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The Psychology of Dreams 101: Part 2

Writing pen and birds 1_xl_20156020What if you got punished when you didn’t get your dreams right? That’s the dilemma our heroin, Leah, has in the second instalment of The Psychology of Dreams 101.

No, I didn’t dream it, and I’m seriously hoping I dot get punished like Leah and Al do if I don’t get it quite right, but The Psychology of Dreams did bubble up from somewhere in my unconscious last week, and I had to share it. The Muse has been back knocking around in my imagination again, so today I’m back with another instalment of a new serial.

The Psychology of Dreams 101, is a romp into the sexy unconscious as Leah Kent takes a Psychology of Dreams adult education class, only to discover that the required Dream Journal leads to some seriously kinky night journeys.

I have no idea how long this little ditty will be, nor where it will lead, but I’m willing if you are. Please, read and enjoy The Psychology of Dreams 101.

 

 

 

The Psychology of Dreams 101: Chapter 2

Blank Pages and Punishment 

“I’m not pleased with your dream journal, Leah.” It was so much like the dream, that it took her breath away. She stood before Al Foster’s desk in the empty classroom, him offering her a concerned look over the top of his glasses. It was so much like the dream, in fact, that she gave a quick glance down to make sure she still wore jeans and a pullover and not transparent red underwear.

“I don’t understand,” she said, clasping her bag to her chest to hide the press of her nipples, which didn’t really care if she wore red underwear or not. They seemed more interested in the close proximity of Al Foster.

“Why are you writing down made-up dreams? I can tell when you’re making it up, Leah. I can always tell. Is the technique I shared with you not working? If not, just tell me and we can try something else.”

“I haven’t been using the technique,” she blurted. “I haven’t needed to.” Fuck! That was an unfortunate slip.

“Oh?”

She tried to recall if she’d ever seen bluer eyes than his. Her dreams got it right, even with the glasses that made him look like a sexy nerd, you couldn’t miss the blue. His unkempt blond hair was the color of ripe wheat. Her dreams got that right too. She loved the way it fell down all disorderly and wild over his eyes when he spanked her.

“Leah? Are you all right?”

She jumped at the sound of her name. “I’m sorry. I’ve not been sleeping well,” she said. She didn’t know why she said that. If anything she’d been sleeping too well.

“Oh?” He slid his chair back and came to stand beside her. He was taller than she thought, and she blushed at the sight of his belt, brown leather. It looked soft like swede, but she knew it packed a wallop – at least it did when he wielded it. “Is it because of the dreams?” His blue gaze studying her from behind the glasses made her feel like she was under a microscope or in front of a two-way mirror, made her feel like she was standing there in his classroom in nothing but transparent red underwear. “Leah,” he said, touching her shoulder and gently guiding her to sit in one of the seats in the front row, while he pulled a chair up to face her. “Are the dreams erotic? Is that why you feel you can’t write them down for me? Because everyone has erotic dreams and, in fact, they may well be more likely to if they’re keeping a dream journal for sharing.

“They’re about you.” She hadn’t planned to say that. She’d planned to lie, but she was never very good at lying.

He blinked, and she watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “About me.”

She nodded.

“Well,” he scooted back ever so slightly and straightened in his chair so that he could study her more Sleeping woman reading181340322466666994_IswNAb85_bcarefully, “that’s not unusual either.” He smiled, and a soft blush crawled up his neck and onto his cheeks. “I’ve actually had students make up dreams about me. They were surprised when I called them on it. I have to say you’re the first woman to do the opposite, to hide those dreams from me. Oh, it’s not unusual for people to try to hide their erotic dreams, not at all, but I can pretty much guess that if a particularly steamy dream turns up about me, the writer is a woman. She’s made it up, and it’s more a fantasy than any dream she’s likely to have.”

“Oh believe me, it’s better this way,” she managed, still clutching her bag to her chest. “I mean me keeping them from you. I … I could barely write them down for myself.”

“But you did then? You did write them down?”

She nodded, her mouth gone suddenly dry. She hadn’t meant to tell him that either. “Just not in there.” She gestured to her class dream journal laying on his desk.

“I see.” He ran a hand through his hair leaving it standing in spikes and waves, making her ache to straighten it for him, or maybe muss it up further. “Leah, will you let me read the real journal. No one will know what you wrote but you and I, and I understand the psychology of dreams; I understand that we have no control over what happens in the unconscious. I promise I would never –”

“You spank me,” she blurted.

He sucked a heavy breath. “I spank you?”

“Yes, you spank me, and you tell me you’ll keep punishing me until I get my dreams right, until I dream about you, and it’s always the same, with the two of us alone in this room and you taking your belt off and you turning me over your knee and telling me that if you spank me, then maybe the pain in my — ” she made a quick jerk of her neck toward her backside “—will help remind me to dream of you. There’s only the one dream,” she added quickly, “well variations of it.”

After a few fish gasps and another hand through his hair, he squared his shoulders, and shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I see. So, recurring dreams, are they?” He offered her a smile that wavered only slightly.

“Recurring? Yes, I suppose they are. I never thought of it like that.” If she was going to be brave enough to tell him the truth, then she might as well show him the rest of it too. She dug in her bag for her real dream journal and pulled out the page that she’d torn from the one for class, the page with the note she’d written to herself. “I woke up to find this in my journal after the first spanking dream.” She handed it to him.

To her shock and discomfort, he read it out loud.

You look beautiful when you dream. It was a good dream, the kind you don’t want to wake up from. At last, Leah, you’re doing it right! You can always tell when you do it right by the way your nipples bead beneath the sheet, by the way your lips turn up at the corners, slightly parted as though waiting to be kissed. And, take a sniff, Leah. Your scent is the scent of dreams well dreamed, luscious and ripe. Well done, Leah! Well done!

For a moment they both sat in silence, him staring down at the words on the page, her staring at her feet.Dreams imageIMG_0347 Then he took off his glasses and joined her in gazing at his own feet. At last he raised his eyes back to her and took a deep breath. “Why did you tear this out?”

“Because I don’t remember writing it. It’s not a dream, it’s like, I don’t know, me talking to myself in my sleep or something, and I thought if you read it you’d think … ”

“I’d think what?”

“That I just made it up that I was just being … you know, pathetic.”

“Why would I think that?” He put his glasses back on and looked at the note again. “It seems to me like your unconscious had you pegged pretty well here,” then he added quickly, “of course I don’t know what you look like when you dream or what your physiological responses are, but it makes sense. I … I smell differently when I wake up after a strong dream, and,” he looked away quickly, “I get … hard too, when I’m doing it right.” He blushed and she blushed for him and they were both looking at their feet again.

“But how can there be a right way and a wrong way to dream? I mean I’ve read way ahead in the texts you’ve recommended and done some research on my own. We really sort of just dream what we dream, don’t we?”

“That’s what I thought,” he said, scooting closer to her with a screech of the chair legs on the floor. “But then I started getting … comments like this.” He nodded down to her note, “comments from my unconscious, I assume, and I also have dreams about not doing it right.”

“Did you get … you know … spanked?”

This time it was more than a blush, his whole face redden, and the fine muscles along his cheek bones twitched. “It was rather more than a spanking, I’m afraid.”

“More than a spanking?” Her pulse hammered in her words, as she pushed forward on the edge of her seat.

“Do you know anything about BDSM, Leah?” His own pulse kept beat in his words and thudded in his throat as he pinned her in his gaze.

“A little. I’ve read a few novels, done a bit of research … online,” she added quickly.

“Does it frighten you?”

“A little yes. And it intrigues me.”

“This time I was tied up, flogged and had … implements placed …” He looked away as though he expected to find the words he was looking for floating on the air outside the window in the parking lot. “I had things shoved up my … butt,” he finally managed avoiding her gaze.

“Oh? Oh, wow!” The words were out before she could stop them. And they were followed in rapid succession by, “how was it?”

“Not like I expected.” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “I woke up … aroused,” he gave a little nod and lowered his eyes to the note still clenched in his hand. “I had to masturbate before I could function and, after, I found a note in my dream journal similar to this. One I don’t remember writing. Anyway,” he said looking up at her again. “The person doing things to me, in my dream, she kept saying that I wasn’t doing it right, that I should dream about her and she would punish me until I did.”

“She?” Leah asked.” He nodded, carefully maintaining uncomfortable eye contact. “Was she me?” The words were out before she could stop them. Clearly the internal editor was having a day off, she thought.

“I honestly don’t know. I never saw her face. But I know she was a woman because I felt her breasts against my back when she moved in close to tighten my bonds.” He glanced at the door as though he feared someone might be listening there. “I know you must think me some kind of a pervert telling you this, you being my student and all, but I’ve been teaching this class for ten years – here and in other places; I’ve seen more dream journals than I could possibly keep track of, and most of them are full of dreams that are just exactly what I would expect to surface from someone’s unconscious.” He shrugged. “I get a fair few people, women in particular, faking their dreams, making them up either to impress me or because they’re embarrassed. But you – you started out writing your dreams, and then you suddenly stopped after you’d been so earnest in your efforts with the journal. I knew something was up. I could feel it. I never expected this though.” He nodded down to the note he still held, then handed it back to her.

“The thing is, Leah, no on else has ever had a similar experience, an experience that mirrors my own, until you.”

For a moment the two sat in silence, and then Leah took a deep breath. “You said ‘this time,’ like it wasn’t the first time, like it’s happened before.”

“Lots of times before.”dark moon image_xl_6338206

“And it’s different each time?”

“Not every time, but frequently. What’s always the same is that it involves some kind of erotic punishment, and I never climax in the dream, though I want to. I really need to. I wake up frustrated and unable to do anything until I … take care of it. It’s the same for you, isn’t it, Leah?”

 

Sarah Blake: WLTM Handsome Prince… Seeking the Truth Behind the Fairy Tale Hero

Sarah Blake 8I can’t tell you how excited I am to have the totally awesome Sarah Blake as my guest today. Sarah is a playwright, theatre director and story teller, and founder of Cabinets of Curiosity. I had the pleasure of seeing Sarah’s fabulous play, Five Clever Courtesans, in London before it toured the Edinburgh Fringe, the Brighton Fringe and the HoffART Theatre in Germany. Most recently I’ve enjoyed her wonderful Fairy Tales for Adults, giving a whole different view on Happy Ever After and the story behind the stories. An audiobook of her trilogy of Fairy Tales For Grown Ups is now available to download worldwide from Amazon, iTunes and Audible. For further information, visit: www.soundscurious.net 

 

 

Welcome, Sarah! Do tell! 

 

By Sarah Blake

Sara Blake 5“Some day, my prince will come,
Some day, I’ll find my love
And how thrilling that moment will be!
When the prince of my dreams comes to me!”

So Snow White sings, in the Disney version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. The lyrics are simple, yet potent – in one short verse, they seem to echo back all the wistfulness and longing that we feel when we are waiting for… what, exactly?

Who, precisely, is this Prince of our Dreams? And why, even now, is he still seen as a shortcut to a happy ending?

The Prince is a standard figure in most fairy tales – and in stories that have a female protagonist (such as Cinderella, Snow White, Beauty and the Beast, or Sleeping Beauty), he is the ultimate goal – both the readers and the heroine know she has made it to happy-ever-after, once she has met and married him. But even outside the fairytale world, the figure of the Prince pervades contemporary folk and pop-culture genres – rom-com films, romantic novels and tv dramas are full of him. He remains the ultimate symbol of wish-fulfillment, and with the exception of a few surface tweaks, his persona has changed very little over the past few decades, in spite of the rise of feminism. So why does he persist? What drives contemporary storytellers – as well contemporary audiences – to continue to conflate the Prince with happy ever after?

Sarah Blake 1The psychologist Carl Jung theorised that all standard fairy tale characters (or ‘archetypes’) – such as the Prince, the Witch, the Stepmother, etc. – actually represent aspects of our subconscious selves. Viewed in this way, every story can be seen as the reflection of a person – and the interplay and conflict that occurs between the characters within the story mirrors the interplay and conflict that occurs within our own minds, as our subconscious traits and desires vie for dominance. In Jungian terms, the Prince/Hero archetype represents our desire to seek out a better way of life and find greater fulfillment – but practically-speaking, what does this mean?

Forget the fairy tales for a moment – in reality, for hundreds of years, women had no right to work, own money or property, or to engage in politics and vote. In other words, they had no power over their own fates whatsoever. The only way they could attain any degree of influence, privilege, security, comfort, or social status was by marrying well – and so

Sarah Blake 6literally, marrying the Prince (or the closest you could get to one) was your only chance to better your circumstances – both practically, in the material sense of having more wealth and security, but also personally, because society judged your worth by your husband – and all too often, society’s external judgements were (and continue to be) internalised within women’s own minds.

Today, women can and do seek independence. They can make their own fortunes and fulfill their own destinies. They can, theoretically, do anything a man can. Yet we still live in a patriarchal society. Any cursory glance at employment figures (where there is still a huge wage gap between men and women), the justice system (where the majority of female victims of sexual violence still see their attackers walk free), or the media (which still focuses unrelentingly on how women look, rather than on their characters or achievements) quickly demonstrates the inequality that still exists. So, too, do those societal judgements of women and the corresponding internalisations of self-worth that such judgements foster. And so, within a patriarchal society, the Prince remains an external symbol of internal desire, especially for women – because he represents a degree of privilege and freedom that most women can still only dream of. No matter how handsome he may be, it is rarely the Prince himself who is truly yearned for… rather, the privileges of liberty, autonomy and self-esteem that go along with him.

Sarah Blake 9The potency of the Prince as a representation of female desire is particularly heightened when we think of him in terms of romantic/sexual fulfillment. Even now, in our far less repressed age, women are still judged for their sexual appetites. They are frequently condemned as ‘sluts’ or ‘whores’ if they exercise their right to sexual liberty, or express their sensuality on their own terms – whereas similar behaviour in their male counterparts is often approved of by society at large, or merely shrugged off with an indulgent “boys will be boys” attitude. Women’s erotic lives are still all too often parcelled up with being looked at – being seen to be desirable, rather than having the autonomy and freedom to enjoy what feels desirable. So the Prince can also represent a woman’s license to roam freely, explore extensively and and enjoy (without fear of judgement) any and every erotic fantasy she can conjure. As long as an imbalance of power continues to exist between men and women, the Prince will always be there, representing a woman’s yearning for empowerment.

I would suggest that, for many women who sigh after a Prince-type hero – be it onscreen in a Disney Sarah Blake 2film, or within the pages of a romantic novel – what they are actually sighing for is autonomy and self-fulfillment. It might be sexual fulfillment, or intellectual, or economic, or social, or spiritual – or all of the above. The specific details of the desire don’t matter, so much as the desire itself. Whatever a woman yearns for, or feels is lacking in her life – freedom, self-knowledge, self-esteem, romance, adventure, recognition, a sense of connection – is what the Prince is there to provide. Historically, that has always been his role. And psychologically – while we continue to live within a patriarchal society – it remains so.

Viewed in this light, it’s easy to see why the Prince remains such a popular figure. However, this perspective also highlights the hazards for women who seek the fulfillment of all their desires through a literal prince – as well as for the men who find themselves unwittingly cast in that role. Whether you are male or female, patriarchal Sarah Blake 4expectations can place you in a trap, because the Prince was never meant to be real. He is an internal figure – an aspect of your own psyche – and finding your happy ending has as much to do with discovering and developing his characteristics within your own personality, as it has with finding another person to love. For far too long, women have been raised and encouraged by popular culture to view the Prince as a real, flesh-and-blood alpha male, who will swoop in and rescue them from all their troubles and worries. This is not only patronising to women, it is also extremely hard on men – after all, why should one flawed, fragile human be made to carry the full burden of another’s every hope and expectation?

Fortunately, fairy tales can provide us with a way past these traps and hazards. When viewed symbolically, what they teach us – at their deepest level – is that romance is only one aspect of joyful fulfillment and, ultimately, the only person who can rescue you, fulfill all your deepest desires and give you your happy ending is… yourself.Sarah Blake 3

This is the premise behind the three fairy tales in my own trilogy of stories – Fairy Tales For Grown Ups. The clue is in the title – they are stories for those of us who have been around the block a few times and are genuinely ready to help ourselves to a more balanced and fulfilling life. In some ways, they are very traditional tales – full of comedy, adventure, wit and, yes, even romance… fear not – the happy endings are still there! But I’ve also written these tales from a perspective of conscious awareness – so as well as serving to entertain, they can also be used as lights to illuminate the dark places in your mind and heart… and light up your path, as you venture forth into the deep forest.

Which path you decide to take, once you enter the forest, is up to you – and perhaps, like many a fairy tale heroine, you’ll discover that the path you choose end ups taking you somewhere completely unexpected. But whatever it is that you are wishing for – and no matter how you decide to pursue that wish – fairy tales are there to help you along your path. So is the Prince. He is waiting within you, ready to set forth on a perilous journey and brave unknown hazards, in order to find and fulfill your heart’s desire (whatever that might be). So, saddle up… and get ready for the quest of you life.

 

 

About Sarah Blake:Sarah Blake 7

 

Sarah Blake is a playwright, theatre director and storyteller. An audiobook of her trilogy of enchanted stories – Fairy Tales For Grown Ups – is available to download worldwide from Amazon, iTunes and Audible. For further information, visit: www.soundscurious.net

 

Three Things I Consider when Writing Sex

Scribe computer keyboardMG_0777I’m sure everyone has sniggered over the annual list of contenders for the Bad Sex Awards. The little snippets from the poor authors who drew the attention of said awards are always great entertainment, but never in the way they were intended. It’s no secret, authors who write in genres other than erotica often find sex in fiction a challenge, even frightening – no matter how well-known or prolific they are and, fair enough – sex is hard to write well. We can cut them a bit of slack because they’re not erotica writers, but poorly written sex should NEVER be an issue for an author of erotica or romance in which that act of connecting is central to the plot.

 

Context is everything in writing a good sex scene, just as it is in writing any good scene, and context is way more complex that it might appear at first thought. Contemporary erotica is obviously not like historical erotica, but neither is contemporary erotica set in New York City going to have the same feel to it as sex in a story set in rural America or a story about a tourist in Paris. Context involves time, place and language. Few things are more jarring that to have characters speak sexy out of context – even if they talk dirty – and don’t we love it when they do — it should still be dirty talk in context.

 

The context is also what each character brings into the sex act – their baggage, their neuroses, their kinks, their fears, their history up until that point. A virgin raised in a conservative household, having her/his first sexual encounter is unlikely to react the way someone who is more experienced would. A person who is embarrassed or ashamed of their body, won’t react the same way someone who is comfortable in their own skin will.

 

jail cellAnd let’s not forget the situation. Angry sex won’t have the same feel as tender first-time sex or a quickie, or bored-now-let’s-get-it-over-with sex. Which leads me to the second thing to remember – timing.

 

Timing of a sex scene in a story is essential. Gratuitous sex is never a welcome edition unless you’re just writing wank material. Sex in a story, like everything else in a story, should do at least one of three things 1. Further the plot in some way. 2. Reveal more about the characters. 3. Cause some serious chaos and up the stakes.

 

A sex scene that happens too early in the story will make the reader less likely to continue after the “money shot.” A sex scene that happens too late or doesn’t happen at all will make the reader feel cheated. A sex scene that doesn’t need to be there slows the momentum of the story and, if you’ve created a pacey, interesting plot in which the reader’s engrossed, they may well just skip the sex scene anyway.

 

Language is at least as important in a sex scene as it is in any other part of story. The one place you don’t want your reader jarred out of is the sex act. Filthy is as filthy fits. If dirty language fits the context use it, if awkward inexperienced banter fits, use it, if perhaps it’s medical kink, use the anatomical terms.

globe CRAM_Lisbon_illuminated_world_globe_desktop

This is another example where context is everything. You all know, I write erotica and harder erotic romance under the name K D Grace and my softer, sizzling romance, I write as Grace Marshall. The choice of language used in the two is quite different, and that difference is essential. You won’t find any hard erotica language in a GM novel, but the heat level is still there.

 

Has anyone noticed that a great deal of paranormal romance is really outrageously erotic? Interestingly

enough, it doesn’t get labeled erotica in bookstores or on Amazon because of the language in which the sex scenes are couched. The way in which words generate heat doesn’t necessarily have to do with how graphic they are. Sometimes it has to do with how suggestive they are, how sensual they are, how much they draw the reader into the situation. That isn’t something easily done, but it’s essential to write the level of heat into the language appropriate for the story being told. Cunts, pussies and spunk spurting cocks are out of context in a romance, but just because the words aren’t used, doesn’t mean all of the above aren’t fully present in the story. Either different words are used or the bits mentioned are written around rather than bluntly approached.

 

And now it’s time for my Pet Language Peeve. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been totally jarred out of a story because some writer was trying not to overuse breasts and stuck in the word globe, which puts me right back in my grade school geography class. Perhaps a writer thought maybe they’d used 7401867966b49d9e25e799def0c09daefingers and hands too often and stuck in the word “digits.” My husband is a chemical engineer, he uses digits all the time in his calculations, but he doesn’t run digits through my long flowing locks. You flip pancakes, not a lover, a canal is what you take a boat down in Venice, not the thing you stick a cock in. If you need to use a word twice, use it twice! Use it three times! Hell, fill a whole paragraph with it! Just please don’t throw your reader out of the story by trying not to be repetitive. A little repetition is far less jarring that a word that takes the reader out of the action and back to grade school. Think about the choice of words and phrases you use. If you don’t want to overuse a word, then rephrase the sentence, rewrite the paragraph, consider whether or not you can eliminate some of the sentences with overused words altogether. Of course every reader, every writer, has different pet peeves, different bugaboos and someone is bound to shudder at the use of “cunt” or the use of “boobs,” or the use of … well just about everything. All I’m saying is choose you words carefully. Make them fit the characters and the situation.

 

Thus endeth the sermon! Go thou forth and write sexy stuff!

 

NEW STORY! The Psychology of Dreams 101

I’m certainly empty nesting now that In The Flesh has come to an end. I had planned a few weeks off Sleeping woman reading181340322466666994_IswNAb85_bwith just stories and snippets from the archives posted before I began anything major, but my Muse clearly had other ideas.

No, I didn’t dream it, but it bubbled up from somewhere last night about an hour before bedtime, so today I have the first episode of a new serial, literally just finished minutes ago. The Psychology of Dreams 101, is a romp into the sexy unconscious as Leah Kent takes a Psychology of Dreams adult education class, only to discover that the required Dream Journal leads to some seriously kinky night journeys.

I have no idea how long this little ditty will be, nor where it will lead, but I’m willing if you are. Please, read and enjoy The Psychology of Dreams 101.

 

 

The Psychology of Dreams 101 Chapter 1

 

You look beautiful when you dream.

 

That was the first sentence; that was how it all started. Leah thought it might be some sort of lucid dreaming when she saw the words scrawled across the page of her open journal on the nightstand. She’d had every intention of asking her instructor about it, but then she couldn’t really tell him the dream that had brought it on, could she? It sounded like the sort of thing the unconscious of a pathetically shy introvert would write to herself from the dream world because no one in the waking world would and, while that might be true – the pathetic introvert part, she didn’t want to make it more obvious to her instructor than it probably already was – especially when she had half a crush on him. Besides, it also sounded like the sort of thing a sex-crazed slut might write to herself when her vibe batteries ran down. That made her sound even more pathetic – the vibe and the batteries part, not the slut part.

Dreams image 2IMG_0351She had just started a course on the psychology of dreams. She tried to take advantage of the adult education classes whenever possible. It got her out of the house and forced her to interact with other people – real flesh and blood people. With her job, online shopping, online banking, direct debit, grocery delivery, she never had to leave the house really, and that suited her just fine, but she knew it shouldn’t. She knew it wasn’t healthy. Sometimes going to the classes was more of an ordeal than a pleasure, but that was not the case for the psychology of dreams class.

She had to admit, she’d taken that course because she’d overheard several women giggling and talking about how hot the instructor was and how their dreams had become very sexy since they’d started his class. A part of the class work was to keep a dream journal. The women had been sitting at the table next to her in the coffee shop pouring over their journals together and laughing about how they thought Al — Al Foster was the instructor – would respond when he read their dreams. She’d been taking a photography course then, and it had been one of the few times Leah had actually forced herself to initiate conversation, asking the women about the class. They were only too happy to share, and soon she was laughing and blushing and joking right along with them as they told her all about the psychology of dreams course and how it had truly stimulated their dream life. The next term, she signed right up.

A dream journal — that had sounded simple enough when Al – he’d insisted they all call him Al – had explained what it was. All she had to do was write down her dreams every morning when she woke up. But by the time she sat down at the breakfast table with her bowl of cereal and her coffee, dream journal and pen at the ready, she could remember nothing but bits of broken images — nothing dramatic, nothing with hidden psychological meaning – certainly nothing sexy. After a week of drawing blanks from the dream world, Al had helpfully suggested that she keep the journal open by her bed, and that she set an alarm for every two hours. When the alarm went off, she was then to write, just in a few key words of what she remembered, words that would jog her memory in the morning.

The first time the alarm went off, she woke disoriented and confused. By the time she remembered why she’d set the alarm, she also remembered she’d forgot to set the trash out for pick-up. She remembered that she needed to order some more vitamins online. She remembered that she needed to put the clothes in the dryer, but what she didn’t remember was her dreams. The second alarm, she must have unconsciously shut off before she got fully awake, but on the third, she managed a little dream snippet about chasing a big dog through the local McDonalds, a dog who had shamelessly stolen her Big Mac right out of her hand. She hated Big Macs, and big dogs made her nervous. Well that was at least something to analyze, wasn’t it? Though Freud had insisted that sometimes a cigar was just a cigar, surely that didn’t hold true for Big Macs, which she didn’t like, and big dogs, which she didn’t trust. Al would be pleased.

The second night there was a dream about a leather jacket with a huge snake for a collar, a snake that 7401867966b49d9e25e799def0c09daetalked — kind of like a parrot. There was a dream in which she’d gone to the supermarket and ended up in a maze unable to find her way out. There was a dream of planting begonias in front of the convenience store around the corner. For the rest of the week, she was excited to see that the setting of the alarms was working. Her key words helped her to remember details, and the rest was easy.

Saturday night she’d stayed up late watching a romcom marathon. She’d had popcorn, polished off the best part of a bottle of wine and there had been plenty of chocolate while she watched The Ugly Truth, Sabrina, Friends with Benefits, and When Harry Met Sally. She loved romcoms. They made her feel like there was someone for everyone, and though she wasn’t unhappy being alone, she liked the thought that somewhere out there, her counterpart was thinking the same thing.

She fell asleep halfway through Sleepless in Seattle, and when she woke up and stumbled off to bed, she’d forgot to set her dream alarms, though in truth she was beginning to remember her dreams more easily now, just as Al had said she would.

Perhaps it was OD-ing on romcoms that caused her to have sexy dream about Al. In truth they were mostly just images, disjointed, arousing, sometimes shameful images – images of walking into his office and finding him masturbating, images of somehow ending up in the men’s locker room at the gym and finding him in the shower, steamy water pulsing over strong arms and a tight ass as he hunched over himself paying particular attention to the soaping of his junk. There was one dream, however, that she remembered vividly. Al sat behind his desk in the empty classroom, clad in his usual polo shirt and jeans. He had asked her to stay after. “I’m not happy with your dream journal, Leah,” he said, looking her up and down. She suddenly felt naked, embarrassed, and dreams being what they were, well she had good reason. She wore only red lace underwear that was nearly transparent; certainly they did nothing to disguise her heavy nipples. “When are you going to learn that all you have to do is just relax and let it happen?”

“I try, Al, really I do, but I just can’t seem to dream about you.”

“Then perhaps you need a little encouragement.” He stood and pulled his belt from its loops around his waist all the while raking her with a critical gaze. “If I lay a few bright pink welts across your nice round ass, do you think maybe when you lie down in bed tonight, when your poor tender bottom touches those clean rough sheets, you might manage to remember me in your dreams?”

“Yes. Yes, I think that might help,” she said. Fuck! What was she thinking? How could she agree to such a thing? And yet, she did, most heartily she did.

Before she could say more, or rethink the arrangement, he yanked her around the desk, dropped back into the chair and pulled her over his knees. He all but tore her panties off her and she woke screaming and begging just as the first lash fell. For a moment she lay in the darkness gasping for breath, struggling with the strange mix of emotions that came from wanting the man to spank her and yet not, but certainly wishing she could go back to sleep and finish the dream. She was wet with sweat and, was she imagining it, or did her bottom actually hurt? She was definitely not imaging her state of arousal. There would be no returning to the dream world until she could make herself a little more comfortable, and that meant fantasizing about just what Al would do after he’d finished spanking her. It didn’t take her long to bring herself over the edge, and then she fell almost instantly back to sleep.

It was the morning sun streaming through the curtains she forgot to close that woke her, disappointed that Al Foster had not returned to her dreamscape, though he had, nonetheless, provided her with a good orgasm. Certainly she couldn’t’ write any of those dreams in her journal. She might have to start a private journal just for sexy dreams – assuming this wasn’t a one-off. God, she hoped this wasn’t a one-off.

As she sat up on the edge of her bed and stretched, she noticed the dream journal open with the pen america-artist-art-paintings-prints-note-cards-by-howard-chandler-christy-nude-women-reading-approximate-original-size-18x16lying across the page, which read:

You look beautiful when you dream. It was a good dream, the kind you don’t want to wake up from. At last, Leah, you’re doing it right! You can always tell when you do it right by the way your nipples bead beneath the sheet, by the way your lips turned up at the corners, slightly parted as though waiting to be kissed. And, take a sniff, Leah. Your scent is the scent of dreams well dreamed, luscious and ripe. Well done, Leah! Well done!

There was no doubt the writing was her own, though way neater than most of the scrawl she’d written at speed. The thing was, she had no memory of writing it.

 

Doing Lip Service

Lipssugar-lips-kisses-hd-desktop-wallpaper-widescreen-backgrounds-for-mobile-tablet-and-pc-free-images-download

(From the Archives)

I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like it’s a proper sex scene, or even a proper PG love scene, unless there’s some serious lip action. Here are a few fun factoids about the lip lock from Psychology Today , How Stuff Works and Random Facts:

 

 

 

  • The science of kissing is called philematology.
  • Lips are 100 times more sensitive than the tips of the fingers. They’re even more sensitive that the genitals!
  • The most important muscle in kissing is the orbicularis oris, which allows the lips to “pucker.”
  • French kissing involves 34 muscles in the face, while a pucker kiss involves just two.
  • A nice romantic kiss burns 2-3 calories, while a hot sizzler can burn off five or even more.
  • The mucus membranes inside the mouth are permeable to hormones. Through open-mouth kissing, men introduced testosterone into a woman’s mouth, the absorption of which increases arousal and the likelihood of rumpy pumpy.
  • Apparently men like it wet and sloppy while women like it long and lingering.
  • While we Western folk do lip service, some cultures do nose service, smelling for that romantic, sexual connection. Very mammalian, if you ask me, and who doesn’t love a good dose of pheromonal yumminess?
  • Then there’s good old fashion bonding. It’s no secret that kissing someone you like increases closeness.

 

While all that’s interesting to know, what really intrigues me about kisses is how something seemingly so fragile can become so mind-blowingly powerful when lips, tongue, a whisp of breath, perhaps a nip of teeth are applied in the right porportion at the right time on the right part of the anatomy. And with the size of the human body in proportion to the mouth, the possibilities for a delicious outcome are only as limited as the imagination.

 

Kissing-LipsOne theory is that kissing evolved from the act of mothers premasticating food for their infants, back in the pre-baby food days, and then literally kissing it into their mouths. Birds still do that. The sharing of food mouth to mouth is also a courtship ritual, and birds aren’t the only critters who do that. Even with no food involved the tasting, touching and sniffing of mouths of possible mates, or even as an act of
submission, is very much a part of the animal kingdom.

 

The sharing of food is one of the most basic functions, the function that kept us all alive when we were too small to care for ourselves. The mouth is that magical place where something from the outside world is ingested and becomes a part of our inside world, giving us energy and strength. Not only is the mouth the receptacle for food, it’s the passage for oxygen. Pretty much all that has to pass into the body to sustain life passes through the mouth. I find it fascinating that the kiss, one of the most basic elements in Western mating ritual and romance, should involve such a live-giving part of our anatomy.

 

But the mouth does more than just allow for the intake of the sustenance we need. The mouth allows us voice. I doubt there are many people who appreciate that quite as much as we writers, who love words and the power they give us. And how can I think about the power of words without thinking about the power of words in song and poetry? Our mouths connect us in language, in thought, in the courtship of words that allow us to know and understand each other before those mouths take us to that intimate place of the kiss. And when that kiss becomes a part of our sexual experience, it’s that mouth, that tongue, those lips that allow us to say what we like and how we like it; that allow us to talk dirty; that allow us to vocalise our arousal; that allow us to laugh or tease our way to deeper intimacy.Auguste Rodin’s The Kiss

The fact that the mouth offers all those wonderful, life-giving, life enhancing things, AND can kiss,

makes it one of my very favourite parts of the body

 

“If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

Romeo and Juliet Act 1 Scene 5

William Shakespeare

 
© 2017 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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