She managed to say, “If you think I’m changing diapers all by myself, think again, bucko….”
And then there was no more time for words.
THIEF OF DREAMS
Kristina Wright
Every night for months now, I awake to a man sitting at the end of my bed. I am not afraid of this stranger in my room in the middle of the night. In fact, I welcome him.
For a long time, I thought he was just a man—a beautiful muscular man wearing only a pair of light-colored pants that leave nothing to the imagination—but then one night I watched as he unfurled wings that stretched from one corner of my bedroom to the other, the tips reaching up to brush the ceiling. I will admit, that caught me off guard. I even put on my glasses to make sure I was seeing what I thought I saw. Indeed, there he was in the darkened room, moonlight slanting though the window blinds to cast an eerie shadow on the winged man sitting at the end of my bed.
As beautiful as he is, his wings are more magnificent, darker than the shadows that surround him, yet seeming to almost cast a glow around him, like one of those old gaslight streetlamps. Even though we never speak, he must have sensed my pleasure in his wings that first time. Because every night since, I have woken to the slightest breeze lifting the hair from my face as he unfurls his wings for me. Then, he takes me in his arms and makes love to me gently, tenderly. A winged man and me in my king-sized bed, down feathers above me and…the feathers of whatever creature he is above me. My nights are filled with sweet passion with a man not of this world. It is wonderful, and yet it leaves me longing for more. Something…more.
Each morning I awaken and realize it was only a dream. An amazing dream of a man with magnificent wings, but a dream just the same, night after endless night. For a while, anyway.
Then the insomnia hit. Night after night, I lay awake in the darkness, tossing and turning with a hundred things going through my head. I’ve suffered insomnia off and on for years, but nothing could shake it this time. Warm bath: relaxing but not sleep inducing. Meditation: frustrating as I couldn’t quiet my mind enough to focus. Warm milk: gross. Over-the-counter sleep aids: ineffective. My doctor took one look at the dark circles under my eyes and prescribed something that did help me sleep but left me groggy and off kilter in the morning. I tossed it out and moved on to herbs, which made me smell like a fragrant garden but did nothing to help me sleep. I was exhausted and listless at work. Worse, I was beginning to feel ill, like a bone-deep sickness had taken root inside my body and refused to leave.
Then, finally, one night I slept. Or I thought I did, because I saw my winged man. I opened my eyes to that same familiar shape at the end of my bed and I knew I was finally dreaming. But instead of taking me into his arms and making love to me, he spoke.
“You’re not sleeping.”
I jolted back against the headboard, the metal rattling against the wall. I wasn’t convinced I was awake, not yet, so I reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. “Um, what?”
“You are not sleeping,” he said, spreading his arms out to take in the newly illuminated room. “You are not sleeping, and it’s killing me.” That seemed a bit dramatic, but given the fact that I did seem to be awake and there did seem to be a stranger—with wings—sitting at the end of my bed, a little drama seemed in order.
“You’re real.”
He shrugged, his broad bare shoulders rising and falling along with his furled wings. “As real as anything, I suppose.”
“I thought you were a dream.” It sounded like an accusation, even to my own ears. “I mean, I’ve always been sleeping before when I saw you. Right?”
“I’m supposed to stay in your dreams, yes. But you’re not sleeping, and therefore not dreaming,” he said, punctuating his statement with an accusatory look.
Winged-man was starting to freak me out a bit. Instead of dreaming, I was convinced I was going mad.
“Who are you?”
He pulled his knees up to his chest and looked at me from under long lashes. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“My name is Victor. I am an angel. Well, I was.” He shrugged those broad, elegant shoulders and his wings bobbed against his back. “I’ve fallen.”
I shook my head to clear the remains of the cobwebs and stared at his profile. “Victor. Angel. Fallen. Okay. Got it.”
He let out a sharp bark of laughter that shattered any possible illusion that this might still be a dream. “Is it that easy for you? This is no dream, Michelle.” He emphasized the first syllable of my name, saying it with a French lilt.
“I am a reproductive endocrinologist, Victor. I create life in a petri dish,” I said, wincing at the arrogance in my voice. “Believing in an angel is easy.”
“I see. Then perhaps you can tell me why you aren’t sleeping?”
I shrugged. What could I say that would make any sense? “I’m lonely.”
He nodded. “I know. Your dreams…you are always alone, always searching. I don’t know what you’re searching for.”
“Why are you in my dreams? Why are you here?”
His immobile face, as immobile as any sculpture, softened and he looked sheepish. “I live in your dreams. Until I’m—” he flung his arms out, as if searching for the right word, “reinstated, so to speak, I am confined to your dreams.”
I frowned. “But I rarely dream. Or I rarely remember my dreams.”
“That’s my fault. I—steal them, for lack of a better word. They sustain me in this world.”
I pulled my legs up, unconsciously mirroring his position. “You’re not only in my dreams, you steal them? But, why?”
He let out a long, breathy sigh, as if he were tired of dealing with me. “To survive. For now, I exist only in your dreams, in that shadowy space between reality and fantasy. When I’m where I belong—” he looked toward the ceiling, “My purpose is to watch over you.”
A lightbulb went off over my head. “You’re my guardian angel?”
“Yes.” He clasped his hands together, long fingers weaving in and out of each other in a way that made me shiver. “My purpose is to protect you from danger. But now we are both in danger because I can’t survive unless you sleep and dream and you can’t survive if I don’t keep watch over you.”
“That’s a conundrum.”
“You still think you’re dreaming,” he said, anger lacing his voice the way his fingers were laced over one bronzed knee.
“Oh, no, this conversation makes complete sense,” I said, breezily. “I’ve been feeling a little lonely and conjured up my guardian angel to take care of my needs. Though, I must say, talking isn’t one of my needs. So, if you could just get to it—”
He surged toward me with a predatory snarl. I pressed my back to the headboard reflexively, but my body was responding to the dangerous, untamed look in his dark eyes. I was becoming aroused. That thought was even more shocking than the idea that there was an angel in my bedroom.
“I know you,” he said, crowding me against the headboard. Long slender fingers closed around my wrists as he pinned my hands above my head. “I have walked through your dreams, I have tasted your very soul.”
He licked my bottom lip for emphasis, his tongue warm and wet. I caught my breath, time standing still as he nipped my lip between his teeth. I winced in pain, tasted the metallic tang of blood. My blood.
“Yes,” I breathed against his cheek.
“But something isn’t right,” he sighed, releasing my wrists. I felt a sharp pang of disappointment. “Something is missing.”
The ache between my thighs told me what was missing, but I couldn’t voice it. Instead, I watched him watching me.
“What do you want, Michelle?” His voice still held a note of predatory threat, as if I should be careful what I asked for, because I just might get it. “You are lonely. I see it in your dreams. But you are also needy in a way that goes beyond loneliness.”
“Needy. Thanks,” I muttered, though I did
n’t deny it.
He grabbed my wrists again, but instead of pinning them over my head, he put them against his muscular chest. He felt warm and real, solid.
“I don’t think you understand,” he said, a hint of desperation in his growly voice. “If we don’t resolve this problem, I will die. Or at least cease to exist in the way that you understand life. And if I die—”
Something in his expression made me swallow hard. “What?” I whispered, my voice as raspy as parchment.
“Then you will die,” he said hollowly. “I cannot exist without you and you cannot exist without me to protect you.”
I snatched my hands from him. “Just wait a minute, wait a minute!”
He stared at me patiently while I gathered my thoughts.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” I said. “I didn’t ask for the guardian angel who’d screw up and get tossed out of—wherever.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re bound by things greater than your will. Or mine.”
“The hell we are.” I jumped out of bed, vaguely aware that I probably looked like a wild woman in my flimsy, white gown and my long, dark hair flying every which way. “I denounce your existence. Or I revoke your privilege. Whatever! Just get out!”
He didn’t budge. He arched one dark eyebrow at me and his sensuous lips curled into a droll smile. “I’m not a demon or a vampire or any of those dark fellows. I’m your guardian angel. Fallen or not, you can’t send me away because I’m as attached to you as your shadow.”
“What the fuck,” I slumped on the bed beside him. “Now what?”
He gathered me up in his arms in a familiar way—as if he’d done it a thousand times before. Which I suppose he had, if all those dreams were actual experiences. I didn’t push him away. In truth, he felt pretty nice and I had been lonely for a long, long time. I rubbed my wrists where he’d held them, feeling the slightest hint of pain, like a bruise that has yet to appear. I shivered.
Victor held me away from him. “There. That. What was that?”
I shook my head. “I’m cold.”
“No. It’s something. Something buried so deep even I can’t get to it. Something that keeps you closed off and lonely. Something that torments your rest so you don’t sleep, don’t dream.” He shook me slightly, hard enough to make my teeth click together. “What is that, Michelle?”
“I was just thinking about how it felt when you grabbed my wrists,” I whispered, feeling the heat of embarrassment and shame in my cheeks. “That’s all.”
He cradled my head to his chest. “Is that it? Is that the key?” he whispered.
I sensed he wasn’t talking to me, so I stayed silent and just enjoyed the warmth of him surrounding me. He stroked my hair with his hand, smoothing the waves and soothing me in the process. And then his touch changed. He gathered up my hair in his hand, twisting it around those long fingers, and gave it a firm tug.
My eyes went wide at the sensation, a prickling along my scalp that sent a corresponding tingle to other parts of my body. I looked up at him and saw that he was watching me, studying my reaction. He gave another tug on my hair, hard enough to stretch my neck and make me gasp. I gripped his shoulder with one hand, the other curled against my chest, my heart beating a tattoo against my rib cage. A third tug sent a shiver of desire down my spine that tightened my nipples and made we wet.
“Does that hurt?” he asked softly.
I nodded.
“Do you like it?”
I hesitated. If I said no, he would stop. If I said no, he would release my hair from his hand and let me go. If I said no, I would be lying. I nodded.
My reward for answering was another hard tug on my hair that made me clench my thighs together where wetness pooled slick and hot.
“Do you want more?”
No hesitation this time. I nodded firmly.
“How much more?”
I licked my bottom lip, the faint lingering taste of blood making me bold. “As much as you can give.”
He trailed his fingers down the column of my exposed neck, his touch so light it almost tickled. Dipping a hand into the bodice of my nightgown, he cupped my breast and thumbed one tight nipple. I whimpered low in my throat. Then he pinched the nipple between his fingers, hard enough that I went rigid with the unexpected shock of it. I felt a corresponding tingle between my thighs, my clitoris throbbing with need. He tugged my tender nipple and I moaned.
By the time he began tormenting my other nipple, I was breathing hard, sweat beading on my forehead.
“Is the pain too much? Not enough?”
I shook my head, once, twice.
With my nipple between his fingers, he gave a twist of his wrist. My eyes fluttered closed and I saw stars. Just like that, with nothing more than this sweet torment of my breasts, I felt my orgasm building.
“More,” I said, shuddering and gasping in his arms.
He lowered me to the bed and I whimpered, clinging to him, my need greater than my pride. But he was only shifting me so that he could use both hands at the same time. He freed my breasts from the bodice of my thin nightgown, tugging and pulling on my engorged and sensitive nipples until I cried out my release. I came as he watched me with dark, knowing eyes, writhing on the bed as he manhandled my sensitive breasts in a way I’d never known—and never thought I would enjoy.
“Ahhh,” he said, soft and low, as if he had just discovered the meaning of life in his cup of tea. “This is what they meant.”
“Who—what—” I tried to form a question, but he was still making me twist and groan under his unrelenting touch. “Please,” I gasped, though I wasn’t sure if I was asking him to stop or begging for more.
He hooked an arm around my waist and flipped me over in one smooth stroke. I lay flat on the bed, blinking in shock at the suddenness of the shift. Then he was gripping my hips and pulling me onto my knees.
I expected to feel his hand between my legs, but nothing was as I expected this night. I had only a moment to be aware of the movement of air before his hand connected with my ass. I yelped and rose up on my elbows, but he put his hand firmly between my shoulder blades, forcing my upper body back down to the mattress while my ass remained raised—and vulnerable.
A series of stinging slaps sent heat rippling along my bottom and thighs. I opened my mouth to protest this humiliation, but something—something made me stay silent. It was a need buried so deep I didn’t even recognize it until it bubbled to the surface in a flood of emotions grounded in physical sensation—the throb of my abused nipples, the sting of pain warming my ass, the twin heartbeat pulsing insistently between my thighs. Instead of trying to escape the pain, I arched my back and pushed my ass higher to meet the next blow.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, slapping me even harder than before.
I felt his hand between my thighs, cupping my panty-clad mound, a finger pressing the material into my wetness. I moaned and thrust against him, eager for more, needing to be filled. I felt a tug then heard the rip of fabric as he shredded my panties to get to the wetness beneath.
He stroked my pussy with his fingertips, teasing me. After the force of his hand on my ass this gentle touching was unsatisfying. I whimpered, in frustration rather than pleasure, and he laughed.
“Is there something you want, love?”
“Please,” I whispered. “You are driving me crazy.”
“What is it you need?” His finger stroked along my clit, too softly to do more than torment me. “Tell me and I will give it to you.”
I took a breath. A knot of longing, hot and tight like a rock in my center, was coming undone. I had nothing to fear; nothing to lose. I had only this night and this man, this beautiful angel who was here just for me. “Fuck me, Victor. I need you inside me.”
I felt him press against me, the fabric of his thin pants the only thing separating our bodies. His erection felt huge, hot. I trembled in anticipation and need, pressing against him as if I could will away the barrier between u
s.
“Yes, you need me,” he said. “You need this.” He bucked his hips against me, nudging my pussy with his bulge. “But what else do you need, love?”
My brain was fuzzy with desire, I wasn’t sure what he meant. Then the truth of his question struck me. “I need it hard. I need…pain.”
Shame brought a flood of tears to my eyes. He couldn’t see my face, but he must have sensed the roil of sick emotions twisting me into knots. Suddenly the barrier of his pants was gone and he was inside me in one thrust.
I gasped, the force of his weight taking my knees out from under me. I lay pressed to the bed, his cock buried inside my wetness, his body stretched over mine. He caught my hair up in his fist again and gave it a hard tug as he drove into me, pressing me into the mattress with each driving thrust. I moaned at the onslaught of sensation, tingles of pain along my scalp corresponding to a delicious soreness taking hold deep in my pussy.
Victor trailed kisses down my cheek and neck, then sunk his teeth into the tender flesh of my shoulder, not so hard as to draw blood, but hard enough to make me gasp. I pushed against him to the extent I was able, but I was nearly immobilized by his body on top of me, his cock driving into me, his hand holding my hair fast.
I didn’t think it could get any more intense than this…and then it did. Victor pressed his mouth to my ear and he whispered, “Every night from now on, I am going to give you the pleasure—and the pain—you crave. Will you like that?”
The instant flood of moisture between my legs gave me away, but I nodded anyway. “Yes, oh, yes.”
He pressed deeper into me. “Good. Let me tell you what I’m going to do to you.”
And then he did. He whispered all manner of dark delights as he fucked me, every thrust as firm and unrelenting as the one before. He told me how he would spank me and slap me, bind me and torment me. He made loving promises to leave me sore and bruised, exhausted from his rough lovemaking. It sounded wicked and filthy and more like something a devil would say than an angel. But to my ears, to my body, it was a promise of heaven itself.
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