Working Things Out: Part II
Working Things Out
Part II: Beautiful Dreamer
By Ouroboro
Adult material in this one. Only read this if you're of age in your region.
Dark.
Warm.
On my knees.
Try to move but...ropes. Ropes around my hands and ankles. Ropes everywhere...like a net but just on my skin.
Warm. Too warm.
Suddenly he sees himself. He doesn't know how but he sees himself.
Darkness all around except for him. A spotlight. A blindfold. Ropes everywhere, in patterns across his belly and chest and even around...even around...
My cock.
"Ooohhhh..."
He sees it jump even as he feels it pulse, straining against the ropes wrapped around its base. They're soft as silk...they don't hurt or chafe at all but...
"Oh GOD!"
...just the opposite. On his knees, grinding against the ropes, letting the silk dig smoldering furrows against his skin, and...and...
"nnnnnnggh!"
...there's one right up the crack of his ass...the one that leads to his hands which are bound just in the small of his back...and that's good because...because if he just moves his wrists...moves his wrists...
I'm not a fag, but shit oh man...shit oh man, this is just like that hooker Spring Break of my senior year...slipped a finger...finger into me while she was sucking me off and god damn if this doesn't feel just like that and oh shit if I move just right I can feel both at once...both at once and all over...all over and I can't move but...
Spotlight.
If there's a spotlight...that means...that means there's a stage.
And if there's a stage, then...
Somebody's watching.
He sees himself stop, hears himself breathing, heavily, half in fear and half in...in...
Footsteps.
Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.
He doesn't see them with his own eyes--he can't. Into the circle of light step two pointed boot toes, the leather polished until they're twin mirrors. He sees himself turn towards the sound, searching with blind eyes as a hand moves into the light, almost as if it's emerging into existence itself.
Fingerless leather glove over massive, brown-black digits. Blunt claws.
"Tony?"
No answer, just another gloved hand that unstraps and slowly strips the first, holding the leather like a living thing.
Leather against his face now. He shies away but the naked hand grips the back of his head and forces his face into it, covering his mouth and nose like...like...
Drugged. I was drugged and...
"MMMph!"
He struggles now, twisting away but into nothing but the powerful hand behind his head, the ropes once again bringing pleasure with the fear.
And the pleasure brings shame as he breathes deeply of the soft leather, his cock throbbing against his bondage, but still he struggles.
The glove is gone and he breathes a sigh of relief.
That is, of course, until it cracks him across the face.
He gasps and whimpers in utter shock, his jaw hanging open. It's not a hard hit...just enough to sting. His ego, however, has taken a megaton blow, and he can feel and see tears, hot and alien, welling up in his eyes and leaking down his face from beneath the blindfold.
The gloved hand returns now, and he shies from it but he can't move far. It's against his cheek now, and it's gentle...tender...it...
A thumb wipes away a tear.
He looks up, but all he can see is light.
Finn groaned and shielded his eyes from the sun streaming in through the window.
"Fuck!"
He squirmed in bed, his feet moving beneath the sheets--expensive sheets, of course, with some ungodly high thread count. And now they needed to be washed...again.
The room reeked of stale sweat and cum, both cold and uncomfortable against the skin of his newly limp cock. Finn extricated himself from the filthy linens and limped towards the bathroom, his knees and shoulders aching desperately.
This is how it had been for nearly a week. Every night the same dream. Well, not the same, exactly. Sometimes he was strapped to a table...other times to some sort of X frame...and others...
"Fuck!"
His cock was hard again, throbbing and aching and as sore as his knees, but...but his hand was already there...already stroking the chafed skin.
As he came for the second time in four hours, his hand against the cold porcelain of the sink, his seed splattering against the tile floor, he could only gasp out one word.
"Why?"
.***
You look like hell, Finn.
"I can't help you if you don't help me, Mister Mulligan."
I want you to see the firm counselor.
"You have to at least believe that I can do that--that I can help you."
No. No. That's not what I'm saying--your performance has been excellent as always. It's just that I'm afraid if you keep this up, and if you go to trial looking like you've been up all night running a meth lab...Jesus, Finn, I shouldn't even have to say this. You know how important it is to look composed. The fact that we're even having this argument means that you need to see Dr. West.
"Do you believe I can help you, Mister Mulligan?"
Finn hated fatties and he hated queers, and Davis West, PhD was both. Well, he was sure of the first part at least.
"Honestly? No," the rabbit admitted as he leaned back in his chair, sighing as he rubbed his face, "But, while I'm here...sure. I'll play ball."
The raccoon pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows as he shifted in his chair.
"Fair enough. Now, Mister Horne's told me that you've been having trouble sleeping, and from the looks of you, I'd say that he was right. Care to tell me about that?"
"Well obviously not, but sure. I've been having...ah fuck...it's trite, but I've been having dreams. And don't go all Freudian on me--a cigar really is just a cigar."
"And have you been dreaming about cigars?"
Finn chuckled. "No...no not about cigars."
"What, then?"
Ropes...ropes in strange and beautiful patterns...suspended upside down like the man in the tarot card, blindfolded...faceless, gloved hands stroking every inch of my body...
"Just...nightmares. Falling, being chased...standard stuff."
"Anything of a sexual nature?"
Finn gritted his teeth. "No. Why do you ask?"
"Because you appear to have suddenly developed an erection, Mister Finn. Also, you appear to be stroking yourself through your pants."
His eyes widened like a deer's in headlights and he glanced down--it was true. Even as he looked, the tent in his slacks leaped and strained against the Italian fabric, forcing his cock against the palm of his hand.
"I...I..."
"Now, Mister Mulligan, everything we say and do in this office is strictly confidential, but I will have to ask you to stop."
That queer. That fat queer wasn't even batting an eye. He just sat there in his cheap suit as he made notes on his little clip board...no anger, no surprise in his fat fucking face...
"Mister Mulligan. Finn. I think that there are some issues here that you're...ahh...reluctant to deal with, and I think that these are most certainly the cause of your nightmares."
No word from Finn, only a sort of gasping, choking sound.
"Now I'm going to have my secretary schedule you for weekly appointments. An hour every...Wednesday just after lunch. Would that do? Not when you have trials scheduled, and you'll be fully compensated of course..."
Compensated.
Compensation.
All of a sudden, a great number of things began to make a great deal of sense.
"Won Ton."
"No thank you, Finn, I've already eaten. Besides, my cardiologist says that Asian food is far too high in sodium and...Finn? Mister Mulligan?"
When West looked up, the second chair was empty. Somewhere behind him, he could hear the door slam.