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The first night Will sleepwalked, he could feel the sensations of reality before the details fell into place and he woke. He knew he was barefoot on pavement and it was cold and dark; he felt fur and a huff of breath on his hand, a nudge he mistook for the black stag that wouldn’t leave him alone. Only after the flash of headlights made him blink awake could he see that the furred creature at his side was Winston, loyal enough to follow him onto the same road where Will had found him abandoned.
On other nights, dream and reality bled together similarly. Wandering through empty echoing woods with dew-damp leaf litter underfoot and the stag at his side. Lying on cold, hard bathroom tile as if it might ease the unbearable heat that engulfed him and made him sweat until it turned into an ocean to sink in, and there again was the stag, this time licking his face with its slimy tongue—and again, when he woke, he saw it was Winston who licked and tried to revive him.
He had a dream where he was simply drowning under an avalanche of water that spilled onto sheets and steamed with fever’s heat, and he woke to his limbs tangled in sheets sopping with sweat. Then another, similar, but with an internal cascade, a nameless need driving him to writhe against the currents that pulled at him, and this time when he woke, the sweat was joined by semen soaking into his underwear.
The next time it happened, the stag waded into the churning water with him. And when he tossed and turned and finally came, the stag was there to nose curiously between his legs.
Waking up from that one was difficult. He became aware that he was in a puddle of sheets instead of water, but the stag was still there. And then it looked like Winston, but it was hard to comprehend why he would be there licking at the damp fabric of Will’s boxer briefs.
When he processed what was happening, he jerked fully awake and startled Winston off the bed. It wasn’t strange for a new scent to pique a dog’s curiosity, and they certainly spent plenty of time nosing around at questionable substances, but the result was uncomfortable, agitating something in him that was not quite disgust. He wondered if he should lock up Winston in a different room in case it happened again, but it was reassuring to know that someone was following and looking out for him on these night wanderings.
But it happened again, and worse.
The next time, he felt the brush of fur against his calves before he found his release, and when he looked up the stag was looming over him. He was still burning up and full of restless desire, and when his hips rolled up, the stag took notice. It buried its nose in his groin, huffed damp air in the crevice of his hip, and began to lick.
He felt a gauzy distance between the tongue and his cock, and he became aware that his dream wasn’t reality because that sensation didn’t line up with the image he saw of himself nude. He didn’t understand what was happening, but it was hard to care. He groaned and the dark grey sky above him lit up with lightning, the stag’s black fur flashing yellow in its glow. It was a strange sight, but he wouldn’t analyze it—the frenzy inside him didn’t lend itself to logic, only instinct, and the dream world didn’t linger on the difference in species.
When reality started to take shape around him, a mattress at his back, he was still consumed by that instinct. He felt hot, wet licks on his cock and it was natural to thrust up toward the sensation, seeking relief.
He didn’t look at first. He kept his eyes shut tight even as a queasy feeling hit him, a cold prickle as he realized what world he was in. Not a world with the night-black stag, a creature of fantasy—a world where it was his dog who followed and nosed at him.
He still felt hazy. The sensation felt good. His head was pounding, but there was this, a little pleasure to distract from it.
Eyes still closed, he felt for the band of his underwear, carefully peeling it down and baring himself, and the next lap of a tongue was right on his skin.
He gasped and swallowed down a little whimper. It had been too long since he last had something like this, not finding it worth the pain of socializing. This wasn’t the same—clearly not human from the feel of the tongue and the lack of thought or finesse, just a creature lapping curiously at something that interested him. But it was close enough to pretend.
He reached down to give Winston’s head a pat, not sure whether he was encouraging him or attempting to pay him back in some way. His fingers found the silky hair behind the dog’s ear and he gave a little scratch, feeling a flutter of feathering over his feet when Winston wagged his tail in response.
His other hand went to the base of his cock, since the imprecise licks weren’t enough to get him off. He gave it a squeeze and angled it up so Winston had easier access to the head, and when a drop of precum came out, that tongue slid right over the slit to clean it up.
The realness of it hit him suddenly. A sickened lurch of his stomach, a keen awareness of the species divide between them that usually did not bother him but now felt uneasily acute. How solid Winston was compared to the shadowy figure of his dream. How they sat back in a world that had boundaries and human dignities and this violated them badly.
But it was too late to stop. His hand moved automatically to finish himself off quickly, and with the flutter of Winston’s tongue on the tip of his cock, he came.
Winston lapped that up, too. The surge of shame that made Will hastily cover his cock with his hand didn’t undo what had happened. He still saw flecks of white around Winston’s muzzle that his tongue swiped up like it was nothing more than a splash of milk.
He didn’t sleep again that night, but he was getting used to that. Just one more thing to add to his burgeoning list of uncomfortable thoughts.