Title: Judas Unchained - Dream Cycle: The Brothel on the Sea of Dream
Author: Judas Unchained
Keywords: MF, Oral, Anal
Summary: A strange clay token leads to a peculiar mystery and a night of
passion in an otherworldly brothel that lies in the heart of Dream.
Copyright 2015 Judas Unchained.
Email comments to judasunchained@googlemail.com
This is fantasy porn. In fact, it is double fantasy porn - it both has
magic and is not real. Don't read if it is illegal for you do to do so.
This is a txt version of 'Judas Unchained - Dream Cycle: The Brothel on the
Sea of Dream' and lacks some of the formatting available in the HTML
version. If possible, please read the web version here:
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~~~
My car grumbled as I slipped it into 5th gear and accelerated down the
M1. On both side spilled drab brown fields and ancient hedges, forming
something like a chessboard but without the pieces. It was a far cry from
the steel, concrete and glass of the city. The occasional bird stalked the
ground, looking for seeds, and a few cars moved on distant country roads.
It was Friday morning and the commuter flow was towards London. An
adulthood of London driving made the motorway seem near deserted but in
truth I shared the road with plenty of other vehicles. I drew up on a
lumbering Mesmertain goods lorry and moved into the right-hand lane,
accelerating to pass. It fell behind on my left and I moved back into the
middle lane.
It wasn't a long drive and was a reasonably simple one. I followed the
M1 out of London and North West some fifty miles to Milton Keynes - an
artificial place I never cared for. From there I took the A 421 south for
about thirty miles. All told, I pulled into the village of Winslow,
Buckinghamshire, a little over one and a half hours after leaving the city.
Despite working in and around London for coming on thirty years, I'd
never been to Winslow before. The architecture showed a clash of styles I'm
surprised the local planning office allowed: eighties new build houses,
alongside restored nineteenth century homes and quaint cottages. The people
were the opposite. In London the streets would be filled by a multicultural
mix of all ages. Here the locals tended towards old and white.
My destination was on the south side of the village and after winding my
way through Winslow's twisting streets I pulled up the short, private and
overgrown driveway and stopped before Somnus House. It didn't quite match
its photo.
As best as I can describe it, Somnus House appeared a mixture of
tenement and castle, as designed by a somehow precognisant architect who'd
tapped into the brutalist school. It wasn't large, as country houses are
judged, but the jutting towers and hard angles made it stand out from the
drab landscaping. No two windows appeared the same shape. Some were square,
some were round, some were arched and some were stranger things which must
surely be custom fitted. A single large chimney rose from the roof.
I switched off my car's engine and got out. The air was brisk and I was
glad for my light jacket. The agent's car, a yellow Ford, stood nearby, and
I saw her standing next to the large, imposing front door.
"Ah, Mr Jackson," she said as I walked up. "I'm glad you found the
place."
"It's nice to meet you Ms Wright," I said, holding out my hand. "I hope
I didn't keep you."
"No, no. You're right on time." She shuffled a pile of folders into her
other hand and we shook. Ms Wright was a pretty young lady in her late
twenties of mixed African descent. She kept her hair in a tight bun and
wore a smart suit. The folders bore the logo of Bond, Bovell and Sons, the
estate management firm she worked for.
"So," she said once we broke apart. "What do you think of the place?"
"It's certainly something," I said.
"Yes." She gave a wineglass laugh, high like crystal. "It is that." She
grew serious. "Tell me Mr Jackson, if I may ask, why did you do it? Most of
the bids came from developers. You were one of the few private
individuals."
Why did I do it? I looked up at Somnus House, trying to find an answer
in its walls but they provided no easy solace. I'd spent no little amount
of time over the last few weeks asking myself this very question and the
best I had come up with was this: Because after thirty years of working a
respectable job in the respectable firm of Slate, Grey and Smith, I needed
to something, anything, to be someone else.
"It seemed a good opportunity," I said instead.
"Oh very," she said wearing a business smile. "Country houses are
becoming increasingly popular. Why Tony Blair considered moving into
Winslow Hall just up the street. Do you remember reading that?"
I admitted that I might remember reading something of the sort in the
Times a few years before, though I hastened to add that I did not follow
celebrity culture with any particular closeness or interest.
"Great," she said. "Well, let's go inside. I can show you about and tell
you more about the place." She produced a large black key and slotted it
into the lock. After straining against the internal mechanism for a moment,
it turned with a clunk and the giant front door fell open with a groan.
"You may wish to have the locks changed at some point, but remember, this
is a listed building. You need to be careful with any changes to the
structure."
We went inside. The front hall was cavernous and very very bare. Our
footfalls echoed against the dusty carpet like dropping stacks of
documents. I looked up. The room took up two stories and a lonely light
fixture hung high overhead.
"The non-essential fittings where auctioned separately, I'm afraid. Most
of the kitchen is left, as are some of the beds and a few other pieces
English Heritage considered integral to the character of the property. The
art has been owned by the V&A for a number years and they've called it
all in. It was accepted in lieu of tax twenty years ago I believe. I know
it may seem bare, but think of it as a chance to put your own stamp on the
property, which I can assure you is a rare treat for this kind of house."
"The history," I said, snatching for that life line. That simple bid I'd
placed in the estate auction seemed an increasingly bad idea. "You said you
know something about it?"
"Oh yes," she said and tapped a folder.
As she explained it, Somnus House was constructed in 1869 by the banker
Francis Figmarsh as a rest home outside the city for his sickly wife. "The
noises and smells made it impossible for her to rest and recover, and her
doctor, a Mr Thomas Kiernan, advised she leave London. There are a number
of books by the local historic societies if you wish to known more."
Following his wife's death, Figmarsh sold the house to a banking
colleague of his from Edinburgh, an R. J. MacGregor. Despite a record of
sale, MacGregor never took up residence and the house remained vacant for a
number of years.
Upon MacGregor's death in 1901, the house was auctioned off. "In fact,"
said Ms Wright, "it was Bond, Bovell and Sons who managed the auction. I
had the paperwork retrieved from our archive when I was assigned this case.
A fascinating piece of history, though the supervising agent's handwriting
was simply appalling." The house was bought by a charitable trust, who
established a seminary specialising in certain esoteric questions of
theological thought. It never proved successful and closed around World War
One.
During and after the war, the house served as a private hospital for
army officers. This vocation proved equally short lived and by the start of
the Second World War, the house was passing through the hands of a
succession of private renters. During the war it was hit by a bomb, which
thankfully did not detonate, and the remains were made into a statue which
remained in the back garden, if I cared to brave the somewhat overgrown
hedges to search for it. After, the house was bought by the Baronet Edward
Smyth, who had made his fortune in India. He left it to his eldest son,
Cassius Smyth, who continued to live in the property until his death, one
year before.
"And that's the tale," she said. "As I'm sure you can agree, it has a
charming and storied history."
I nodded my head, unsure what to make of the history or how it really
related to the house around me.
"Oh and before I forget," she said, "this is for you." She handed over
the large black key. It felt weighty in my hand. The bow showed a stylized
raven's head.
Over the next half hour, Ms Wright gave me a brief whistle-stop tour
around the house, starting at the dusty rafters in the attic and finishing
in the kitchen with its ancient fittings. Then, on a near-antediluvian
wooden table, warped by time and damp, she laid out the final contract.
I took up the pen she offered and looked down at the dense lines of
type. It was already too late to back out but this would be the final nail.
Two weeks before I'd seen the notice of auction. I'd placed a bid on a
whim, never expecting a thing, and now this: an ancient country house,
bereft of fittings as it was of purpose.
With a sinking heart, I signed.
~~~
Ms Wright left after that, spirited away by her yellow Ford to another
job. I had a job too but had taken some holiday days to give myself a long
weekend. The plan was to spend the next two nights at Somnus House and
return to my London flat on Sunday night, ready for work Monday.
With the raven headed key in one hand and my newly inked deed in the
other, I walked the house.
Discoloured squares hung bare on the walls were the artwork once swung
and dents showed in the carpet marking where tables, dressers and other
furnishings no longer were. I found one of the few exceptions in the master
bedroom. An immense four post bed stood in the centre, the posts and
headboard carved to show strange, dreamlike scenes. I walked in and pressed
down on the mattress. It wailed like a hall of widows.
A large library lurked down the hall from the bedroom but all the books
were gone. A set of strange shaped windows let in bright midday light but
all it illuminated was old wooden shelves and a lacquered card catalogue. I
pull the catalogue open and peered inside. Empty save for dust. Whatever
great collection Somnus House once held was long sold.
For the following hours I trudged the halls of the house. My intentions
were good - do a bit of cleaning, scope the place out - but in the end I
wondered like a poet who'd lost his inspiration on the wind. It was
probably for the best. Knowing my luck English Heritage considered the dust
integral to the character of the property and would sue me if I tried to
remove it. I even explored the back garden a little, beating my way through
overgrown topiary and weeds to find the bomb monument. It sat in the middle
of a weed penetrated gravel circle, probably once a focal point of the
garden. Some bygone sculptor had turned the tail fin of the WW2 bomb into a
statue. Either he or the impact had warped, discoloured and bent the metal.
The shapes it made were faintly disquieting in a fashion I couldn't quite
name.
My garden sojourn was an exception, however. Through no conscious
intention, I kept finding myself back in the corridor which joined the
library and the master bedroom. It formed something of a house within a
house, sealed from the wider manner by an old green door whose paint was
dull and scratched. Wooden panels lined the walls, lending them some
character missing from the rest of the place. Off it sprung the bedroom, a
bathroom with truly ancient brass fittings, the library and a few now empty
rooms whose purpose I could only guess at.
As I walked down the corridor for what must have been the tenth time, I
idly tapped by black iron key against the wall. It returned the deep
resonant sound of solid wood and firm stone. At least the house had that
going for it.
I went on, walking slowly towards the library. Step. Thud went the key.
Step. Thud went the key. Step. Tap went the key. I froze in place and
turned slowly.
Carefully, I tapped again. The wall repeated the hollow sound, almost
tinny in the echoing halls of Somnus House. I tried not to over think my
discovery. True, this was an old country manor, prime fodder for a
blytonesque secret passage, but there were far more logical explanations.
Maybe workmen had created a void when refitting the house for electricity
or perhaps there was simply a small flaw in the stone.
I repeated my test, sketching out the hollow. It extended in a
rectangle, floor to ceiling and about three feet wide. It wasn't just my
imagination. There was something hidden in the wall. Perhaps a room had
been boarded over years ago? Perhaps something more exciting and secret.
To find out I started to explore. The edges seemed a good place to start
but they lined up with the slats of the wooden panels, hiding any join. I
tried pushing but the square didn't budge. I tried sliding, too, in both
directions, but that didn't reveal anything either. Finally I tried
pulling. I worked the raven's beak of my black iron key into the edge of
the square and pulled back. The wall resisted for a moment, then popped.
I stared with wide eyed amazement as a section of wall swung out on
creaking hinges, revealing a dark hidden room.
Hand almost shaking, I fished my car keys from my pocket and flicked on
my LED torch key ring. It shot out a thin beam of light and I played it
across the room.
It looked like a private study. A bookshelf stood at the back, laid down
with well-worn leather-bound tomes. Before it sat an old but cared for
desk, with a lacquered box at top it.
I entered the room, feeling almost like an intruder, which was silly. I
owned the house and everything in it. I was no house breaker. Still, the
feeling of trespass persisted. The dark silence hung heavy on my shoulders.
Torch in one hand, I ran a finger along the book spines until one caught
my eye.
"An Atlas of Dream," I said aloud as I rubbed the gold embossed title
printed on the spine. I pulled the book out and set it down on the desk
with a meaty thump. The book was thick, with old heavy pages. The writing
was old too, a too-small copperplate that so filled the pages as to make
them seem black. I flipped through and stopped at an illustration.
'A map of the Sea of Dream,' read the label, but it was unlike any map
I'd ever seen. It comprised circles, some separate, some concentric and
some interlocking. They had titles like 'Gate of Horn and Ivory', 'Maw of
Guf', 'River of souls', 'the Beast Below' and 'The Millar's Wheel'.
Monsters curled at the edges of the page, where a fantastical map might
bear sketches of scaled beasts complete with legends like 'here be
dragons'. These were no dragons, though.
They appeared as ill-defined shades or phantasms. Their cross-hashed
eyes bore into me from within mist-like cowls and I snapped the book shut.
The leather cover locked their gazes away.
With the book shut I again scanned the room and noticed a lamp standing
just inside the door, hidden from view from outside but obvious from
within. I walked up and toggled a fat Bakelite switch. The bulb warmed
slowly to life, staring dark and red but brightening quickly.
Even lit properly, the room lost little of its mystery. The leather of
the books was old and warn, like the hidden troves of an ancient library. A
print of Redon's Guardian Spirit of the Waters hung over the door, the
great otherworldly head peering down at me. The lacquered box shone with an
almost opalescent shimmer.
I walked over to the box and picked it up. It had a small keyhole and a
test showed it locked tight. From the weight there was something inside.
I searched the desk draws and found a small silver key. It fit the
keyhole and turned with an almost inaudible click. I set the box back down
and flipped the lid. It was filled with perhaps a dozen clay coins, each
about the size of a fifty pence piece but far thicker. I picked one up,
careful to not crush the thing. One side was blank. The other showed a
strange mark, a diabolical signature. It appeared almost like a Celtic
triskelion but warped, as if partly pulled into three dimensions. While the
coins themselves differed slightly in size, shape and smoothness, the marks
were perfectly identical.
Once I'd removed the last coin to check it, I noticed something at the
very bottom of the box. Before I'd mistaken it for some kind of lining but
now I saw it for what it was: a folded piece of paper.
I caught a nail under a corner and pulled it out. It was a letter, hand
written in a loopy flowing cursive.
'Cassius,' it read, and I recognised the name of the man who'd owned
Somnus House before me. 'I have found what you require. My contact called
them obols but I believe them to be the dream tokens discussed in Al-
Kindi's codex.
'They were bundled with a fragment of poetry. Translated it reads. "Hold
in hand, for good dreams." I should note the word from which good is
translated has connotations of earthly rather than spiritual fulfilment.
'I believe this may be our chance to contact the Atavi.
'Yours in friendship,
'Elwin Ransom'
As interesting as my discovery was, I couldn't afford to spend all day
on its investigation. It was several hours past noon, and I needed to eat
lunch and buy the supplies I needed to survive the weekend. The room had
survived a year undiscovered; it could suffer a few hours more.
I refolded the letter and put it back in the box. On top I stacked the
coins and locked them away with the silver key. The bow of the key was too
small to fit on my key ring so I put it and box both into a desk draw and
closed the draw tight.
On my way out the room I noticed one of the coins lying on the ground,
wedged sideways in the thick carpet. It must have rolled off the table
while I was examining its siblings. I bent and scooped it up. The clay had
a good weight to it and felt smooth, almost as if glazed though it had no
special colour. I ran my thumb over the triskelion mark, feeling the sharp
edges of the lines cut into the coin. Elwin Ransom named it an obol while
Cassius called it a dream token. Perhaps the two definitions weren't so in
conflict. Wasn't Thanatos twin brother to Hypnos after all?
I shrugged. Such philosophising would get me nowhere. Rather than reopen
the box, I slipped the coin into my pocket and left the room, pulling the
door shut behind me.
~~~
I took my car to Winslow's main street and drove around until I found a
likely pub. Not all pubs sold food but it was a good bet that any within a
few hours' drive of London would. The carpark was small and tight but I
backed my car into a marked space without crashing. Gravel crunched under
my feet as I got out and stretched.
The pub was called the Wistful Soldier. The sign showed a faintly
Napoleonic looking soldier, rifle against his shoulder as he stared into
the sunset. I checked my wallet and phone were in my jacket pockets and
went inside.
Two pm on a Friday afternoon wasn't the busiest time of day for a public
house but a few customers sat at scattered tables. I pulled up a stool at
the bar. "A half of cider," I said as I sat down, "and do you have a menu?"
The bartender, an older, grey haired gentleman in a white shirt and
waistcoat, nodded and bought my drink and a menu.
"Here you are," he said and I handed him a £5 note.
I sipped the cider while looking down the menu. If this was a London
pub, there was a better than even chance the items would have silly themed
named but the Wistful Soldier laid things out straight. "What's the soup of
the day?" I asked.
"Lentil." He paused, as if considering whether further commentary would
push his rural establishment towards the dreaded London theme pub of my own
musing. Finally he added, "It's good."
"I'll have that and a side of chips."
While the barman disappeared into the back I nursed my cider. It had a
hard edge to it, like winter apples, and was rather nice. My food came not
too long later. As I ate, I chatted to the barman.
"Did you know Cassius Smyth?" I asked.
"Can't say I did. Didn't socialise with the village much." He raised a
shaggy eyebrow, clearly asking my purpose.
"I bought Somnus House," I said by way of explanation. "Well, not
bought, really. Won. They tried to sell the house normally but apparently
there were no takers. In the end they auctioned it off. My bid was
highest."
The barman nodded. "Didn't know Mr Smyth myself but my father did." My
explanation had clearly bought me a little leeway. "He ran with a strange
sort. Met them at Oxford, or so I heard. They'd meet at the house, Somnus I
mean, and have strange discussions. My dad was the butcher's boy at the
time and he heard them one day. Big into hypnosis and Sigmund Freud.
Universal wisdom and collective unconscious. That kind of thing. Don't
mistake them for the new age sort interested in those now days, though.
Back then, well, back then everything was a bit different. A gentleman
could have eccentricities. Esoteric they called it."
I nodded with interest. "The group?"
He sucked air through his teeth. "Can't really say. My dad might've
known but he's long gone. There were a dozen of them. All about the same
age. Suppose today we'd call them the last true country gentry, but didn't
seem that way at the time.
"I remember one, Nicole something; I can't remember, something French
anyway. Saw her about the village occasionally when I was a boy. Dressed
like a Parisian starlet. Stylish, you know, but strange. Thought she could
reach a whole different world through opium.
"Then there was Jackson Flippant. Made something of himself that one -
medicines and chemicals in America. Must have lost and made his fortune a
dozen times. I still see the occasional new story about his companies.
"And there was Elwin Ransom of course."
The name made my heart jump. I remembered it from the letter. "Why him?"
He gave a gruff laugh. "Local folk law. He was the minister's son. Went
to follow in his father's footsteps. Did for a few years but then they
removed him. Had him up before the church courts. The rumours said magic,
witchcraft and the like, but that’s rumour for you. I went up the cathedral
one summer and saw the records. It was doctrinal. He was preaching some
strange things apparently. Can't say I noticed from the pews but what do I
know? Don't teach theology at the secondary modern."
A Parisian drug addict, an American entrepreneur and a rogue Church of
England priest, to name but three. What a strange group Cassius Smyth
gathered.
I paid my food bill, said my goodbye and left to do my shopping.
Since I needed more than just basic supplies, I couldn't just go to the
Tesco Express I'd seen on my way into Winslow. I shifted in my car seat
and pulled my mobile phone out my pocket. A little poking around found a
Tesco Extra half an hour away, North-East of Milton Keynes. As much as I
disliked Milton Keynes, a Tesco Extra would have everything I needed.
I more-or-less followed the path I'd taken to reach Winslow but in
reverse - up the A421, pass Bletchley, of Park fame, and then through
Milton Keynes to Kingston. Kingston was a different kind of artificial to
Milton Keynes proper. Some bygone landscape architect or civic engineer had
gone to a lot of trouble to make the area look green and alive. Tall, well
established trees created leafy walls along curving roads and manicured
shrubbery ran lower to the ground. In my opinion they had failed. It looked
plastic, not like real nature at all.
I turned left into the carpark of the gigantic Tesco Extra and drove
around until I found a parking spot. The place was surprisingly busy for a
Friday afternoon so I ended up parked quite a way from the main doors.
Mothers with toddlers in toe pushed trollies piled high with frozen
foodstuff and household goods.
It took me several hours of wandering to get everything I needed and it
was late afternoon by the time I pushed my trolley out of the shop, piled
high with food, cleaning supplies, bedding and other assorted detritus I'd
need to form a habitable nest within Somnus House's dusty corridors. I
loaded it into my car, returned the trolley and set off back to Winslow.
It should have been a short journey. Unfortunately fate was against me.
I spied flashing police lights ahead and the traffic on the A421, now much
thickened by commuters, ground to a halt. I slowed carefully, then slammed
by car in to neutral and put the handbrake on. It looked to be a long wait.
It was past ten at night by the time my car limped up Somnus House's
overgrown drive. I felt awful, sweaty, cramped and needing relief in the
bathroom. There had been an accident on the road and I'd been locked in by
traffic until the police and accident rescue could remove the wrecks. That
had taken hours.
In the dark, Somnus House appeared an almost malevolent shape, black
like a wall of night. I lugged my shopping out of the car, fought with the
stiff lock to open the front door and dragged everything up to the master
bedroom. I could unpack on Saturday and I'd made sure not to buy any short-
term perishables, the house lacking even a basic fridge or freezer. In
fact, Ms Wright had briefly mentioned an ice room during her whistle-stop
tour. Hopefully that was a feature preserved for its quaint, old-time
colour and not a general use utility.
The first thing I did was grab my new toiletries and disappear into the
ancient bathroom off the master bedroom. The fittings were old and brass.
The pipes gurgled as I turned the taps and the toilet was an ancient
porcelain throne. Still, everything worked and I felt slightly better when
I returned. Now I wanted nothing more than to go to sleep.
I dressed the four post bed with my newly purchased linens, pulled out a
light quilt from the plastic bag it came in, set a small lamp on an
impromptu pile of boxes by the bed and began stripping off my clothes. I
slipped off my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt and shimmied out of my jeans.
Before I put the jeans away, I went through the pockets, removing my phone,
some loose change and a large clay coin.
I stared at it for a few long seconds. My discoveries in the secret room
seemed a long way off. Still… I rubbed the dream token with the pad of my
thumb, feeling the triskelion.
What had the letter said? Hold in hand, for good dreams? After my day, I
needed all the good sleep I could get.
I killed the room's main light and clambered into the bed. The ancient
springs groaned and shifted under my weight but it was better than sleeping
on the floor. Indeed, it was strangely comfortable.
My last thought before I went to sleep, coin clutched in hand, was that
the odd figures carved into the bed bore an eerie resemblance to the
phantasms which decorated the edge of the map of the Sea of Dream.
~~~
I seldom remember my dreams. There are a few nightmares which have
stayed with me - strange, almost abstract terrors of terrible machines one
part away from completion and great giants against who I was nothing. This
was nothing like that.
I found myself in an empty black void which spilled away in all
directions. I had a body, sort of, and I could feel the dream token
clutched against my palm.
A point of light appeared ahead of me. It grew larger and larger, as if
getting closer, until it filled half the world. Then a door crashed down
within it, like a dropping drawbridge.
The doorway showed the parlour of a great house. Fantastic and
fantastical art hung on the walls and drapes in deep colours swirled
against the walls, as if stirred by a soft wind.
A woman stepped into the doorway. She wore a swishing brocade dress in
deep purple with violet highlights, almost Victorian. It displayed her
breasts in ruffled bodice, hugged her waist as if she wore a corset and
flared around her hips in a thick bustle. She wore her almost white-blonde
hair in a complex updo, twisted in interesting knots around her head. Her
face was perfect, as if spun from finest china.
"Welcome to the Brothel on the Sea of Dream," she said with a sparkling
smile and held out a hand.
I just stared. I had no idea what was going on. I mean, this was a
dream, obviously, but I couldn't recall having this sort of dream before.
She laughed and it was full and deep, like an earthy goddess. She
grabbed my wrist and pulled me through the door of light. I stumbled on the
other side and looked around gawking. The place was amazing, like a high
class mansion, fitted and styled as only money and privilege could. Had
Somnus House once looked like this - potent in power and majesty?
"Where?" I said as I cast from side to side. "Who? What?"
She raised one velvet gloved had to partly cover her mouth and laughed
again. "I told you," she said. "This is the Brothel on the Sea of Dream.
You have one of our tokens and that grants you a night of pleasure the
likes of which you can scarcely imagine. We make your dreams."
The incompleteness of the last sentence struck me. "Come true?" I said
without thinking. She looked confused. "You mean come true. That's the
saying: make your dreams come true."
She laughed a third time and laid her figures gently on my arm. "Oh we
have no need for truth here. Despite what the classics might say, there is
but one gate and it is of both horn and ivory." Her voice grew low and
husky. "We can be much more fun that way."
Her fingers danced down my arm and reached my hand. She tapped the back
and I opened my fist. She plucked the coin from my grasp.
"You truly do not know what you hold?"
I shook my head. In truth I knew some, what the letter had said, but
that was scarcely more than nothing.
"This is the symbol of my employer, the owner of this place." She tapped
the triskelion marked on the coin. "His will formed it from the phantoms of
the fog sea and his power wards it against unwanted intruders. His agents
trade these coins in the waking world in exchange for favours and we honour
them in Dream. Since the token bares his mark, it links to his place of
power, here."
"Honour them?" I asked. It was the only part of the explanation which
stayed in my head.
She smiled like a stalking cat. "I did say this was the Brothel on the
Sea of Dream. I am Lyra, the madam of this establishment. Come this way and
you can make your choice."
She took me by the hand and led me through a doorway partly covered by
diaphanous hanging cloth. On the other side was a corridor. A beautiful
naked redhead ran passed, chased by an older gentleman with close cropped
grey hair. They both were laughing.
Lyra took me to a cosy chamber, filled with low sofas. A crackling fire
sat at the far end and a polished wooden bar ran along the wall, full of
glass and crystal. Beautiful women and a few men lounged on the sofas,
chatting, drinking from goblets filled with ruby red wine and eating
skinless grapes.
They rose as we entered. Lyra clapped her hands and they lined up. They
wore light robes that fell from shoulders and hung against hips. Hints of
lingerie showed. To a woman they were stunning, their bodies toned and fit,
their breasts large and shapely, their faces showing the vigour and
excitement of youth.
"The Brothel on the Sea of Dream is equipped to meet your every desire,"
said Lyra from behind me. Her hands settled on my shoulders and her heated
words tickled my ear. "These men and women will make your dreams. You need
but choice one. Should they not quite meet your desires… They are all
skilled oneironauts. The owner recruited them at much expense and they have
certain talents you might enjoy. Trixie?"
A tiny blonde with a pixie cut smiled and flicked her hips. As she did,
the light and shadow around her face shifted and I blinked despite myself.
When I looked at her anew she was different. Cat ears sprouted from her
head and a long tail whipped about from underneath her robe.
"In dream," Lyra whispered, "true and illusion are one, horn and ivory."
She laid a butterfly kiss against the side of my neck and I shivered where
I stood. Needless to say I was hard, very hard. My cock strained in my
trousers.
"Can I pick you?" I asked before I could think better of it.
Lyra laughed once more, just as deep and full of life as ever. She spun
around me and gazed into my eyes. Hers were a fascinating hazel colour,
combined with a starburst which was almost amber.
"Perhaps, perhaps." She flipped my dream token into the air and snatched
it up on the way down. "I have been known to take the occasional client
from among those who come calling and I do like your face. She ran two
fingers down my cheek as she gazed at me, head cocked to one side. "And I
think I might very much like this." She brushed my crotch and I almost
exploded. The simple touch sent a raging wave of pleasurable static through
my body and I groaned.
She took my hand in hers, her fingers long and manicured. "Oh very well.
This way." She pulled me to a door in the wall and pulled it open. Layered
hanging curtains hid inside from out. She broke our grip and moved through,
brushing aside the hanging cloth with the sensual grace of an exotic dancer
and the passion of a minx.
I followed. The room was small but not claustrophobic. A large sturdy
bed stood in the centre of the room, the sheets a dark purple. A window
hung on the wall, showing nothing but swirling fog.
Lyra skipped to the bed. Just before the foot she turned her motion into
a spin, like a ballerina. Her Victorian dress billowed out around her.
Light and darkness shifted and she stood almost naked. The dress had become
a close hugging set of lingerie, the same colour and somehow keeping the
same charm and style as the dress.
The bra hugged her breasts. They weren't as large as most of the girls
in the other room but perfectly formed. The cup finished just below her
nipples, which were hid only by a lacy frill. Her panties clung tightly to
her sex. Above, her stomach was hard and flat. Below, her legs shot out,
long and toned like an athletes.
She fell back onto the bed and hit with a puff of noise, as the sheets
shifted. She stared at me with her exotic brown eyes from on her back and
raised one hand, her index finger beckoning me forward.
I didn't need to be asked twice.
I stumbled forward, trying to unbutton my shirt and slip out of my
trousers at the same time. As it was, I managed about half of both by the
time I reached the bed and leaped a top her.
Our lips met and lightning crackled within her. She opened her mouth for
me and I kissed her as deep as I could. My tongue claimed her mouth and a
moment later hers did mine.
As we embraced I finished doffing my clothes. I kicked my trousers off
the end of the bed and broke our kiss for a moment to completely take off
my shirt. She lay under me, breathing deep, her skin flushed, the pupils of
her eyes wide and aroused. Her breasts heaved with each breath she took.
"Take me," she said with words and body language both, and her eyes
showed something I couldn't quite identify, like manic resolve welded with
erotic passion. I dove right back in, out lips mashing together.
The next piece of clothing to go was her bra. I flicked the catch and
ripped it off her breasts. It left her nipples completely exposed, small
but hard and very very pink.
I broke the kiss and sucked her right nipple into my mouth. She tasted
fantastic, her skin crackling on my tongue as if spiced.
Her long fingers and shark nails found my head and ran tracks through my
hair. "Suck my tit," she said. "Suck my fucking tit!"
I switched nipples and sucked the other one into my mouth.
"Yeah, that's it," she muttered, her eyes closed. "Harder. Harder I
said! Now bite, just a bit."
What's a guy to do? I set my teeth against her flesh and pushed down.
She hissed air between her teeth. "Yes. Fuck, fuck, fuck." Her hips
ground under me and she pulled my hair so hard it hurt. "Now fuck me. I
need your cock."
I pulled away from her breast and loosed my impossibly hard cock from my
boxers. Lyra's panties still guarded her sex but they were petty sheer. I
grabbed them and ripped them right off. They fell to the ground, tattered
purple scraps.
Her sex lay revealed. Her lips were puffy and red and her clit pocked
out from under its hood. I sunk into her depths in one long thrust.
"Oh God, that's good," she moaned. "So big."
She was probably playing it up but I bought into it all the same. Cock
and pride both swelling, I began thrusting in and out of her. Her breasts
jerked and danced with every hit.
"Fuck my cunt," she said. "Fuck my God damn cunt!"
Said cunt was a red hot vice. Her muscles gripped down with incredible
pressure. I pistoned in and out as I looked down at her face, which was
screwed up with pleasure. Part of her updo had fallen apart and locks of
blonde hair lay wild on the indigo pillow beneath her head. My cock felt
like a single great pleasure nerve which never stopped humming. Her ankles
locked behind my ass and lent power to my every stroke.
Her chest heaved and her eyes met mine, so wild and full of passion. Her
lips were open wide, and she moved her tongue as if sucking an invisible
dick.
"Mmm you like this don't you," she moaned. She licked her lips. "Do you
like my cunt? Do you like the cunt you bought and paid for? I'm your whore.
I'm your whore for all tonight, until you wake up. What are you going to do
with me? Will you fuck me until I'm bruised and can't walk straight? Will
you make me cum until I can't remember my own name? Will you make me suck
your cock? Will you stick it up my ass?" She bucked her hips at the last,
driving my cock deep into her and scraping the blood-filled head against
her clutching walls.
I kissed her. It was impossible not to. I threw myself against her
pouting lips so hard I bruised us both. Despite that, she kept talking -
speaking muffled, incomprehensible but no doubt obscene words into my mouth
even as she returned my kiss with equal passion.
Heat rolled off her body as she writhed under me. Her every muscle and
inch of skin felt alive, as if heightened to the highest possible state of
alertness and life. She flushed red wherever I so much as touched her. I
ran my hands over her shapely breasts, feeling her heavenly soft skin.
Almost-crimson trails followed my fingers and her skin felt electric.
"Yes, yes," she panted. "So close. Pound my cunt. Pound it!" One of her
hands rubbed her sex, just above our joining, but it was clear she needed
something from me too.
My balls and cock tightened but I held back my release with gritted
teeth. I redouble my effort and she exploded under me. "Yes!" she screamed
as her cunt spasmed around my cock. She bit down on her lip, teeth pressing
deep into the pouty flesh, and her ankles clamped against my ass.
I kept pounding, a dozen more strokes, then it was my turn to erupt. I
spent myself in her, five long shots. Fire ran from me and into her, so
powerful it made my balls ache at its absence.
I might be sated but she wasn't. Lyra scrambled out from under me and
twisted around. My cock disappeared between her lips and into her mouth.
She moaned and the vibrations sunk directly into my cock.
The complex knots of her updo had mostly dissolved by this point and an
untidy mop of white-blonde hair bobbed up and down on my crotch. It felt
incredible. She knew how to use her tongue, teasing and pleasuring my cock
even as it tried to wilt. Her cheeks hollowed as she applied suction and,
despite my explosive orgasm, I felt myself getting hard again.
She twisted her head and looked up at me. Her eyes sparkled and she
slowly drew back. Centimetre by centimetre, my cock appeared out of her
mouth, wet with spit and her juices. The fat purple head came last and
appeared with a pop. It lay propped against her face, a violent manly thing
juxtaposed against her womanly perfection.
Her lips moved and scraped against my cock as she soundlessly said a few
words. She smiled wickedly and said it again, this time aloud. "Fuck my
ass."
A rock lodged in my throat. I gulped. Anal sex was something I'd never
tried, either giving or receiving. She spun around and settled onto all
fours, her tight ass in the air. She looked over one shoulder and all but
growled at me.
I shuffled forward and laid my hands on her hips, feeling the taught
flesh, still radiating heat from our earlier passions. "Don't I need lube
or something?" I asked.
"This is Dream," she said. "Now fucking fuck me."
I fucked her. Her ass lacked the vice like volcanic grip of her cunt but
was tight all the same. I slowly drove myself forward and then pulled back.
"Yes," she moaned. "Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck my ass."
I pounded harder, driving forward so her body shook and waves of motion
ran through her tits. The line of her back had a perfect curve, drawing the
eye from the nape of her neck to the heart shape of her ass. She was
beautiful; she was beyond beautiful. Lyra was by far the most erotic,
sensual and fuckable woman I'd ever met.
For all that I'd already cum once, my second eruption wasn't long
coming. With one final, body shaking, ass clenching thrust, I bottomed out
inside her and erupted into her ass. Hot cum shot into her body and when I
at last finished, I collapsed down on top of her, my weight pushing her
down into the cloudlike cushion of the bed. I could hear her breathing,
deep and throating. I could feel her heart beat, powerful against my chest.
Against those lullabies, I slept.
~~~
I awoke the next morning, lying tangled in the sheets atop the four post
bed in Somnus House. For a long while I just lay there, staring at the
canopy-ceiling and the carved support posts. Strange memories played
through my mind. I remembered everything from the night before - the
Brothel on the Sea of Dream, Lyra, the incredible sex, all of it. Every
moment and event was indelibly marked into my brain, far deeper than any
dream. But it had to be a dream, right? Despite Cassius Smyth and his crazy
esoteric studies, the Sea of Dream couldn’t be real.
I felt something clutched in my palm. I shuffled my back up the
backboard and opened my hand. The clay coin, the dream token, was dust. I
turned my hand over and powdered clay fell in a slow stream onto the white
sheets, where it pooled.
Lyra had claimed the Brothel back the value of the coins with a night of
pleasure. Could this be the result of spending it? My mind went to the
locked lacquered box in the hidden room. I had eleven more coins to spend
and, dream or not, I knew I would spend them. My bid in the estate auction
now seemed a very minor price.