The Dream
(c) 1995 by R. Seth Trotman
sfd@ix.netcom.com


        The dream was always the same.
        A party.  People surrounding him.  Crowding him.  Laughter, 
conversation, merriment all around him.  And yet it was all lost.  To him.  
The people surrounding him were nameless, the conversations in a language 
he couldn't comprehend.  The laughter followed, and though he knew it must 
be directed at some witty anecdote only now completed, yet beyond him, he 
couldn't help feeling the eyes of the partygoers upon him.  Their laughter 
weighed upon him like a judgement.  
        He paused a moment at that.  He tried to remember what he had done 
to be judged by these people, but could not.
        He pressed on.  The people parted before him as he moved through 
the crowd, a modern-day Moses driving through a Red Sea of people.  A smile 
formed on his lips at that, but only for a moment.  He had to find someone.  
Here, among this crowd of people, his rescuer waited.  
        The crowds pushed at him from behind, beside him.  They propelled 
him forward.  The room seemed endless, if a room it was.  People moved 
from his path only to make way for more.  The voices and laughter, 
distinguishable as such in any language, pressed just as resolutely upon 
him.  Again he wondered at the crime which demanded such punishment.  
Forward he struggled and forward he moved.  And then there were none.
        He stood alone in the center of the gathering.  He had been 
propelled into a circular clearing.  The walls of human bodies surrounded 
him on all sides, and yet there was room.  He was alone here, in this 
small oasis.  He looked about him, spinning around to see those around 
him.  But none about him acknowledged him.  They continued with their 
frivolity, smiling, laughing, talking with each other, oblivious even 
to the space they had cleared for him.
        And as he turned again and again, he realized he was not alone.  
She stood very near, and yet seemed unattainable.  She was radiant in a 
way which he could not describe, even to himself.  As he stood there, 
attempting to reconcile how such magnificence could exist in a world that 
had lost so much of its beauty, she beckoned to him.
        An arm, raised toward him, bent slightly at the wrist, so as to 
take him by the hand, and a touch of a smile in her eyes.  He could not 
resist.  He reached up and let this corporeal perfection take his hand.  
        At her touch, he became aware once more of his surroundings.  The 
party had ceased, and all eyes were focused on the two of them.  The looks 
of wonder and awe on the faces around him gave him strength.  Confirmed 
for him this vision of all ideals was indeed real.  And behind her, the 
crowd parted, forming an aisle which led to a doorway in a nearby wall.  
He returned his attention to the angel, for such she must be, before him.
        She smiled that smile of heavenly acceptance upon him once more, 
and began moving through the crowd.  Her eyes never once left his.  She 
seemed to glide through the crowd, and he had the sensation of floating, 
himself.  Her eyes held the promise of a new life for him.  The promise 
of acceptance.  Of belonging.  And still she led him.
        They stood before the doorway now, which opened soundlessly at 
their approach.  Through the door to the room beyond.  He could feel the 
crowd closing in behind their passage, yet they were shut out as the door 
closed behind them.
        As the door closed out the presence of the crowd, he was released 
from the trance which had held him.  Daring to look about for only a 
moment, for fear the vision before him would fade, he took in his 
surroundings.  A large canopied bed.  A blazing fireplace.  And tapestries 
on all four walls of the chamber.  Behind the bed, Romulus and Remus.  
The twins suckled by a she-wolf who would later start a small village 
named Rome.  Opposite, Alphonse, son of the King of Spain,  rescuing 
the son of the King of Sicily in his lupine guise.  Over the fire, 
Gorlagon sitting between his wife and the queen, who is kissing a 
disembodied head upon a silver platter.  And opposite the fire, 
Bisclavret, removing his clothes and placing them beneath a bush.
        He returned his attention to his hostess.  Her clothes removed, 
she reclined upon the bed, legs slightly parted and a smile once again 
touching her eyes.  A faint hint of musk licked at his nose, and he moved 
toward her.  She raised herself up to her knees and opened wide her arms 
to accept him.  Six teats hung from her torso and it was the most 
beautiful thing he had ever seen.  Odd that he had not noticed them 
before, but as she took him in her arms, she pressed his head to them, 
and he suckled.
        A low moan, or perhaps growl, came from her throat, and he 
lowered himself to sample them all.  Her fingers in his hair urged him 
onward, pushing his head to her body and slowly lowering him to her center.  
She lay back on her heels and thrust herself upward, issuing a command he 
could not refuse.  He drew himself back and gazed into her dampness, 
inhaling her sweet musk for only a moment before plunging into her.  
He nibbled and licked at her and reached upwards to grasp her teats.  
Reveling in the feel of her between his lips and on his face, pushing 
ever forward, into her.  His hands massaged her, playing with her nipples 
just as his tongue played with her nub between his teeth.  His tongue 
drew circles about her, as his fingers drew circles in the hair about 
her nipples.  From one set to another, he massaged and played with the 
fur covered teats.  
        She continued to growl, only louder now, encouraging him.  
He growled in response and felt something within him shift.  His tongue 
now lapped at her clit and he lowered a hand to insert a finger deep 
within her.  Another finger searched for her rear orifice.  It was odd 
how his fingers seemed not able to separate to make the contact he 
desired.  He began to drown himself in her scent, luxuriating in it, 
his muzzle pressing deep within her, his tongue eschewing out to explore 
her insides.   
        A short bark and her leg was up over his head, and she was on 
all fours.  He backed away and raised himself up, one hand going 
instinctively to his center, massaging himself as he moved into 
position.  He looked down at himself and saw his fur-covered 
penis elongating from its sheath.  His chest was covered in a dark 
quilt of black.  Looking up he gazed once again to her fount, a golden 
triangle beneath her tail.  He mounted her, thrusting deep within her, 
and clutched at her sides to give him purchase.
        A whine sounded, whether from him or her he did not know.  The 
pressure built deep within him, and his newly-grown claws lengthened, 
as his fingers loosed their grip on her fur and retracted.  They stood 
on the bed, locked in an embrace of passion, when the door burst inward.
        Thrown backwards, off the bitch, he fell to the floor and was 
himself.  Above him, a beautiful golden she-wolf bared her fangs at the 
intruders.  Explosions of gunfire erupted and her broken body fell into 
his lap.  The people came around the bed and removed her from him, covered 
him, and lent words spoken in kindly voices, glad they had burst in in 
time to save him.
        He awoke.
        The dream was always the same.