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Dreaming dreams
There are many stories where clever plans to outwit fate are undone: here we have a king removing the possibility of meeting a lion by building his son a fabulously decorous castle. The petulant son complains he is being treated like a girl and a fit of outrage leads to his death caused by an image of a lion the king commissioned. The prediction the king received was in the form of a dream. Simply speaking he misinterpreted the dream, or maybe he manifested the dream. I have a story that may suit this fable. It is a tale of recollecting a dream. I told you about the dream at the time but as it fits this fable I will recount it again, perhaps with a few embellishments.
Dreams don’t follow the same rules as life, or storytelling. This dream began in the middle of the story. I knew a lot of things had happened before this point in the story, maybe in a part of the dream which I didn’t remember but I think more likely this dream began with a fully formed memory of the things that happened before the dream.
So, I am wandering about this ramshackled country house which has rooms filled with junk and many broken and dilapidated fittings but it does have a real rustic charm. You were there, but, once again, as it often is in dreams you were not you. I know you were not you because you were so stoic about the building. See, the building was a farmhouse that we had bought and with so much repairwork needing doing you would have been agitated not calm. I was the one who was getting frantic, not only because of the state of the building but also because of the number of people. It seemed to be a thoroughfare for the locals to move about in their daily tasks and activities. When I tried to talk to them they did not understand me, they spoke in another language which I thought was French so I told them I would need to talk to them tomorrow, in French. They went away, and I was pleased with myself, but I was not sure they had actually understood me.
Anyway, you sat me down and told me a story.
There once lived in this house the most desirable woman who had ever lived. She was extremely wealthy, she was very beautiful, she was highly cultured and intellectually respected; however, none of these were the reason for her desirability. No, she was most desirable because of her challenging cunt. The gossip and rumours built into a mythology that was whispered across the lands: should she orgasm her orgasm would be so powerful it would change reality. Some said the change would be the end of time, some said, no, the change would bring a thousand years of prosperity and love, some said, no, it would change her such that she would give all her wealth to the man who made her cum, some said, no, only a woman could make her cum.
Well, many a man and quite a few women tried to make her cum. She was never short of a suiter, bringing her flowers or chocolates, or expensive jewelry. She was never short of an offer of a massage, of the tantric kind or the normal kind, of the attention of one or many. She was never short of someone proposing a more adventurous activity including a golden shower, or handcuffs, or a double entry, a strapon or a triple entry. And to all of these gifts and offers she said yes please and thank you. And while they did not bring her to orgasm they increased her wealth and understanding.
Then one evening on her way home from a delightful date at the theatre, she heard a pair of feet echoing her own as she tip-tapped her way home. The footsteps were catching her and she started to feel nervous. She should not have set off by herself. She should have taken a cab. Or found out if anyone was going her way. She increased her pace but it was no use. The footsteps were upon her, and then so was a blow to the back of her head. Sudden, shocking. She lay on her stomach, the taste of dirt and blood in her mouth as the weight of foot pressed down on her back. A hand reached down and up came her skirt and down went her knickers. Roughly, torn. The weight of the foot turned into the weight of a body and the blunt force of a penis in her vagina.
Well, it turned out the rumours about her orgasm being legendary were true, but non of her suitors, male or female, had imagined her kink would be a rape fantasy. To the rapist she was just a lone figure on a dark street, he did not know who she was. He never knew who any of his victims were, and never would again because her legendary orgasm was so fucking hard it ripped off his fucking cock and sucked it into her womb. The rapist was found the next day in the alley, he had bled out and no one could figure out what weapon had been used to separate him from his penis, or where his penis was. They gossip and rumours declared the rapist was performing bestiality with a wild animal which went terribly wrong. Serves him right, they said. Serves him right.
Well the woman had spent a week in bed with dreadful craps and a distorted tummy. A penis in the womb would do that. Thing was there was not only a penis in her womb but also the rapist’s ejaculate. The woman got pregnant. That was when she barred all the windows and doors taking food only through a small hatch. In fact the reason why there are so many things in the rooms is because she moved all her stuff into a few storage rooms and lived in the empty space with only a blanket on the floor. She called through the locked doors that she was purifying and meditating and would be seeking enlightenment for a year.
Gradually the people lost interest in her and the only person who came to the house regularly was the servant who cleaned her bed chamber in the day time while she meditated in the grand hall, and cleaned the grand hall in the night time while she slept in the bedroom. This arrangement continued for some time. Well, nine months later the groans and moans and cries of agony caused the servant to break her contractual obligations and break the lock to the room where her mistress was. And what she found there was horrific. Truly horrific.
In her defence in court the woman claimed the penis that had been ripped off by her orgasm had festered and metamorphosed and transformed into a penis baby which she had birthed. And when the servant broke into her chamber she had seen her eating the afterbirth as is traditional in many cultures and the battered form that appeared to be a baby with his head bashed in with a brick was indeed not that at all, merely that is what penis babies look like when the woman finally eject them after months of pain. And eating raw placenta is what many cultures do at birth so there is nothing wrong with that, perhaps a little strange but nothing wrong.
Well, from that day to this the locals have regularly visited all the rooms in this house to ensure there is nothing untoward happening here.
When I told this story last time you said it was a story told by a man. And I said it could not have been told by any of the men in the story as the men in the story were either failures at giving a woman an orgasm or penisless dead rapists. And you said a woman would not tell a story about sex and violence and power. And I had said I thought everyone could tell such stories should they wish.
The little conversation we had about the dream reminded me of the thing that made the King’s son so angry: being treated like a girl.
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