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What Dreams May Come

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Klavier had always reassured himself that his dreams meant nothing, even since those first days of tentative exploration, the wonder of discovery and the fear of getting caught. Simple, mindless dreams of how soft a woman’s breasts were supposed to be, or vague images of just being close to another warm body. True love’s first kiss, and something about weddings, after the dragons were slain.

As he grew older, those vague ideas took on a more technical note, fed by classes and dull reading. Anatomy. The insertion of a man’s penis into a woman’s vagina. He understood things better. Getting hard or wet. Where babies came from. But it was hard to think of the pleasures of his dreams so coldly.

He slowly began to understand the words around him. Slut. Blow. Tits. Kind of vulgar, but they made him excited when he heard them from the older kids. He began to dream of his own pleasure. A faceless body, kneeling, subservient to his every whim. Harsh, wild sex that could only be called fucking. A servant, a slave, who would blow him under his desk and bend over backwards to fulfill every desire.

…although, some odd, strange nights, he couldn’t help but think of himself as the slave. Bound. Helpless. Subject to his master’s every whim. Or his mistress’. Forced to do every naughty thing he’d ever heard of and enjoy it. Forced to enjoy everything inflicted on his helpless body without guilt.

He began to realize his own strange tendencies. For one, there was never a huge moment of discovery. He simply thought about it, and, really, it didn’t matter if he dreamed of boys or girls. He just hadn’t known two men could…do that. But it came to him as naturally as breathing. For a while, in fact, his favorite fantasy was one of having the soft, supple breasts of a woman beneath him and the hard, muscular body of a man behind him, and simply enjoying both without having to decide.

He found himself aroused by strange things. A blow job, to use the vulgar. It was supposed to be dirty. It was something you bragged about when someone did it for you, but something you would never do yourself. Dirty and secret. But he found it amazing erotic. Just the thought of sucking another man into his mouth, feeling the hot, heavy flesh throbbing against his tongue, so delicate, so easy to damage, and making his dream partner scream and writhe in utter pleasure. It was intimate, he thought. Sexy.

He was obsessed with penetration for a while — the way it was supposed to feel, being buried inside another person, or having someone buried in you. Pain and pleasure and hot, tight flesh squeezing and sucking. The madness and rush of thrusting.

He was obsessed by virgins and sluts, and every combination. The naughty, innocent fumbling of two naive virgins just discovering their bodies, everything new and amazing (and probably over-romanticized). The seduction of an older, more experienced partner showing his virgin lover the ropes (like a teacher and a naughty schoolboy…or perhaps a dirty doctor’s examination). Two experienced lovers who could drop all the pretenses and just do what they wanted. Anything. Everything.

He discovered the joys of the Internet, even as his dreams grew more warped. Because, as he began to fantasize about cute, innocent virgins, they inevitably grew younger, and younger, until he couldn’t even admit to himself that he was thinking of children. Other times they grew older, and older — old enough to be a father, a teacher, a boss at work. His imagined slaves and harems grew subject to longer bouts of sexual torture, and they adored him for it. His thoughts grew twisted and dark some days, even as he writhed and jerked on the bed. There were days when nothing else worked. Days when romance and love only gave him an endless, aching yearning, but a few moments of the dirtiest, sickest pleasure made him see stars.

He would have worried, if he admitted to himself just how depraved some of his fantasies were. How he cornered unwilling men and women and forced them, made them cry sometimes, made them beg others. Even more filthy were the dreams were he imagined himself being forced, raped, made to beg and cry himself. It was unbearably arousing. Why?

Whips, chains, and toys began to pepper his dreams. More torture. Fetishes. He’d spend what seemed like hours, late at night, trying to sleep, obsessing over every detail of a beautiful foot, a neck, a hand with long, delicate fingers that glittered with polish. Long hair he could play with, or short, wild hair he could barely grasp. Darker obsessions. Choking, once. Whipping, another. The pain and pleasure of strange, alien creatures with extra arms or tongues or tentacles. Massive groups of people, orgies, or being forced to serve one person after another, like a whore. All of it, as his hands guiltily squeezed and stroked the flesh between his legs, every night, in the dark, lonely bed he slept in.

He wondered if people knew. If they could see it in his face, every sinful desire, every crazed thought. Filthy, he berated himself.

But, still, there were lines he did not cross. He tried not to dream of classmates, of coworkers. Too awkward. He swore to never act on his dreams in real life. It was just pleasure. Like dreams. The fantasies were uncontrollable, some deep, dark Freudian unconsciousness.

And when he finally fell in love…he would do anything that person wanted. But he would never burden that person with his own dirty desires.

He bound himself tightly to these rules, lest that darkness within him should ever escape.

Tonight was no different. He was bound to his bed. He’d felt especially angry today, angry at classmates who couldn’t keep up and idiots who couldn’t drive and…he wanted to strike out, to hurt them. He wanted to forced each one down and take his pleasure of them, leave them crying and bleeding and…no. No.

So, in his mind, his master berated him. Weak. He should be punished for such bad thoughts. He mentally began to construct his lover for that nights. Tall. Strong. Long, torturous fingers, very smooth, with long, perfect nails. A very large dick, of course, for making him ache. Piercing eyes. What else? Longer hair, he imagined. Long enough to tease and torture him with. Kind of like his own. Handsomely dressed. A full suit, maybe? So he could be calm and composed while he tortured him.

Klavier licked his lips. He was already feeling warm, pretending he was bound to the bed, unable to move, looking up into those dark, cruel eyes. Fingers slowly traced the side of his neck, and he pretended they weren’t his own. Down, to his chest, to dark nipples that always felt kind of funny when he squeezed them. It wasn’t fiery, burning pleasure, but it made him feel warm inside. His lover laughed at him. So easily turned on. He squeezed harder, tugging at the stiff little peaks, moving one hand to his mouth to slick the nipple with saliva, and with the other, poking with his long fingernails.

Torturous. His lover’s sharp hands, playing with his chest, but not moving down, down where he needed to be touched. He saw flashes of his lover’s hands, flashes of those eyes, but the man — a man, of course, to punish him — was hidden in the shadows.

He looked like…

Klavier cried out in pleasure at the first, feather-light touch to his groin, rubbing over the thin material he slept in. In his fantasies, those hands were far away from him, and he was kneeling, just like a good little boy, to suck at his lover’s hardness, let it fill his mouth and make his nerves sing. It was his punishment, but he enjoyed it, the hot, silky flesh against his tongue and his lips. And his hands were starting to pull out his own hard flesh, working it with long, slow strokes to start. His lover’s hands tore at his hair, forcing him down. Punishment. Because he was so weak, so damn weak. He can’t even keep the low whimpers of pleasure in his mouth. If someone were to hear…

Strong hands grabbed him, and he was against the bed once more. Strong hands pulled him away from his own pleasure. A head — but not a face, he couldn’t see the face — kissed his belly, and long, blond hair — just like his own, just as he’d imagined — fluttered and danced against his skin. Torment.

His lover needed a name. Something for him to cry out. What name could he give someone of his own creation? Cruel, and cold, knowing every inch of him so intimately and torturously…

Lord. Master. He let them fall from his lips, but his lover chuckled.

You know who I am, don’t you? his lover whispered.

Klavier smiled. You’re my fantasy for tonight, he thought, letting his fingers squirm back down his legs. He played with the hot sacs of flesh hanging between his legs and groaned at the sensation. He was getting close now. But in his mind, it was his lover, spreading his legs deliciously wide, teasing him, tormenting him with bright white teeth arranged in a sadistic smile.

You know.

Klavier’s hands were held tightly. He couldn’t move them.

You know. You know. Again and again. Don’t deny it any longer.

Those cold hands at his belly…were scarred. And those hard eyes were covered with glass. That hair, so like his own…

No, he thought. He was feeling sick. Queasy. No, this was going too far, even for his most deranged, sickening fantasies.

But his hands began to move again, as if he could not longer control them. He was close…so close…

His lover’s hands were covering his own, forcing him on, moving his hands faster, tighter, until it was as much pain as pleasure, but he couldn’t reach it…he was so close but he couldn’t reach it…!

Naughty boy, a velvet voice whispered in his ear. How I love you. How I adore you.

Warm lips kissed him, and, for a moment, it felt so real. So much that he lost his breath. He loved him. He loved him.

You’re mine, the phantom whispered, and Klavier’s heart raced. Him, so dirty, so debauched. So weak. You’ve always been mine. You will always be mine. I love you. No matter what.

That long, hard body embraced him, even as those hands atop his own, were pumping him, harder, making him dance at the edge of a great abyss. Holding him safe, and close, and loved. No matter what.

“Brother,” Klavier whimpered, sobbed, into the darkness.

A single finger brushed his lips. “Good boy.”

Klavier awoke the next morning, the last bits of the dream, the fantasy, still in his mind. He cursed those days where his dreams were clear as day, and shoved them out of his mind. He would forget. Forget all of it.

Forget it, forever.

He stumbled towards the kitchen, half-awake.

“Good morning, Klavier,” someone said behind him, and he turned to see Kristoph — perfect Kristoph — smiling at him.

“You’re back!” he said in shock. “I thought you weren’t due back for another day!” For a moment, he forgot himself, and rushed to hold his big brother tightly, as if he was a child again. Kristoph’s warm arms always made him feel…

…no, he wouldn’t think that.

“We had to cancel that last bit of our trip because of bad weather,” Kristoph said cheerfully. He dragged Klavier to the kitchen and sat him down with some fresh coffee.

“Trying to keep me short, mm?” Klavier teased. He was nearly as tall as Kristoph, and in another year or two… He chuckled. Not that Kristoph would ever see him as anything but his little brother.

“Of course,” Kristoph replied. He leaned over the other side of their counter, and just smiled.

“What?” Klavier asked.

“Nothing, really,” Kristoph replied. “I was just thinking you haven’t changed at all. I remember you used to cry and cry whenever I had to leave. And then,” he smiled again, “when I came back, Mother and Father always had me ask, ‘were you a good boy while I was away, brother?’”

Klavier went stiff. Naughty boy,, echoed in his head. He felt a twinge in his stomach, a constriction in his throat. Just a dream. A stupid dream.


He looked up at Kristoph’s smiling face, uncomprehending.

Long, delicate fingers, and a terribly scarred hand slid over his own, and Kristoph said softly, “Were you a good boy?”

Klavier nearly fell out of his seat trying to get up, get away. “Of…of course,” he mumbled.

“Really?” Kristoph’s eyes were sparkling, laughing. “You don’t sound sure.”

“Oh! Your bags…should I go get them?” Klavier wanted to change the subject, and quickly.

Kristoph waved his hand dismissively. “I brought them in already,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you up.” He turned back to the stove, humming something to himself, starting on their breakfast as if nothing was wrong.

Wake him…oh god. No. No way. “I’ll be right back,” Klavier said, and went rushing to the bathroom. He felt sick again.

Kristoph’s door was open. That sick feeling was rising up again as he peeked into the door. Kristoph’s bags were there in a neat pile. Everything was left as it had been before he left. Every…


Kristoph’s bed was rumpled a bit.

“Bro…” His voice drifted off; ugly, he thought, as he came back to the kitchen. “Brother. When did you get back last night?”

“A little after midnight, I believe,” Kristoph said. He smiled as he brought over two steaming mugs of fresh coffee, and took a long drink. His mouth… Klavier shook his head. No. No, he was not going to watch his brother’s mouth like that. “Are you not feeling well, Klavier? You seem a little pale.”

Kristoph’s hand was cool against his forehead. Long fingers. Smooth skin. Klavier suddenly felt very hot. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, pulling away. “I…I didn’t sleep well.” He was sure to sleep even worse tonight.

“I heard you moaning and tossing about,” Kristoph said softly. He moved closer, as if to touch Klavier again. “Are you sure you’re not ill?”

“N-no,” Klavier nearly squeaked. He wanted to die. Now.

“I don’t believe you,” Kristoph said, and Klavier backed into a wall. He hadn’t even noticed he was trying to get away. Kristoph firmly planted an arm on either side of him. “Tell me the truth, Klavier.”

“It was a dream,” Klavier choked out. Kristoph was gazing down at him, suddenly seeming so much bigger and older. Trapping him. Holding him bound against the wall and…no, that gasp of breath was out of fear, not…not…

Kristoph’s arms closed around him, holding him tightly. “A bad dream?” Kristoph said gently. “I remember how you used to come crying into my bed. I used to hold you like this, remember?”

“We’re not children anymore, Kristoph!” Klavier yelled, and pushed Kristoph away, gasping.

Kristoph dusted himself off. “Indeed,” he said, a little stiffly. “A fifteen-year-old boy is far more grown up than the thirteen-year-old who wouldn’t let me go at night.”

Guilt washed over him. “Brother…I’m…I’m so sorry,” he said. Idiot. Filthy, useless idiot, he berated himself, but the voice was too much like Kristoph’s, the eyes too much like Kristoph’s disapproving glare, the hands… “Forgive me, please…”

Kristoph’s eyes stared coldly at him for a moment, before he broke back down to his usual smile, and motioned for Klavier to come forward. Klavier nearly ran into his arms. Brother. His brother who loved him and put up with all of his stupid mistakes.

Kristoph gently stroked his hair. “Did you want to tell me about it?”

“I can’t,” Klavier said. “Please…”

“It’s better to get these things out. I won’t laugh. You know I won’t laugh.”

Kristoph’s voice was so reassuring, no different than any other night he’d run, terrified, crying, into his beloved older brother’s bed after a scary movie or a strange noise.

Kristoph’s eyes were so kind. “It’s alright,” he said, warm and soothing. “You can tell me anything. I’ll always be here for you. I love you, Klavier,” he said, and Klavier wanted to melt. He loved Kristoph, adored Kristoph, barely deserved his love. “I’m your brother, after all. I’ll always be your brother.”

Why did his kindness have to be such cruelty?

“I…” His mouth felt like cotton. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t. Not without destroying everything.

“Trust me, Klavier,” Kristoph said. “Whatever it is…”

“I…I dreamed of you,” Klavier whispered.

“Oh?” Kristoph said, raising an eyebrow elegantly. “Well, I’m right here. Whatever you saw, you don’t need to worry.”

“It wasn’t…a bad dream,” Klavier said. When Kristoph said nothing, he managed, “it was…a good dream. A…really good dream.”

“Ah,” was all Kristoph said.

Klavier’s eyes were beginning to sting. “I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice was so small and so weak.

Kristoph simply hugged him close again, and, guiltily, he relished in that warmth, that unconditional love. His brother would forgive him anything, even this…sickness.

“You’re not the only one who has dreams, Klavier,” Kristoph said finally. Klavier looked up at him. Kristoph was staring at the wall, his eyes distant and unfocused, as if he were remembering something from far away or long ago. He caught his brother’s look, and gave him a soft smile. “But it is a rare opportunity to truly live them.”

“What?” Klavier asked, bewildered. “Brother, I don’t think you understand…”

Kristoph merely chuckled. Gently, he pulled them apart. “Someday, you’ll understand, Klavier,” he said. He gave Klavier a soft, oddly lingering kiss on the forehead. Klavier’s finger touched the wet spot. Something nagged the back of his mind. Something….

“Ah, yes,” Kristoph said suddenly, all smiles again. White teeth glistened. “Do remember to lock your door.”