Prologue
The darkness shiverred. It coalesced growing nearer and disentangled in its departure; dimmer here, thinner there, denser yon and always that deep, eternal shade of black. It was the darkness of the womb: the pre-birth place where rested the liquid thought-stuff of amniotic dreams. And as it was stirred by outside movement, the liquid poured fantasia sparks, warm embers, shooting stars streaking a cross a field of black, all to the hollow rhythm of a heart at work. A heart that beat faster, pumping adrenaline through veins, arteries and capillaries; squeezing it into muscles locked in paralysis, a rictus so binding it made the bones ache and the lungs burn for want of a deeply drawn breath. Into this nightmare, Trey awoke, unable to move, or to speak, or to whimper.
Deep in the part of his animal brain that ruled such things, his awareness reached out to touch the familiar shapes and the shadows they cast in the gray night. He was on his back, the covers a tangle around his ankles, his boxer shorts low on one hip and riding high on one thigh. In the distant recesses of the house, the refrigerator motor clicked on, humming its electric tune. A leaky faucet in the bathroom dripped; the toilet gurgled. The bed moved, groaning beneath the weight of another. A silent plea for help was met by an equally silent denial, and though he fought against the heavy, invisible shackles that tied him down, he found that only his eyes were free to move.
Shielded by a shadow stripe, the presence slid along his leg hairs, gliding into place near his groin and there settling like a breeze; unseen, but known by the effects it had on its environment. Fingers reached through the fly at the front of his underwear, brushing against his scrotum, pulling his jewles free; curled around the base of his slumbering manhood to slip its limp weight through the opening. A shudder rippled through nerve roots but was unable, or unwilling, to manifest fully. The ghost hand stroked; his body betrayed him.
He had had wet dreams before, the erotic machinations of a hormone fevered mind getting him off in his sleep to awake sticky, crusty, and frustrated the next morning. But this was no dream. This was real. A hand not his own worked up and down upon him, held his balls with tender care. It was rape, and it was wrong, and his mind rebelled against the pleasure.
The shadows shifted. For an instant, moonlight poured through the blinds, falling upon a pale torso; a man's stomach, a man's chest, a man's thighs bent at the knee on either side of Trey's supine body. A man's hand twisting up the shaft, over the bruised, purple head to send an arc of electricity through his prick. It bounced and pulsed in the unfamiliar grasp; the grasp that was drawing him closer to the edge of climax. It was as solid and as real as his own flesh, but it was dreamy and insubstantial too. He tried to remember it, but each sweep of the eye erased it before the memory could form. The shadow fell again, leaving him with nothing but sensation and the growing anticipation of a stolen orgasm.
A hot tear separated itself from the corner of his eye, tracing a path down the side of his head to be absorbed by his sleep tossed hair where it cooled, laying there wet and frigid and mocking him. He squeezed his eyelids tight, forcing every ounce of concentration he had into the act of moving a leg, or an arm, or a hand. If only he could move his hand, or a finger, the spell would be broken and he would be lifted out of the terror!
The spectral grasp around his manhood ceased its ministrations just as the point of no return appeared as an insatiable itch needing to be scratched. Seething, his drooling organ fell backward against his body, the sound of it slapping against him muffled by his boxer shorts. The presence moved, its weight shifting on the bed, getting heavier, realer, pressing against him. Crushing him.
A full breath became a distant memory of happier times gone by. Now, all he had to look forward to were sharp, wheezing sounds out of sync with his natural rhythms, his body's tissues crying out for oxygen. He was dying, the life being squeezed out from him, and there was nothing he could do to save himself. His breath hitched. It stopped. His consciousness slipped on black ice, and he was falling; tumbling into a hellishly empty precipice.
Then, lips moved against his in the darkness, warm, soft, and full of life. Fingers coiled in his hair, his ears filling with an enchanting song that sange the praises of Eternity itself. In midair, he rolled over, his body obeying him at long last. He pushed against the air, drawing breath and opening his eyes.
Morning had arrived, blue glitters illuminating the pillow he hovered over, arms straining to keep him upright, knees digging into the bed. He startled, throwing himself away from the pillow, stumbling over the side of the bed to brace against the wall. His heart beat a tattoo against his ribs and his finger tips tingled, hands shaking with the final secretion of adrenaline running its course. He touched himself, made sure every part of him was still attached, and then darked to look around him.
He was alone in the room; had always been alone in the room. The door leading to the rest of the house was closed, the window locked. The bed clothes lay like a rope climbing up from the floor, the book he had been reading before turning in was face down on the nightstand, opened to the page marking where he had left off. The room was a mess, but it was always a mess, and nothing appeared out of place.
Trey sighed, satisfied that it had all just been a dream, even if it did leave him feeling uneasy. He tucked himself away behind his underwear, shooting a quick glance at the alarm clock and then started his day an hour early.
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