Читать книгу Sage - Wendy Anne - Страница 15

VII

Mystical Being

My first notion is intrigue rather than fear as the radiance of the moon struggles for its place within the solid blackness of a sky engulfed with heavy dark clouds. A soft, warm breeze lifts my free-flowing hair off my shoulders, making me at ease in what would otherwise be the perfect stage set for a nightmare.

Oceanic waves crash at my feet and break into the moist sands below, never fully saturating. I walk for what seems to be many miles, without company, yet I do not feel alone because my sixth sense sends warning signals to my psyche that detect an invisible presence following and anticipating my every move. His masculine energy feels powerful, familiar, and incredibly seductive, but I cannot see him. I try willing my sight to match my empathic senses—to no avail as frustration leaks from my mouth. “Show yourself,” I say with inhuman confidence and in a powerfully assertive voice as if I am an unbreakable force. A small time interval passes with no response, and just as I am about to become frustrated, the clouds begin to shift cryptically before they twirl into a cyclone that opens into a black hole delivering the presence I requested.

I am overwhelmed as I stand inundated in his remarkable energy, as he stares at me with a devilishly cunning grin and icy blue eyes that plunge into my soul like an Athame knife.

He’s relatively tall and slim though manly and perfectly toned with nicely carved shoulders and a muscular stomach. His long lustrous blond hair matches mine in length, though it is perfectly straight and virtually opposite in color.

“Did you miss me, my dear?” he asks with a deep, confident voice as if we had just left off recently at some intimate encounter. Even though it’s obvious that I know him somehow, I cannot recall a vivid memory that can assist a cognitive reason I feel that way. It is clear that my awareness feels a strong sense of longing to embrace him, but that realization adds to the confusion. I know that he can sense my bewilderment, as his face exemplifies expressive gestures that react to each question my mind ponders regarding his familiar existence.

“You have forgotten me again. You haven’t evolved beyond the constraints of modern society yet. Nonetheless, the universe always has a plan, and though the spiritual conditions of the twenty-first century seem to be deteriorating, you will eventually become to remember me.

“It will be splendid when I no longer have to remind you during our short-lived encounters contrived in your subconscious realm,” he says, seemingly amused by my noticeably blank expression.

I am frightened and intrigued at the same time. I’m aware of his immense power over my senses, but confident that he will never abuse our deep connection. How do I know such things? I wonder purposely now, trying to provoke a response from this being that created a strange, compelling power felt in every ounce of me. While he continues to read my mind with conspicuous facial expressions that respond to each question, he’s respectfully quiet as if he doesn’t want to interrupt my thoughts. We’ll get nowhere if either of us has to rely on the silencing of my never-ending inner monologue, so I speak a voice louder than my thoughts. “How do I know you? Why do you feel so familiar? What is this place?”

He responds with deep vibration in his voice that penetrates all of me, sending chills to parts of me that I didn’t realize have sensitivity. “Well, my lovely, where we are is but a figment of your imagination conjured by your subconscious realm in the form of a lucid dream. You have many of these, and during each of them, I explain who I am and what we are, but you do not remember when you awake. We have had this conversation many times recently. It’s a wonder when you will start remembering because it is time for you to start recalling everything.”

The part that begins to make the most sense, and puts my surroundings into perspective, is the fact I’m dreaming. Though I am inclined to believe, for the reason that can only be justified by intuition, I feel inferior to his knowledge and vulnerable by way of his powerful presence. He doesn’t seem to emanate the type of pettiness a mortal would, providing they were in his situation and had to repeat themselves, only to be forgotten on a redundant basis. Instead, he is compassionate, and the eminence of me remembering these dreams seems important to him. A feeling of desire and love that can’t be explained by memories to substantiate their power calls to my heart, and I congeal into a motionless stupor as a result of their heavy influence. Proving that somehow he can sense my inner feelings and that he’s aware of my paralyzed astral body, this strange, yet familiar, man glides over to me as if his legs do need not move or bear his weight.

“You always forget I am here, but I am always at this juncture as a nonjudgmental spectator awaiting your periodic visits.” My tongue becomes too tied to speak; I am unable to convert my words into anything that makes sense. I have forgotten this recognizable being, and yet it is difficult to ignore his presence being so extremely familiar.

Reaching his hands out to me and grabbing hard at my wrists, folding all but my index finger into a loosely formed fist, he tugs my hand towards his mouth. Lifting my index finger to his lips, I lose all place and time. My body begins burning to the touch. My thoughts blur, as a shower of fragmented memories comes to me at once. Vivid scenes from a life, perhaps from a different era, protrude my thoughts. I become captivated as if watching a movie that lures me into its flickering trap. Whereby, my senses are consumed by a fictitious world, imagining myself there experiencing their love and I am enduring their pain.

With so many treacherous and wonderful moments compiling in my mind, weighing me down, I cannot pull my hand away to make it stop.

“Have you had enough?” he asks, with a strong blend of frustration and love in his voice, and I cannot be sure if this person is the devil or an overwhelmingly powerful deity who has my heart in his full grasp. I am sure my memories were predominantly us, in some love story that feels ancient and infused with immense turmoil and perseverance.

“I, I…”

“Shh, my love.” He pulls our hands away from his lips, still entwined, and presses them to his chest. “I have been expecting you tonight,” he continues as if he reserved a special place in the madness just for us to reminisce once more. “The moon is full and hanging young in the firmament of your imagination. Your psyche is ripe, and we have much to share.”

And as suddenly as he showed himself. He disappears in the swirl of dark mist, leaving me alone as if something forced him away. Alas, he leaves me with unanswered questions, and with a lingering need for his touch. I call out to the sky, beckoning him to return and fulfill my desire to know more, with high hopes to relish in his energy longer.

I awake, trembling and utterly confused, but horny. I learn at this very moment that you can be horny to the point of sexual frustration, without feeling turned on. With Bruce lying by my side, I question if I should simply masturbate or wake him. I have no conclusive reason for feeling turned off by Bruce, but I am slightly put off by being here with him rather than in my dreamstate. Bruce often wakes me during the night fully erect, tugging on his manhood out of nervousness. He doesn’t have the nonthreatening, average, flaccid penis. He’s much endowed, so he waking me to use it on me is preferable, but the choice is his.

Reflecting on the idea of him fondling himself creates a sexual craving that I can easily satisfy.

Using my hands, I aim to imitate the way he carries his erection by stroking it softly while occasionally jerking the head. As I begin to massage his manhood thoroughly, he grows noticeably more erect. Once hard enough, I gracefully climb above his pelvis and straddle his barely awake body beneath mine. Focusing on my insides contracting as I invite him in, inch by inch, I moan quietly. Leaning down as my breasts brush across his chest, I wrap my mouth around the nape of his neck and begin to bite hard. He breathes heavy but doesn’t insist that I stop. He does not indicate that he’s disturbed, so I begin to ride harder and faster. Sitting upright, using one of my hands on his chest to balance, and the other to cup the sensitive areas surrounding his testicles, he begins to cry in agonizing pleasure. This is not enough to satisfy my predatory thirst for pain and pleasure; I begin to ride even harder. I must have the type of physical stimuli to distract me from my lucid dream, which requires more than typical sex. I need the feeling of rich and immersive organic fluid that only the living can provide. Anything to distract me from him.