Page 30 of Palingenesis

I try desperately to recall what I was reading last—hell, maybe even what I was writing, though PNR isn’t normally my style—but my balls thump in protest at the redirect from spank bank material.

My dick, though, is just as along for the ride as I am.

Gripping harder, I work myself faster beneath the blanket, getting right up to the edge before stopping. Then doing it all over again.

It’s my dream, I can risk it if I want to.

Besides, if I do this, then I should wake up. It’s one of the f ticks I’ve learned with my brain over the years.

And I do, three more times before blowing all over the underside of the comforter.

Wiping my hands clean and moving away from the mess, I absently sign, “Fuck, that normally does the trick.”

I look around the room with a huff, noting that it looks exactly the same as when I woke up, save for the way the light stretches across the walls. And that there’s no smoke creature hovering over me, sending me into early cardiac arrest. There’s still a faint haze, a soft, rich scent clinging to the air, but I find that I don’t hate it this time around. Which means the illusion has shifted and I should be waking up any minute now.

Finally.

My breath is still a little shoddy and when I reach between my legs this time, I pinch a good bit of meat on the inside of my thigh for good measure.

“Fuck,” I whine, the vocals getting stuck in my throat, and rub absently at the sting. We’ll ignore that little bead of precum—or is it postcum now—that smears across the blanket for a full thought spiral later when I’m actually awake and not stuck in this odd state between consciousnesses.

Speaking of consciousness …

I lean back against the headboard and dig deep into my memory with hopes that something will trigger how I ended up here, with healed wounds I don’t remember getting—but know I had—and why I seem to have a complete lack of self preservation in this strange place. The room feels oddly familiar, like I’ve been here for a while and just don’t remember.

“Dream logic,” I sign and roll my eyes. “Never makes any sense.”

But I suppose my maladaptive daydreams rarely do either. There’s always some deeper plot I’m chasing, some layered meaning that leads to words on pages.

The vision of a campfire fills my head, the flames surrounded by a group of pals with heads thrown back in laughter, the jovial bond of friendship clear in the air. It makes me smile along with them, even if I’m just hovering on the edge of their story, eager to watch it unfold like my own little movie.

“Okay, okay. It’s dark and scary time. Someone tell a tale that makes my hair raise.”

Mini marshmallows and crushed graham crackers accompany the giggles and goads that fly around the licking flames, all aimed at the speaker.

“Do not give me nightmares, please. Being in the woods is creepy enough.”

“Fine, I’ll start easy.”

A chorus of agreement surrounds the speaker.

“With no cannibalistic big foot’s.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Or serial killer moths.”

The round of groans echo over the fire. In response, though, the crackling of interest arises.

“Instead, why don’t I tell you a tale of a quasi-man made of marble? Perhaps a god of the light?”

“This isn’t some mythology lesson, is it?”

The speaker’s head tilts, a smug brow arching toward his hairline. “There once was a creature that was said to hold the shape of man and bird in kind. They said that he’d show himself, noted with hair and eyes the shade of rubies, to those worthy of the best gift a god could give.”

Sarcasm meets the speaker’s opening line. “And what’s that?”

“Palingenesis.”