him even more of those pleasurable tingles that come when you're harder than you've ever been before. At first, Michael, whose bound bare feet were curling and rolling around in pleasure, wanted it to keep growing, and then, he shuddered: his cock had a bit of a curve to it, and as such, it now several-feet-long manhood was heading for one place and one place only: directly into my hand. Upon realizing what was happening, he began struggling more and more, doing everything he could to loosen the shoelaces that held him in this spread-eagle position on a metallic grid several feet above the black stage floor. Yet nothing could stop his cock's trajectory: it extended out until it was just three inches away from my hand. I could easily grab it if I wanted to, yet abstained. Instead, I just looked at his cockhead looking directly at me, hard as stone, beet red with horniness, and eager for release. With the bottle of golden liquid still open, I took the hand that wasn't holding the goop-covered cloth and simply poured a bit of this liquid on Michael's tender cockhead -- it instantaneously twitched a bit, rising up a couple inches before returning to its regular height. It liked what it felt, the warm goop moistening his cockhead quite pleasurably. I watched as small drops fell down from the head, his cock again twitching a bit with pleasure. I looked right back up into his terrified eyes.

"Have you ever had your apple polished?"

Before he could respond, I took my cloth covered in goop and wrapped it around his cockhead. Slowly, I twisted it to the left, then slowly twisted it to the right, the moist golden goop acting as a perfect lubricant. It was driving his cockhead insane with pleasure, giving it constant attention yet never enough to produce an orgasm. I just twirled the moist rag one way, then the other. One way, then the other, the goop moving and touching every part of his cockhead, cockrim, and tip of his shaft with silky glee. He fucking loved the feeling (nice to see those toes bend and flex as I did this), and then it came: that cock twitch. Instead of rising a few inches though, it remained trapped inside my fabric grip. Oh man, how terrible would that be? To want your cock to twitch but being unable to because I'm holding onto it. I definitely feel your manhood trying to express itself, but nope: just constant moisture motion was all it was getting. Suddenly, Michael knew what it felt like to be at the brink.

"Gaaaah!" he exclaimed as I twisted it once again, swirling those horny tingles inside his cock. How surreal it felt, to be above the ground and for me to be nearly ten feet below him yet still controlling his most intimate of appendages. As I did this, I gave the nod. One of the crewmembers up on the grid has his own bottle of goop, and proceeded to drip it right onto the base of Michael's extra-long cock. He felt it drip down his shaft, a non-stop golden river of mystery liquid that was coating his manhood with moist pleasure, exposing it to the air in the room and letting the air itself excite and tingle him. Before long, the goop that the crew member poured had made its way down to my fabric, and it made for a constant replenishment of lubricant, each slow twist of the cloth in my hand causing Michael to reach a new level of horniness. I didn't even have to look to know that he probably had a good amount of precum mixing in with this goop as I twisted and swirled it around his cockhead and cockrim. The dull fireworks in his loin were going off like the 4th of July. Michael had to cum NOW, but I wasn't going to let him, something that frustrated him all the more when I felt another twitch coming on, but refused to allow it to fly -- all it knew was the heaven and hell of a moist, twisty rag on his manhood, and that's all I wanted him to know. I was enjoying the living hell.

Michael's fevered brain couldn't take it anymore. Its stream-of-conscious thoughts were all about sex, and cock, cum, and orgasm were far and away the most frequent thoughts that zinged through there (with naked, oh god, and nipples all running in a close second).

Then, right underneath his balls, he felt the feather.

A too-soft, ticklish feather stroking his glands, stroking the underside of his balls, and his tender gooch. A crewmember up there was having a lot of fun. At one point he just teased the dangling undercarriages of one ball sac ... then the other ... then back to the first one, twirling and teasing and tickling this whole time, all while mixing with his nipples being flicked and his cockhead being swirled around with liquid pleasure.

The tingles mounted in his balls, in his too-long shaft, in his tip, his orgasm practically registering on the Richter scale. Then he crossed the threshold, he was going to c...

+++

"'mon!" He shouted, his body shooting bolt upright at attention. Michael's eyes were wide, his chest absolutely covered in sweat, his lungs panting heavily. Michael got his bearings -- he was in bed and ... oh dear fuck he just had another dream, didn't he? He'd look under the sheets to see if he came or not, but he already knew -- he could feel it under the sheets. An amount of semen this large was just downright humiliating. Michael sighed. He missed the best part, yet again, yet every detail of the dream rang through as vivid as day.

As he got about what was now becoming a regular routine following these dreams -- cleaning his sheets and feeling confused and oddly guilty over the whole thing -- he felt weirdly angry. He knew I had something to do with this, but couldn't figure as to exactly what. Yet my seemingly knowing texts and appearance in the latter two dreams -- all of which featured my own fetishes, not his -- were driving him over the edge. For someone who liked being in control of things, Michael was none too pleased over the notion that someone was controlling his subconscious. He got out his phone and sent off an angry text message to me, reading "Listen, I don't know what you're [sic] game is, but you need to tell me NOW!" He placed the phone on his desk and just stared at it for about two solid minutes, waiting for a response.

Nothing.

Before long, five minutes passed, then ten, then 30. Michael was positive he was going to get the response he needed before too long. He got out his favorite rubber bouncy ball, tossing it in the air and catching it, passing time with repetitive motion as it seemed to help his brain think. Up and down. Up and down. Then, during one attempt at a catch, he dropped it and saw it fall underneath his bed. "Dammit," he muttered aloud. He went and got on his hands and knees and reached as far as he could on his apartment's hardwood floor, reaching for the ball, touching it with the tips of his fingers once, and then getting a grip on it the second time, rolling it back to him. Yet once it was in his paws, he heard something -- a very, very faint chirp. He knew immediately that this wasn't his phone -- he was very familiar with the dying sounds it made when the battery was low -- it was, something altogether different. And very faint as well, as he couldn't hear it again. He stopped all movement, attuned his ears to the air, and ... nothing. Some 30 seconds passed. Nothing. It seemed -- there it was! He heard it again, and it was definitely coming from underneath his bed. He looked and scanned and searched with his eyes, and then, he saw it: just underneath his headboard, a very, very small rectangular chip of some sort. He pulled it off, seeing it was attached by some sort of sticky substance, and examined it closely. For being one as familiar as he was with electronics as he was, he couldn't fathom what this did. There seemed to be some sort of broadcasting element to it, but he was unsure. What did it do? Why was it here? And, more importantly, how did it get there?

Michael had a hell of a gut -- it knew something was up and was right virtually every time. This time, he knew, somehow, that I was responsible for this. Instead of waiting for a text message, he took matters into his own hands, throwing on some socks and shoes and taking his car over to my own apartment. He wasn't driving angry, but he was assuredly driving with purpose.

My door buzzed. I pressed on the intercom, expecting a package from UPS or something.

"Hello?" I asked through the muffled talkbox.

"It's Michael. Open up. Right now."

I could hear him speak with immediate purpose. This was serious.

Not one to mess around with such matters, I buzzed him up without questioning him further.

He climbed three flights of stairs surprisingly quickly. He knocked on my door. I opened it up, trying to be as civil as possible.

"Hey there Michael! What brings you to ..."

He spoke pointedly: "You need to sit down, right now."

"Um, can I offer you ..."

"Sit. Now."

I went over to my own ratty couch and sat down. He closed my door behind him, and immediately took control of the situation, walking around as if he lived here and I was the guest. He pulled out the small microchip device and held it up.

"OK, what is this, and what does it do?" he asked.

"Um, well," I squirmed, "it's not really a ... it's hard to describe really ..."

"Well try," he insisted, "and try hard."

Not being completely put in my place, I suddenly went about to being on the sly about things. "Well, Michael, this little baby does something pretty goddamn impressive: it taps into your dreams, and it turns 'em into, well, whatever I want them to be."

"You're fucking lying."

"Really?" I said, standing up. "You probably don't want to admit it but you enjoyed the jungle vine sucking you off. You probably were surprised how much you enjoyed being manipulated on that pool table. Hell, I'm sure you wish your cock was actually that long, having oil dripped on it while feathering your balls ..."

"BUT THEY AREN'T WHAT I WANT!" he shouted.

"Well why did you cum, then?"

A pause filled the air.

"Well ...", he started, struggling for an answer, "I mean, if anyone did that to your ... to your cock or sucked it that way or ... I mean ... who wouldn't cum to that? It's just, ya know ..."

"It was new, which was scary." I calmly explained.

"No, it's not even that, it's just ... why are you forcing your fantasies into my brain?"

There was a pause again. I smiled.

"I think you better sit down, Michael."

We both went to the couch and sat down, the playing field a bit more even, the tension deflated a bit.

"Michael," I started, "I got my fetishes. You know about them, undoubtedly. I also have the strangest feeling that you could care less about them. I mean, a male foot fetish. I'm sure you look at it and wonder what the living hell is attractive about such things, am I right?"

"Well, I mean, I don't want to be cold about it ..." he said very non-judgmentally.

"It's OK, Michael -- I definitely get it. I'm not here trying to 'turn you on' to my own fetishes. That's just ... well, it's not cruel, but having anything forced upon you is wildly unpleasant. I guess I just wanted to share something with you. Something personal."

"Too personal," he interjected.

"Yes, undoubtedly. Yet ... well, you're a sexy guy, Michael."

"Um ... excuse me?"

I looked at him cock-eyed. "Seriously? You're going to play this game?"

"What game?"

"The 'oh, I never thought of myself attractive' gambit? That's so beneath you, Michael."

"Hey! It's legit!" he exclaimed.

"Michael, you have some wonderful exes. You have some people that look at you in a mixture of awe and lust. To sit there and think that you aren't at all desirable physically is absurd. I've been wanting to do deliciously terrible things to you for some time, and this was ... well, this was my way of somewhat meeting halfway on the true reality of it."

"Well, I mean ... thank you? I guess?" he stated quixotically.

"Dude, I don't desire you romantically. Get that notion out of your head."

"I mean ... OK."

"I don't want to kiss you."

He tilted his head. "Um, OK."

"All I want to do is just terrible things to you altogether briefly."

"Like what?"

I paused for a second. He asked a question as to what I wanted to do to him. He actually WANTED to know more. I was very intrigued, yet curious."

"I'm going to take a shot in the dark here and guess that you've never once had your toes sucked on, am I right?"

"Um, that would be a yes," he said non-chalantly, amusing me greatly.

"I have a feeling that you would not believe me for a second if I told you it was a surprisingly fun experience, am I right?"

"Yes."

"Well Michael, here is what I would say to you. Trust me. Trust me one time and one time only. Allow me to try this and add this to your book of WTF-experiences. You have my personal guarantee that you won't regret this."

His eyebrow cocked. "Personal guarantee?"

"Yes."

"And what if I do regret this?"

"I'll give you $100 every month for the rest of your life." Hell, I was surprised that shot out of me as well.

I could see Michael's brain mulling this utterly strange, totally bizarre proposition. His face turned neutral, and then he looked directly at me.

"I literally can't believe I'm doing this," he said, as he started unlacing his shoes. I did everything I could to suppress the biggest smile I've ever had. Both sitting on the couch, he simply swung his legs over so that his socked feet were directly in my lap. "OK," he said, "have at it."

I didn't need to be told twice.

I started be rubbing his arches, explaining along the way: "You see Michael, I'm going to start out very slowly, rubbing your feet and basically getting you to relax. As easy as it would be to jump into things right now, I'm not going to -- it'd be insanely weird for everyone. I just want to ease you into this, slowly." My hands got a bit more of a grip as they rubbed his socked soles, but was feeling resistance from his muscles. "Jesus Christ you're tense."

"You could say that."

"No, Michael, you don't understand: you are fucking TENSE. Like, I'm not sure if you've been massaged ... well, ever!"

"I mean ... yeah, I guess that's a valid point but ... well, yeah."

"Poor guy. Well, I'm not gonna rewrite the wheel here or anything but we'll see if we can at least make some of that go away."

"Heh, 'rewrite the wheel'," he scoffed.

"Hey, shut up! I'm concentrating!" It was nice to joke even at a time like this.

I massaged his tense feet for a good ten minutes before I finally felt them relax, the toes becoming more amendable to me moving them, his arches no longer giving his tendons a constant workout. Once he was set, I slowly hooked my finger around the rim of his right sock, and slowly, slowly peeled it off his gloriously pale pedal.

"You're enjoying this slow reveal, aren't you?" he commented.

"Michael, it's a foot fetish. Of course I do. There's something so weirdly intimate about seeing another guy's toes." The sock was now off, and I was doing the same to his other foot.

"Is it the shape of them or what?" he inquired, seemingly curious.

"Well, yeah. I mean ... it's hard to articulate. It's half of what they look like and half of what they represent. I mean ... I dunno, it's strange."

"How about the smell?"

"Shit," I said disarmingly, "That's the best part."

"Really?"

"Oh my god yes. With most sexual interactions, smell is one of the single most important sensations. That whiff of perfume, that post-coital sweat, you name it -- it's astonishing.

"So, a used pair of socks to you is ... ?"

"Heaven."

"Ah," he said.

"But, ya know, not too rank," I clarified. "A man has his limits."

"I am learning so many things tonight," he said jokingly. I had no idea as to why he was in such a jovial mood about the whole thing, but I definitely was going to take it.

I arched my head around and sniffed the base of his bare toes, and the feeling left me positively radiating horniness. He certainly may not have understood the appeal, but I had come across the sweet spot. Testing the limits of things, I extended my tongue just a bit and licked the base of his toes. He pulled back a bit.

"Gah!" he exclaimed. "That tickles!"

"Your feet are ticklish? I wouldn't have guessed that." I noted, pretending, again, to be extremely matter-of-factual about such a tantalizing revelation.

"Well, they are."

"OK," I said, "I'll be very gentle then ..."

With that, I continued to lightly tongue his exposed footflesh, but very slowly so that he knew where the tongue was going next. I started slithering my moist tongue in-between his toes, bits of saliva running down as I went, and he did everything he could to suppress his laughter: even with me being careful as hell, it still tickled him. His smile was huge, and he was so obviously trying to make sure it didn't go beyond a smile, the tickles definitely mounting an attack at bay. I went from one toe-slot to another, leaving his toenails positively glistening by the end. One toe to another, that warm, moist slithering thing rounding up tickles he didn't even know existed and sending them straight through his body. He was simultaneously loving and hating it. I, however, was just loving it.

After about ten more minutes, I was done, and his feet were coated in horny saliva. He brought his legs in and wrapped his arms around his knees, leaving his bare feet flat on the couch cushion. I thought it was a goddamn hot pose myself. I looked at his face -- he may not have enjoyed it, but I could tell he definitely didn't hate it. The laughter was still very much at bay.

"So," I started, half-jokingly, "should I grab my checkbook?"

In his eyes, he truly was weighing a decision. However, his half-smile never fully receded. I could tell I was safe.

"You know what, let's call this a favor to you. You're good," he said as he started putting his socks back on.

"Strange?" I inquired.

"Definitely."

"One for your book of memories?"

"Assuredly," he said as he now started putting on and lacing his shoes.

"Enjoyable?"

That one hung in the air for a bit.

"I'll get back to you on that," he said, his tone surprisingly earnest.

"Well, Michael, as my favor to you, I'll never mention this night to anyone."

"Thank you." He was getting ready to leave.

"So we good?" I asked, actually wanting to know.

"... yeah. Yeah. We're good." he said, reassuring himself almost as much as he did me.

"Well drive safe. We'll talk soon."

"Yeah. Later." And with that, he left. I personally couldn't believe how positively the evening ended. Even with him storming in here, he didn't ask question as to how I even got this wonderful chip which locked onto REM brainwave frequencies and interjected waves of its own, much less how it worked (hell, I couldn't even explain all of that). He didn't ask as to how I got it under his bed or even how long it had been there. He only wanted certain things from me, and got a whole lot more -- probably more than he bargained for. Either way, given everything leading up to it, I was amazed by how well things went.

Driving home, Michael kept running through the events in his head. Even with everything, he could tell I wasn't being malicious to him -- I was just trying a very unusual way to reach out to him. He could very well have been pissed as hell and he'd be justified: this was an invasion of privacy on an unfathomable scale. Yet, deep down, he still wanted this friendship to work. He let things go, he forgave, he moved on. Even as he pressed down on the pedal to accelerate after a red light, he could feel my saliva still drying in-between his toes. He wouldn't necessarily call it a bad sensation, but it was certainly, well, unique in his mind.

That night, he got to bed, and his nerves were calmed. He was at ease, sure that nothing insane was going to happen tonight. As such, the second his head hit his pillow, he knew things were going to turn out alright.

What surprised him, however, was that even without a device feeding him information, I still appeared in his dreams that night ...