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                                 Casual/bardream
                                    Thomas Frost
                                     Dream, The
                      She awoke at midnight again, the way she had for the past   
                 three nights, the sheets twisted tightly into an umbilical cord   
                            binding her to the sweaty womb of her bed.  
                      She disentangled herself from the tangled topsheet and laid  
                back, closing her eyes.  Immediately the dream from which she had  
                 awakened flashed into her consciousness: the utter darkness and   
                 the sudden, dim, slanting light; the stranger, the man she had   
                 seen and followed; the small anonymous room; the smell, the feel 
                             of him; the awful, all-consuming hunger.  
                        She opened her eyes quickly, sat up and turned on the   
                nightstand light to dispel the vision.  No sense trying for sleep  
                 now, she thought.  Why the dream had come, why it affected her,   
                  consumed her like this, she did not know; but for now it would 
                                          not leave her.  
                         She lit a cigarette, hoping to concentrate on that and 
                   occupy her mind, dispel the terrible demon that was the dream 
                     with the mundane, the ordinary.  She sat back against the 
                     headboard, and without thinking closed her eyes tiredly.  
                         Instantly the dream filled her vision again.  A dark   
                 restaurant, club, bar, a place she had never been; a man she did  
                     not know -- no, did not *want* to know; the small room,   
                  featureless apart from a bed against one wall, without blankets 
                   or frame or headboard; the feel of him against her, on top of 
                  her; feeling him between her legs, parting them, dividing her  
                    (divide and conquer, a part of her mind thought, unbidden), 
                                         opening her....  
                     She started suddenly, looking down.  As of its own volition,  
                  her hand was caressing her bare thigh, grasping it, pulling her 
                             leg away from its mate...opening her....  
                      She stubbed out the cigarette and jumped to her feet, her   
                 heart racing, pounding.  This is ridiculous, she thought, pacing  
                 the floor.  It's a dream.  *Only* a dream.  I'm in control; it   
                             only affects me as much as I want it to.  
                      Instantly upon thinking the phrase she stopped her pacing.   
                 The truth penetrated her mind:  she *did* want it to affect her,  
                    to consume her.  She wanted a reality to match the dream.  
                       NO!  she shouted inside herself, sitting on the bed and   
                 massaging her temples.  All right, she admitted, your sex life   
                   hasn't been that good lately:  a series of nice guys, really 
                    sweet and kind and considerate and gentle, maybe lacking a 
                 certain fire, but good.  So now, just for kicks, you're going to 
                   go to bed with someone you know nothing about?  Going to risk 
                  rape, abuse, VD?  My God, risk AIDS?  Is that what all of your 
                  rhetoric about male chauvinism, about the myth of machismo and 
                          how sex is sharing, is cooperation, comes to?  
                        She tried to follow the old arguments playing now in her 
                 head, to hold back the dark tide of her dream with a teaspoon of 
                 reality, but it was no use.  There was a kind of fire in her now, 
                 a heavy feeling, an electricity that began just behind her navel 
                  and traveled down her thighs, moving up again to nestle between 
                   her legs, to smolder in her womb.  It spread upwards as well, 
                 moving along her skin and setting it ablaze, turning her nipples 
                 into pointed rosettes and moving toward her center, until finally 
                                 it touched the pit of her heart.  
                      She stood, and moved toward the closet to dress.  She told   
                 herself that she had no choice, that the dream was in control of  
                her.  It was easier than admitting that she wanted what the dream  
                                          had to offer.  
                      The bar had no name, other than BAR.  She stood in front of  
                 its gaudy red neon and its signs proclaiming COORS and MILLER On  
                 Tap.  The sole window was heavily curtained, and the door was a   
                   solid wood portal, keeping the world out and its patrons in.  
                          She had asked the taxi to stop here after passing by 
                 countless other places, establishments more well-known and better 
                  furnished than this.  Trendy singles bars, dance clubs, places 
                    with live music or canned music or no music at all; a club 
                   downtown catering to orange-spike-haired aficionados of loud 
                 music and full-contact dancing; a bar full of ferns and imported 
                 beer and men and women in expensive sweaters and designer jeans, 
                 each with an edge of desperation in his or her eyes; a club with 
                  a long admittance line, and a muscular, well-groomed man at the 
                  door eyeing each potential entrant, judging their worthiness to 
                                              enter.  
                        She had almost stopped here, not doubting that she could 
                   have gotten in, no questions asked.  After some thought as to 
                 what to wear, she had settles on a black jersey dress, its light 
                  knit fabric clinging oh-so-gently to her body, briefly hugging 
                    her hips before flowing freely around her legs, gracefully 
                  accenting her shoulders and arms.  The open neckline sometimes 
                 slid down a little over one shoulder; she had discovered that the 
                 effect was intensified if she pretended not to notice, and if she 
                 went braless, as she was now.  She had also worn black open-toed 
                 shoes, the heels bringing out the shape of her calf, and a purse 
                    of matching black fabric.  The look was designed to convey 
                              innocence masking a secret knowledge.  
                      Now, though, she felt the innocence winning out, becoming   
                uncertainty.  She had been vaguely dissatisfied with each bar and  
                 club, running an exorbitant fare crisscrossing the downtown area  
                   looking for a place that felt right.  On one traverse of the 
                 city, the driver had taken a shortcut along a little-used street; 
                  and she had spotted the bar, quickly telling the driver to pull 
                  over, paying the fare absent-mindedly, not noticing the driver 
                                           pull away.    
                         *Something* about this place had caught her eye.  
                      This is insane, she thought, not for the first time since   
                 leaving her apartment.  It's nearly one A.M. and you're standing 
                   in front of a bar in God knows what part of town, wearing an 
                  outfit that might as well have a sign on it saying Rape Me, and 
                 you don't even know *why*, do you?  She closed her eyes to think. 
                        As if it had been waiting, growing inside her mind, the 
                 dream came to her, full-force.  She felt again the weight of the 
                  stranger on her, felt his hands -- not gentle, but not painful, 
                 as though touch was his only sense -- and hers as well, touching 
                 him in like manner, kneading him, grasping him, holding his hips 
                                      and pulling forward --  
                        Her eyes snapped open, she gasped slightly.  Where this 
                  dream had come from, and where its power came from, she did not 
                 know.  She knew only that she had to follow, to find out if this  
                            tantalizing vision could possibly be real.  
                     She stepped forward and, her heart pounding, pulled open the  
                                           heavy door.  
                     Her first impression was one of silence, and darkness.  Even  
                 deserted as it was, the street behind her carried its own noise,  
                  its own rhythms; and the few streetlights and lit windows along 
                 the avenue did cast some light.  Inside, though, the bar was much 
                  more dimly lit, catering perhaps to those who do not wish to be 
                      seen, and who prefer the sound of their own thoughts.  
                     The change in lighting, however, threw her off for a moment.  
                    She found herself momentarily blind and deaf, so that for a 
                 moment her only sensation was the rough feel of the door jamb to 
                 which she clung with one hand, and the smooth fabric of her purse 
                   in the other, and the wooden floor beneath her feet; and the 
                 spasm she felt suddenly, the jump in the indescribable hunger in 
                                her.  I'm very close, she thought.  
                       As her eyes adjusted, she found, disconcertingly, that the 
                few patrons of the bar, whom she had been unable to see, had been  
                 staring at her.  There was a man in working clothes, who turned   
                  back to his drink uninterestedly; another man, who had not seen 
                 her and was too involved in his own alcoholic world to notice or 
                              care; and a third man, near the back.  
                       It was this third man who captured her attention.  He had 
                jet black hair, slightly wavy, glossy but not enough to have been  
                 styled; just long enough not to be stylish, to be different.  He  
                 stood casually, relaxed, the way a cat looks relaxed just before  
                it pounces.  Leather blazer, black or navy pants, it was too dark  
                   to tell.  Shoulders -- shoulders from ancient Greece or Rome, 
                 from a statue, the shoulders of an athlete or a swimmer, not the  
                  weekend-health-club type she was used to.  Hands with slightly  
                 hairy knuckles and long fingers that held his glass, moving as   
                    though caressing it, as though they could not keep still.  
                     She turned away, suddenly aware that she had been staring at  
                  him and trying to forget he had been staring back.  She felt a 
                  hot flush rise in her cheeks as she found a stool at the bar.  
                  The bartender came and gave her a bored, questioning look; she 
                   asked for vodka.  Nothing fancy, she told herself.  One stiff 
                 drink, maybe that will clear this up.  Inwardly, she doubted it.  
                       The drink arrived; she half-emptied it in one gulp.  The   
                    fluid ran burning down her throat, and she closed her eyes 
                                             briefly.  
                        Again the vision came to life, this time ten times more 
                   vivid:  her hands on him, pulling him urgently onto her, into 
                   her; the white-hot feeling as he opened her, thrusting to her 
                                   core in one swift stroke --   
                     Her eyes snapped open, and the vision faded, mercifully.  It  
                       was so much more intense now, so vivid.  She shifted 
                    uncomfortably in her seat, aware suddenly that she had made 
                 herself wet.  The hunger was growing now, the feeling between her 
                      legs and in the pit of her stomach almost unbearable.  
                       Almost against her will, she turned her head toward where 
                  the man had been sitting, and realized with a start that he was 
                   gone.  She stood stunned for a moment, then looked around the 
                       bar, and gasped.  He was standing right beside her.  
                       "Hello," he said.  Baritone, slightly scratchy; smoker's   
                voice.  There was a slight tobacco odor to him, blending with the  
                 scent of a cologne she couldn't place and an indescribable smell  
                 she could place all too well.  She still didn't know where the   
                dream had come from, but she knew now that its power had affected  
                                             him too.  
                      Wordlessly he reached out and touched her hand, which was   
                  gripping the railing of the bar tightly.  His touch was hot,   
                  electric; her hand relaxed instinctively, and a small whimper   
                 escaped her lips.  She found herself staring helplessly into his  
                 eyes, his blue-grey eyes that smiled slightly, just as his full   
                   lips did now.  His index finger traced along the back of her 
                  hand, leaving an itch behind it, a burning itch that kindled a 
                  fire in her limbs.  She had felt weak-kneed passion before, the 
                  kind every schoolgirl feels, but this was different, opposite.  
                  She felt energized by it, restless.  Her knees weren't weak; on 
                 the contrary, it was difficult to keep them still and straight.  
                      She moved her hand so that it was palm-up now, and caressed  
                   his palm with her nails.

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  His eyes clouded ever so slightly, 
                 still fixed on hers as hers were fixed on his, and she knew that 
                 the dream, the terrible vision was not hers alone.  She slid off 
                   the barstool and stood, her hand still moving against his, no 
                       longer caressing or tickling but rubbing now, gently, 
                                          palm-to-palm.  
                     God, this is insane, she thought.  Please let it stop -- no,  
                   not stop -- just end; please let me find a way to feed this   
                                            hunger....  
                     He took a step backwards, and she moved likewise.  He turned  
                 then, and walked toward the back of the bar, toward an unmarked,  
                 unremarkable door.  The eye contact broken, she stopped, feeling  
                   like a marionette suddenly hung on a hook, without guidance.  
                    Again she felt the uncertainty, the fear -- the words Rape, 
                  Abuse, Kidnap flashing through her brain -- and then the hunger 
                flexed again, sending a pulse through her, strong, almost animal.  
                  Without thinking she moved forward, feeling as though she were 
                  floating rather than walking, catching up to him as he held the 
                      door open for her.  She entered into another darkness.  
                         The room was almost exactly as she had seen it in the 
                    vision:  plain, featureless, only a bed without blankets or 
                 topsheet for furniture, the head against one wall, sitting on the 
                  floor without a frame.  Who has a bed in a bar?  she thought.  
                 This is ludicrous.  The difference between the room in the dream 
                   and this room was that the dream-room had had that sourceless 
                 illumination only a dream can have, while this room was dimly lit 
                   by light leaking through the door jamb at the top.  Her eyes 
                         adjusted quickly, after the dimness of the bar.  
                        She turned, and saw him shedding his jacket, not quite   
                  smoothly, as though he too didn't quite know what to do next.  
                  The dim light streaked across his face, casting deep shadows,   
                 accentuating his cheekbones and his lips.  Half-illuminated, he   
                 looked incomplete, a mere shell, as though the surface of him --  
                    his skin, his lips, his hands -- was all she knew of, all  
                                           she wanted.  
                      She felt adrift now, moved by forces she could not see or   
                  control; and those forces moved her to him now, moved her hands 
                 to his head, to his cheeks.  She stroked his skin, held him, bent 
                    her head back as she pulled him to her lips; felt him move 
                 willingly, without protest; and then felt the excruciating touch 
                                       of his lips on hers.  
                     The kiss was energizing, electrifying, burning; she felt her  
                lips part to receive his, the press of his flesh, just the barest  
                   hint of tongue; and suddenly the smoldering in her mind and   
                    between her legs burst into flame, and she wrapped her arms 
                   around his neck, trying to drink him in, to consume him.  His 
                  hands slid up her back, and their tongues wrestled; small moans 
                   escaped from both of them.  She felt her hips undulating, and 
                 couldn't stop -- didn't want to stop, she realized.  This was the 
                 dream made reality, the spirit made flesh:  this man to whom she 
                     had not said one word, possessing her and she him, in an 
                 anonymous room, for no reason other than sensation and pleasure.  
                       He pulled back suddenly, breaking the kiss, and looked at 
                  her.  All trace of a smile was gone now from his face, replaced 
                  now by a look of hunger, unmasked now, unconcealed.  He put his 
                    hands on her shoulders, gripped the neckline of her dress, 
                 grasped, pulled suddenly apart.  The fabric ripped violently, and 
                  she recoiled with a gasp.  Her breasts bounced, steadied, their 
                    hard nipples proclaiming her arousal.  She stepped backward 
                 toward the bed, and he followed.  The backs of her knees touched 
                 the mattress.  She reached out for him, and clutching a lapel in 
                     each hand, fell back onto the bed, pulling him onto her.  
                      Their lips met again, hungrily, their tongues seeking each   
                  other.  She pushed him away suddenly, still holding his shirt, 
                  and pulled with all her strength.  Buttons popped and flew, and 
                  she grasped his shirt lower and finished the task, ripping the 
                  cloth off him.  His chest stood bare now, almost hairless, the 
                  muscles well-defined in a way that suggested, not workouts, but 
                 honest use.  Briefly she wondered who he was, what he did -- but 
                 only briefly; she didn't know and didn't want to; this body, and 
                          the force driving it, were all she wanted now.  
                      She ran her hands over his chest as he ripped the remainder 
                  of the fabric off her body.  She had debated going out without 
                    panties, and had decided against it; now she regretted the 
                 decision.  She wanted to be naked now, to be exposed before this 
                  man, and for him to be exposed to her.  She acted on the second 
                   desire, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants quickly, 
                 fumblingly.  She felt his legs move, and heard his shoes drop to 
                 the floor as he slipped them off, first one, then the other.  She 
                 finished with his pants, and he hurriedly slid them off onto the 
                                 floor, along with his briefs.    
                   He was totally naked now, exposed, as she had wanted; and he  
                 was indeed like a statue, like a Greek god, the muscles in his   
                  legs as developed as those in his chest, hips not too narrow,   
                 ample enough for a good grip (a dream-image flashed through her,  
                of her hands on those hips, pulling him into her), his cock hard,  
                                     throbbing now with need.  
                      She put her hands to the waist of her panties to slide them  
                   off, and then, on impulse, pulled instead, ripping them.  His 
                  hands joined hers, ripping the remainder of the fabric; she lay 
                  now exposed, the scent of her wafting into his nostrils and his 
                   brain and his mind, as he closed his eyes, the fire no doubt 
                                building in him as it was in her.  
                       She began to slide her shoes off with her toes, but he was 
                 on her suddenly, his lips against hers, then on her neck, as his 
                  hips thrust at her and his cock pushed against her belly, then 
                   slid down, seeking the heat between her legs.  She opened her 
                  legs, pulling her thighs open with her hands as she had done in 
                  the dream, as he moved farther down, nestling father into her; 
                    and then he slid forward again, and she bucked her hips in 
                 response, as he entered her, penetrating her to her very core in 
                                           one stroke.  
                     She cried out then, the first truly audible sound she'd made  
                 since entering the bar, but her cry was quickly muffled by his   
                 lips.  They fought again with their tongues, she trying again to  
                 drink him in, at the same time thrusting her hips to meet his as  
                 she tried to posers him this way also.  She bit his neck, pulled  
                  at his hair, ran her nails over his skin; she flicked at his   
                nipples, as hard as hers now, eliciting a cry from him; he pulled  
                 at her breasts, nibbling, nipping, pinching her nipples; and all  
                    the while they moved, bucked, slammed against each other.  
                          His cock speared her again and again, hard and fast, 
                 reaching some center deep within her that knew nothing but white, 
                     clear pleasure.  Her pussy closed around him, hugged him, 
                 clasping him in a grip which knew no surcease, which would never 
                  let him free, not while this intense pleasure could continue.  
                 Her legs spread wide for him, letting him deeper; her feet, still 
                  encased in the shoes, caressed his calves and the backs of his 
                                              knees.  
                      Suddenly the center deep within her exploded, a white-hot   
                  burst that stole her breath and her senses, left her falling   
                  endlessly in a world of pleasure.  Dimly she was aware of his   
                  motions, and of hers, but she sensed nothing directly, nothing 
                    but the fire which burned her mind to ashes, left her with 
                              nothing but  desire, nothing but lust.  
                          She found her breath, and screamed, as the explosion 
                  repeated itself, her pussy throbbing, squeezing the cock within 
                    it now, as she reveled in the sensation.  She felt him move 
                   faster now, working toward his own release, and she moved to 
                    help, feeling the fire inside her building once again.  She 
                   flicked at his nipples, bit his neck, rocked her hips in time 
                 with his motions, felt herself throb inside as she tried to coax 
                                     his pleasure out of him.  
                      He stiffened, and she thrust her hips toward him, impaling   
                 herself deeply; and she felt the first wild, liquid burst, his   
                   entire body shuddering with the release of it.  He arched his 
                 back, and she moved to follow, as he spasmed again and again, his 
                    release fueling her passion, bringing her closer to her own 
                                      immolation once again.  
                      Suddenly she felt him relax, though his cock was still hard  
                  inside her.  Her own climax was only moments away, but he had   
                  stopped; he was not moving.  Desperately, almost angrily, she   
                 brought her legs up, and, still wearing the shoes, dug her spike  
                               heels into his thighs, spurring him.  
                     He gasped, and fell forward, and into her again.  She flexed  
                her legs even more, bringing her knees even with her breasts, and  
                    prodded him again, this time in his rear, at the top of his 
                                             thighs.  
                     She brought her hands down to his buttocks, pulling him into  
                 her desperately, raking her nails across his skin.  She needed   
                him -- no, she thought, not him.  She needed cock -- pure, sweet,  
                   and simple, nothing and no one attached, just this, yes, just 
                  pure unadulterated pleasure, just a cock to fill her, to touch 
                 her so deeply, where she couldn't touch herself, to fill her and 
                  ram into her, to stroke her, spread her, open her.  Nothing but 
                        cock -- no name, no face, nothing else, just this.  
                       She was building toward her own private explosion again -- 
                 as was he, impossibly, as she felt him shudder and stiffen again, 
                    his cock going very hard and meeting her center again.  She 
                  summoned all her strength then, and stopped, holding him still, 
                     prolonging the moment, her mouth open in a silent scream; 
                  stretching the pleasure until it became unbearable, agonizing, 
                 until her entire body was straining for release, and she thought 
                  Yes, yes, just a little longer, just a moment, stretch it until 
                  it's more than I can take, until I want to die from it, want it 
                to possess me and take me, to burn me, to consume me, yes, yes --  
                   She arched her back, meeting his hips one last time, impaling 
                    herself impossibly deeply, her scream matching his, feeling 
                  herself throbbing, not merely between her legs but from head to 
                 toe, her arms and legs locking around him, holding him tight, as 
                   she felt him spend himself inside her, writhing against her, 
                   unable and unwilling to escape her passion, his hands balling 
                 into fists behind her back, striking the mattress, his thighs and 
                  arms clenching, relaxing, clenching, and relaxing again, as he 
                 laid down on her and she released her grip on him, caressing him, 
                                   soothing him as he did her.  
                       The fire was gone now, and a kind of sad peace crept into 
                  her mind and heart.  She lay with her head to one side, hearing 
                   his breathing subside as he caught his breath.  And suddenly, 
                                            unbidden,   
                a thought went through her head as she felt herself dozing off in  
                                      this stranger's arms:  
                                   To sleep...perchance to dream....  
                                                   
                                                               by thomas frost  
                                                   
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