In one dream, I am a delicate pixie. An intrepid elf warrior carries mein the "v" between his cock and belly, to and through each fearless actof heroism. My long and Barbie-like legs straddle the base of his immenseerection, and the lower half of my naked body is immersed in a nest ofsweat-wet pubic hair. I learn he's immortal, that he's the lead vocalistof the dream pop band Nautical Mob, that he's a sensitive, attentivelover who, because his penis is too big for my little pixie body, usesthe tip of his bright, cartoon-red tongue to bring me to peaks of mind-boggling pleasure. In these dreams, my masochistic wishes (to bedefenselessly peeped at; to be seen in, and ultimately AS, a heap ofrepellent refuse) could not be father from my mind as he takes me withhis playful tongue. All the spiritual power of the Song of God (BhagavadGita), all the erotic passion of the Song of Songs, and all the bless?dindividualism of "Song of Myself" pour into my invigorated body throughhis godlike. Then he strides across the deck and picks up a long feather that has been recently shed by his pet peacock. And he crosses back to you. He stretches you out on your back and asks you to close your eyes. You obey. Until you feel the soft silky tingle of the tip of the feather. Stiff and hard, but gentle. He brushes it across you face. It gently touchs your lips. The touch of the feather joins with the rush of the moonlight and your heart races in a moment. Then the feather travels down your neck. It moves slowly across your chest. And brushes gently across your nipples. Just the tip moves back and forth across the nipples. Then a touches a little harder. And a little faster. You can feel the passion building as you feel the feather sliding down your legs. The tip moves in circles around your stomach. Then you feel the smooth oil as it puddles on your stomach. His hand is on your stomach. Massaging the oil into your skin. Then the flower moves again, crossing the stomach. You feel it.
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