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schmericaSo I went to bed last night and had to get up fifteen minutes later when I was attacked by a ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ds_flashfiction idea, and wasn't allowed to sleep till I'd poured out 700 words and it was actually getting kind of late. And then I crashed.
The experience of rereading the stuff the next morning after that is always interesting. When I did that this morning, I figured out that a) it had gone somewhere other than I thought, and didn't really fit the flashfiction topic as much anymore and b) it hadn't cohered all the way into a story, quite, or least enough for me to want to post it there, anyway; it's more of a snippet of something.
When I was talking to Nif about this morning, though, I gave her the description in the subject line, and she told me to post it for her, so I think I'll just post it here.
*****
He still dreamed of her on occasion, of course.
There were dreams that were horrible and frightening, sometimes. Sometimes there were ones that were unspeakably sweet -- those were the ones he dreaded most, the perfect lovely ones that seemed to exist only to mock him.
The dreams ranged widely; she'd touched all parts of his psyche, after all.
The sexual dreams were perhaps the most common.
They weren't overly frequent -- perhaps once every few months -- but they were consistent, variations on a common theme. He and Victoria, naked together in his old bed. Even as the events unfolded, Fraser would know it was a dream; this apartment burned down, he would tell himself, you know what happened here; but then Victoria would touch him, or kiss him again, and he couldn't bring himself to care.
The dreams always started off slow, with a soft and gentle embrace -- one they had never had, not really; there had never been time, never enough time for patience or gentleness, even if either of them had wanted it. But that part of the dream never lasted very long before it segued into its next part.
Fraser had never suspected it of himself, so the depth of his perversions came as a surprise.
He had had a few sexual experiences between the onset of puberty and his first encounter with Victoria, but they had each been vaguely dissatisfying in a way he couldn't define, and he had put them behind him as he aged. And then, out of nowhere, there was Victoria, in the snow at Fortitude Pass. In a way, it had been little more than animal rutting, really, both of them knowing they were likely to die at any moment, sharing their last piece of warmth and breath with each other before it took them.
In Chicago, neither of them was dying, and it was her, the two of them together, and the experience had been beyond anything Fraser had ever known before. She had told him what to do, and how to please her, pulling his hair and nipping at his skin, and when she was sated, she had clawed at his back, almost desperately, the pain of her nails driving him further and further to his ecstatic peak.
When Fraser had the dreams now, that was what he dreamed of. That, and more.
He dreamed of her marking him -- with her hands, her mouth, any sort of deviant object his mind could up with. A hickey on his throat; the raised red marks of a paddle; a ring of scars circling his body, starting with the bullet in his back. Sometimes he was bound, by handcuff or ropes, and sometimes gagged.
When he dreamt of, really, he supposed, was putting himself completely into her hands. Here is my life; do with it what you will. In the dreams, he trusted her completely, because there was nothing she could have done that wasn't what he wanted.
Last week Fraser had one of the dreams, the first in quite a while. He had been tied carefully to the bed, unable to move, while Victoria used his body to excite herself, driving toward her own pleasure. Eventually she had taken him deep into her body, and her small hand was tight around his neck, tighter and tighter; he had no air, he was lightheaded, and he knew was suffocating even as he was filled with the most instense pleasure, and he had no problems with that at all.
He woke up suddenly, then, painfully aroused. Ray was still asleep besides him, small whistling snores escaping his mouth. Fraser stared at him for a long moment, but Ray just made a small noise and rolled slightly closer to Fraser.
Fraser felt slightly ill, and he all but jumped out of the bed, locking himself in the bathroom and splashing cold water onto his face. The nausea helped dispell his arousal, at least, and after a few minutes he returned to the bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Ray had pestered Fraser, on more than one occasion since they embarked on the sexual aspect of their relationship, to share with him "your kinky fantasies. Come on, tell me what you like," but Fraser had steadfastly refused to tell Ray anything of the kind. Ray didn't believe him, obviously, but that was all right. Having Ray believe he was simply prudish was a better option than the alternative.
ds_flashfiction idea, and wasn't allowed to sleep till I'd poured out 700 words and it was actually getting kind of late. And then I crashed.The experience of rereading the stuff the next morning after that is always interesting. When I did that this morning, I figured out that a) it had gone somewhere other than I thought, and didn't really fit the flashfiction topic as much anymore and b) it hadn't cohered all the way into a story, quite, or least enough for me to want to post it there, anyway; it's more of a snippet of something.
When I was talking to Nif about this morning, though, I gave her the description in the subject line, and she told me to post it for her, so I think I'll just post it here.
*****
He still dreamed of her on occasion, of course.
There were dreams that were horrible and frightening, sometimes. Sometimes there were ones that were unspeakably sweet -- those were the ones he dreaded most, the perfect lovely ones that seemed to exist only to mock him.
The dreams ranged widely; she'd touched all parts of his psyche, after all.
The sexual dreams were perhaps the most common.
They weren't overly frequent -- perhaps once every few months -- but they were consistent, variations on a common theme. He and Victoria, naked together in his old bed. Even as the events unfolded, Fraser would know it was a dream; this apartment burned down, he would tell himself, you know what happened here; but then Victoria would touch him, or kiss him again, and he couldn't bring himself to care.
The dreams always started off slow, with a soft and gentle embrace -- one they had never had, not really; there had never been time, never enough time for patience or gentleness, even if either of them had wanted it. But that part of the dream never lasted very long before it segued into its next part.
Fraser had never suspected it of himself, so the depth of his perversions came as a surprise.
He had had a few sexual experiences between the onset of puberty and his first encounter with Victoria, but they had each been vaguely dissatisfying in a way he couldn't define, and he had put them behind him as he aged. And then, out of nowhere, there was Victoria, in the snow at Fortitude Pass. In a way, it had been little more than animal rutting, really, both of them knowing they were likely to die at any moment, sharing their last piece of warmth and breath with each other before it took them.
In Chicago, neither of them was dying, and it was her, the two of them together, and the experience had been beyond anything Fraser had ever known before. She had told him what to do, and how to please her, pulling his hair and nipping at his skin, and when she was sated, she had clawed at his back, almost desperately, the pain of her nails driving him further and further to his ecstatic peak.
When Fraser had the dreams now, that was what he dreamed of. That, and more.
He dreamed of her marking him -- with her hands, her mouth, any sort of deviant object his mind could up with. A hickey on his throat; the raised red marks of a paddle; a ring of scars circling his body, starting with the bullet in his back. Sometimes he was bound, by handcuff or ropes, and sometimes gagged.
When he dreamt of, really, he supposed, was putting himself completely into her hands. Here is my life; do with it what you will. In the dreams, he trusted her completely, because there was nothing she could have done that wasn't what he wanted.
Last week Fraser had one of the dreams, the first in quite a while. He had been tied carefully to the bed, unable to move, while Victoria used his body to excite herself, driving toward her own pleasure. Eventually she had taken him deep into her body, and her small hand was tight around his neck, tighter and tighter; he had no air, he was lightheaded, and he knew was suffocating even as he was filled with the most instense pleasure, and he had no problems with that at all.
He woke up suddenly, then, painfully aroused. Ray was still asleep besides him, small whistling snores escaping his mouth. Fraser stared at him for a long moment, but Ray just made a small noise and rolled slightly closer to Fraser.
Fraser felt slightly ill, and he all but jumped out of the bed, locking himself in the bathroom and splashing cold water onto his face. The nausea helped dispell his arousal, at least, and after a few minutes he returned to the bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Ray had pestered Fraser, on more than one occasion since they embarked on the sexual aspect of their relationship, to share with him "your kinky fantasies. Come on, tell me what you like," but Fraser had steadfastly refused to tell Ray anything of the kind. Ray didn't believe him, obviously, but that was all right. Having Ray believe he was simply prudish was a better option than the alternative.
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4/4/05 22:08 (UTC)(no subject)
4/4/05 23:19 (UTC)