by Anais Ninja

From Wanderings:

I had a bizarre dream that night. I was back at Bradley and Helen's house, laying spread-eagle on a padded table in the living room, my arms and legs bound with silken sashes, surrounded by a crowd of people. Brad was on top of me, his hard cock pumping in and out of my pussy, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. When he erupted inside me, everyone applauded. He pulled out of me and rotated the table so that all could see the semen oozing out of my slit.

Then it was Del on top of me, fucking me, filling me with his seed, another round of applause when he finished. Then Brad's father, his big cock stretching my sex as he entered me, then Ramon, his fat cock feeling even larger than usual. Rob followed, inhaling a line of coke from between my breasts as he pounded my twat. Then the bartender. Then one of the men I'd seen in the pool. I looked past him and saw a line of men formed behind them, all of them waiting their turn, waiting to fuck me, waiting to fill me with their seed.

"Where's Paco?" I cried out.

Then I realized that I didn't have my diaphragm in me, and I began to worry that I'd get pregnant and I wouldn't know who the father was with all these men spurting their cum inside me.

"Don't worry, dear," Julia said, stroking my hair as another man climbed on top of me, his throbbing cock disappearing between my legs. "We'll take care of it."

I didn't know what she meant by that, and I wanted to ask her, but after the man came and climbed off me, Helen stepped forward and lowered her face to my sex, drinking from the river of semen that flowed from my pussy. Then she stepped aside and Julia took over, her tongue scooping the sperm into her mouth, her hands on my breasts, her eyes looking into mine.

And then I woke up and felt a tongue inside me and hands on my breasts. I looked down into Julia's eyes, and she stopped licking me and smiled.


I always had strange dreams, even before my mother was killed. That night I dreamed that I was back in the hotel in Boston, the Ritz- Carlton, laying naked in the big comfortable bed. I wasn't alone. Julia was with me, as was my mother, and they were naked, too. They were both holding me, cradling me in their arms, petting me and cooing over me as if I were a newborn baby. Margaret, the little girl from the sex shop was there, sitting in a chair facing the bed, dressed only in her little white cotton panties with the cartoon character print. She smiled at me as her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her panties.

And then Ramon was kneeling between my legs. I looked down and saw two penises hanging between his legs, a pair of thick, hard cocks pointing at my sex. He penetrated my sex with one, my bottom with the other, and when he leaned over to kiss me, there was a third penis where his tongue should have been, not a fat cock like the ones between his legs, but a smooth little boycock like Paco's. I sucked it as his hips began to move...

"Papi!" His name was on my lips as I bolted upright in bed, wide awake. The sun was up and the birds were singing in the trees. My heart was pounding as I glanced at the clock. It was just past six.


From Exile

I had been dreaming about Julia. We were making love in her garden, sipping white wine as we kissed and caressed, a gentle summer breeze our only garment. Her roses were in bloom, and the fragrance was like a drug, the petals so soft, the buds so pliant.


That night I dreamed that I was in the cathedral, lying naked on the red-carpeted altar. Father Ken stood over me in a purple and white cassock, sprinkling some sort of liquid on me from a silver chalice, a sticky white fluid that pooled on my belly. The boys from the shelter were all there, dressed as altar boys in white robes trimmed with gold fringe. Father Steve was there as well, holding a silver plate with a pile of little round wafers on it. He knelt next to me and placed a wafer between my labia, all the while murmuring something in Latin.

Then the boys, lined up in order of height, walked over to where I was laying. Chris was the first in line, his rosy cheeks free of tears, his unruly mop of blond hair neatly combed away from his cute face. He knelt between my legs and bent down, pulling the wafer from my lips with his teeth before standing up and taking a seat in the front row of pews. Father Steve, still kneeling next to me, replaced the wafer with a fresh one. The edges were rough and felt scratchy against my clit as he slipped it into my pussy, leaving just enough exposed so that the next boy could grab it with his teeth, just like Chris had done.

When all of the boys had partaken of their wafers, Father Ken loosened his cassock. He was naked underneath, and his cock looked bigger than ever. He knelt between my legs and entered me. Then Father Steve slipped a cushion behind my neck, tilting my head back. I could see that his cassock was open as well, revealing his stubby cock and pendulous balls. I knew my part in this ritual, as if it had been rehearsed many times, and I opened my mouth to accept his penis.

As the two priests began to fill me with their hard meat, the boys, now naked, filed up from their pew and surrounded us, reaching for my body with their hands, guiding my own hands to their eager young cocks. A couple of the younger boys squirmed to the center of the circle and began rubbing their stiff peckers on my thighs, humping me while Father Ken and Father Steve took their pleasure in my mouth and pussy. The two priests looked upon their young charges with smiles of approval.

Suddenly I was awake. It was still dark outside. Images from my dream began to fray like an old sweater, but something lingered, something real, the feeling of something rubbing me through the slippery satin of the chemise. Chris, who was still asleep, had his legs wrapped around my thigh. His jockey shorts had slipped down around his knees and he was unconsciously humping my thigh with his little stiffy. I wondered if he was having the same dream as mine. I gently rolled him on his back.


That night I had the strangest dream. We were on Ramon's boat, Megan and I, just the two of us, drifting in the middle of the ocean. It was sunny, but the waves were enormous, towering over the fishing boat and tossing it up and down. We were huddled in the forward cabin, where Del and Paco slept, listening to the waves crest and splash against the hull. The boat reeked of diesel fuel and rotting fish, but somehow I wasn't sick, despite the heavy seas.

We were wet, our clothes were soaked, and I was helping Megan out of her dress and underwear, drying her off with a towel that bore a Ritz- Carlton monogram. Then it was my turn to undress. I was wearing my long peasant skirt and the wet fabric clung to my legs. After I stepped out of the wet clothes, I pulled off my panties and looked down: I had a penis. It was small and smooth like Billy's boycock, devoid of hair. I looked back up at Megan, who was lying on the cushioned bunk. She spread her legs and looked up at me with an expression of anticipation, a strange lust in her eyes.

Without a word between us, I lay on top of her and we began to kiss, not the motherly kisses I'd given her before, but passionate kisses, intense kisses, lovers' kisses. Megan looked down between her legs and then back up at me and she nodded. I pressed my hips forward, feeling my dream cock press into her folds, inside her, through her cherry. Megan winced slightly as I tore through her hymen and then she smiled again and started sucking her thumb. I began to thrust.


Megan was lying on Father Ken's desk, naked except for the frilly ruffled panties that held her ankles together. Father Ken stood by her head, Mr. O'Hare at her feet, both of them holding her down, restraining her squirming body. I was sitting in one of the chairs, an unwilling observer.

As is often the case with dreams, I wanted to scream but I couldn't, I wanted to run away, but I couldn't, I wanted to close my eyes, but my eyelids were made of glass and I couldn't look away. I sat there, paralyzed, as Mr. O'Hare took his thick club of a cock and pressed it against Megan's puffy lips, pushing, pushing, pushing his way inside. As Megan began to bleed, dark red fluid gushing from her slit, she looked at me, her eyes pleading for me to do something, anything. She opened her mouth to say something but Father Ken stuffed it full of cock. Her cheek bulged and she twisted her head back and forth, trying to dislodge the invading member. Then Mr. O'Hare pulled his bloody cock out of her ruined cunny and he and Father Ken flipped her over on her tummy. O'Hare pressed his cock against her tush, trying to shove his enormous member into her tight little bottom.

That's when Megan screamed.

That's when I woke up.


From Phoenix Rising

We were flying in my dream, in the bomber from "Dr. Strangelove". Robby was at a radar console, calling out the range of incoming missiles. I was on the floor of the cockpit, holding on for dear life as the plane jinked and banked between mountains, dodging missiles that looked like rocket-propelled telephone poles. Major Kong was at the controls, and he turned his head and barked an order to me, incomprehensible words, a jargon I couldn't understand. Somehow, I knew what I had to do.

I was in the bomb bay of the airplane, kicking at the clamshell doors, climbing on top of the nuclear weapon and reaching for a severed wire, brilliant blue sparks flying past my head. I could smell the acrid stench of burning hair from where the sparks landed on my shoulders, barely able to reach the two parts of the wire and twist the ends together.

And then I was falling, falling, falling, my legs clamped around the bomb, dropping towards the tundra below. I clung to the weapon, and suddenly the cold white-painted metal became skin, bumps and veins and follicles, warm and soft and hard at the same time. I opened my mouth to scream...


It was a strange dream, precisely because it wasn't strange at all. Its logic wasn't inconsistent with the waking world. My surroundings were unfamiliar, but only until I remembered where I was, Dana's bedroom, Phoenix, night.

My father stood over our beds. His pants were down, his cock was out, and he was stroking himself, a look of lust and hunger in his eyes. The sheet that had covered my body had been pulled down, and my chemise was bunched up around my waist. I looked over at Dana's bed: she was asleep, but her nightie had been lifted over her slim hips and her legs were spread.

"Daddy?" I whispered. Even stranger. In some of my dreams I wasn't able to speak, unable to scream if I had to.

"Shhhh...," he said. "It's just a dream."

"It's not a dream," I said. "My dreams are weirder than this."

"Shhhh...," he repeated. "Go to sleep." I was groggy, and I started to close my eyes, but I heard him gasp and hold something white over the tip of his penis. He wiped himself off with it and dropped it on the floor before leaving. I wanted to get up, to see what that white object was, but I was too tired. I closed my eyes and the dream faded into nothingness.


I dreamed about Daddy. He was giving me a bath, just like he used to do, except I wasn't three years old anymore. Just as in my memory from a dozen years earlier, he was naked and wrapping my fingers around his erection. This time, however, I knew what to do.

And then we were on a bed, in a room that resembled the one at the Ritz in which Julia and I had stayed, that first time she'd taken me to Boston. I was laying on my back, my father stretched out on top of me. I looked down and saw that I was wearing a wedding gown, puffy sleeves, a low cut bodice, voluminous skirts of organza and crinoline bunched up around my waist. My pretty white lace panties were pulled aside and my father's hard cock was pressing against my sex. He grunted as he entered me, and I felt a sharp stabbing pain as he tore through my hymen.

There was blood, so much blood, flowing out of me, staining my lovely white dress, the bed, his penis. My vision faded to crimson, wine, then black.

And then I woke up.


"Sweet dreams," he'd said, my father's words echoing in my mind. Sweet indeed, though my dreams were as bizarre as always. I was in the dining room of this house, lying naked on the table, atop a delicate lace tablecloth. Someone was holding my wrists and ankles, not a tight grip, a gentle one, just enough to keep me open for someone. I looked around, left and right, up and down, trying to see who was restraining me.

And there was Julia, and Helen, and Mia. And my mother. Each one had a wrist or an ankle, all of them beaming down at me, smiling as if this was a special occasion, a special day. There were candles lit on the side board, and a cake, and tall flutes of champagne. Then I saw my father.

He was wearing a long red silk robe, edged in black, tied with a black sash, some strange embroidered crest on the breast in gold thread, a dragon or snake. He opened the robe and stood between my open legs. I looked down and saw his cock begin to rise.

My father's penis was huge, enormous, like the idealized members in a Japanese woodcut, as thick as his thigh and bulging with veins and folds of skin, the head flaring to an almost sharp edge. I wondered how I would be able to take him, and I began to panic. He was too big; he'd tear me in half with his hardness. He pressed his massive organ against my cleft, and I tried to cry out, to tell him to stop, but I couldn't utter a sound.

"Don't worry, baby," my mother cooed, tenderly caressing my cheek. "It won't hurt. Trust me."

My father began to enter me, and I tried to cry "Mommy...", but the pain I expected to feel was absent, replaced by an intense wave of pleasure as his giant cock began to fill me. I looked down and saw my tummy begin to bulge, swelling up as my father plunged his member into my cleft. As he started to pull back, I saw that the swelling in my belly wasn't going down. Instead, it began to fill, taking on the shape of an egg.

I'm going to have a baby, I thought. This is the reason for my special day. My Daddy's going to put a baby in me. That's why everyone is here, to watch, to help.

"You look beautiful, darling," Julia said, stroking my arm as she held my wrist. I wanted to thank her, to tell her how much I loved her, but I still couldn't speak. Then I wondered how I could be pregnant in the first place. My father hadn't put his seed into me yet. Could it be someone else's? Perhaps Ramon, or Bradley, Mr. Sheffield, Mr. Antonelli, or even Father Ken. I looked around for them, but there was just the six of us here, six seats at the table, six glasses of champagne, six plates of angel food cake.

And then my father came, a tremendous gusher, filling me, his hot fluid oozing out of me. Mia let go of my ankle and collected the semen that dripped from my pussy in a stainless steel bowl. I could hear each individual drip go "ping...ping...ping..." against the metal. My father pulled out of me and then a steady stream of cum began to pour out of my sex. Mia collected it all in the bowl and then held it in front of me. I felt my mother and Julia let go of my arms and help me sit up on the table. I took the bowl from Mia and sipped. It was thin, watery, like the fluid that had spurted from Schultzie's cock when he was humping Dana. I sipped some more, swallowing the bitter liquid, and then I handed the bowl back to Mia. She took a sip and was handing it to Helen when I woke up.


If it had been all a dream, then I was having a dream inside a dream now. I was in the clubhouse locker room again, wearing just the ruffled tennis panties that Mia had lent me. There was the sound of running water coming from the shower, and steam drifted out of there, wafting over the rows of lockers. I stepped into the tiled room, seeing a couple of figures in the fog, one standing, one on his knees. I quietly approached, trying to make out their faces.

It was Jean-Paul, standing under the rushing water while David knelt at his feet, sucking the tennis pro's glistening cock. I watched, unable to speak at first, but somehow I found my voice, unlike most of my dreams where I was rendered mute.

"No, you mustn't," I cried out. "David, no!" He looked at me and smiled, Jean-Paul's hard meat stuffed in his mouth, making his cheek bulge.

"He is mine, Anne," Jean-Paul said.

"No, David," I said, rushing to his side, pulling him back from the man's groin. I took Jean-Paul in my mouth instead, licking and sucking his long veiny shaft, but he began to wilt.

Then we were in the locker room, David lying on one of the benches, his legs spread, his hard cock bobbing above his crotch. Jean-Paul was behind me, pulling down the tennis panties. I looked down and saw that I had a penis, thick like my father's and fully erect. I squatted over the bench and pressed it against David's ass, entering him as he reached up for my breasts.

"Now you are complete," Jean-Paul whispered in my ear. I could feel the tip of his cock pushing against my bottom, filling me as I slid into my stepbrother's tight hole. He began to thrust, each stroke pushing me deeper inside of David, as if Jean-Paul was using me, my body, my cock, to fuck my stepbrother. I could feel my pleasure rising, but it was different, not the gradual approach I was used to, but a quick sensation, not as intense but pleasant all the same. And then I was coming inside David's bottom, feeling my semen flow through my cock, the strangest sensation of all.

And then I woke up.


It was rare for me to recall my dreams after smoking pot the night before, but this one I did remember, vividly. Maybe it was the cocaine, maybe it was everything that had happened that day.

I was with Krystle, and we were in a big, brightly lit room, like a gymnasium, a high ceiling above us, dozens of bright lights beaming down on us. I was lying on top of her, face up, and she had her hands on my breasts, her thighs between mine, holding me open the way she'd done during that afternoon tryst with my father, at the model home at Corazon. She was inside me, too, in my bottom, and it felt hard, like a strap-on, except I could feel her throbbing with every beat of her heart.

And then my field of vision expanded, the way it sometimes does when you're just waking up, just becoming aware of the world beyond your soft pillow and warm blankets. I could see the rest of the room, clear plastic sheets covering the whole floor, all the way to the white- painted cinder block walls.

We were surrounded by men, naked men, strange men, faces I'd never seen before, at least a hundred of them. Krystle released one of my breasts and reached down between my legs, spreading my lips, rolling my clit between her fingers, exposing me to all of these men. As if on cue, they began to urinate, aiming their steaming streams of piss at my slit, wetting me, making me moan and writhe on top of Krystle's soft breasts. When one man was done, another would take his place, and the urine began to pool around us, collecting in the folds of the plastic tarpaulins.

Then the piss became a thick white fluid, more like heavy cream than semen, great streams of liquid that clung to our skin, covering us. Krystle kept manipulating my button with her fingers, and I felt ashamed, that I didn't want these strange men to see me in the throes of an orgasm, but I couldn't help myself. She cooed in my ear, telling me to let myself go, and I did, feeling a tremendous climax take hold of my senses. The white fluid began to rise, a flood of milky liquid that rose past the men's ankles, and I began to worry that we might drown.


I was riding a horse through the rust-colored wasteland, a stallion, a mottled palomino. No reins, no saddle, nothing between me and the horse's scratchy hide but a fringed red loincloth cut from some animal's tanned and dyed skin. The movement of my mount's muscles reminded me of something sexual, but I couldn't quite place what it was. As in most of my dreams, that feeling of uncertainty would stick to the back of my mind like a burr. I held on to the horse's neck as we galloped between boulders and brush, the hills a blur as we moved swiftly through the desert, the warm wind caressing my bare breasts.

We arrived at a place I'd never seen before, yet it seemed familiar all the same, a rock-strewn box canyon with steep sides. The horse slowed to a walk as we picked our way around the rubble, and then he stopped of his own accord, at a place where the canyon walls were dotted with caves and grottos. As he ducked his head to chew on some weedy grasses that grew on the canyon floor, I dismounted, patting his flanks, feeling the warmth that radiated from under his skin.

There was the smell of a cooking fire coming from somewhere nearby. I sniffed at the air and followed it, my stomach rumbling as if I hadn't eaten in days. Then I spotted the smoke, wafting from one of the caves, a black hole about thirty feet up from the canyon floor. There was no path up there, just a rocky outcropping below the cave mouth. I began to climb up the rocks, trying to find a foothold in the crumbling stone, sharp edges scratching my hands and feet. I felt a wetness between my toes, my own blood, but I kept climbing until I reached the cave.

He sat behind the fire, just beyond the reach of the shadows. His eyes were closed until he heard me approach, and then he looked up at me, holding his arm out and motioning for me to sit down on a woolen blanket across from him. We sat there, only the crackling of the fire breaking the silence. He had the high cheekbones of a Native-American, but his wrinkled skin and long hair were a delicate shade of white, almost translucent. I thought he might be a ghost, but his eyes were as red as the glowing embers. An albino.

"Katsinme na'am hoomay aw hikwsut pu'aq," he said in a low, droning voice. "Katsinme homna'angwu." He reached into a pouch tied to his belt and poured a fistful of yellow cornmeal into the fire.

"Pay katsinam piw yep itawuy taawiy aq hikwsuntiwisa."

As he uttered a language I'd never heard before, two figures emerged from the shadows, two women, their skin the color of the hills, dressed in dark blue woolen cloaks. They flanked the pale man, squatting next to him as he spoke.

"Pangso hak ahoy nimangwu," he said. "I'hakiy qatungwu'ata."

I felt this must be some sort of ritual, sacred words, and I bowed my head in reverence, seeing for the first time that my blonde hair was now black, thick, with bangs cut low on my forehead.

"Niqa apiynipa hik'wsi aniwtiqaa."

One of the women stood up and came over to me, handing me an ear of corn, perfect, unblemished. She returned to the fire, stirring something in the pot that was suspended over the flames.

"Pam hapi sutsep qatungwu." The old man threw another handful of cornmeal into the fire. It crackled, sending a cloud of smoke and orange sparks up to the roof of the cave.

Now the other woman stood up, tying a string of turquoise beads and animal teeth around my neck. I looked up at her and saw that she had the sharp features of a man. She smiled, revealing some missing teeth, reaching out to gently caress my cheek. Then she returned to the pale man's side, sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket. There was silence again.

"You bring the rain," he said. I heard drops begin to fall outside the cave, the sound of distant thunder.

"Yes, Makya," I replied. I knew his name, and I didn't know how I knew. I just did.

"I show you this, so you will know," Makya said, reaching into another pouch tied around his waist, sprinkling a copper-colored powder into the fire. There was another gout of sparks, green and blue this time, and I saw a room in my mind's eye, a bed, a carpeted floor, the body of a young man. I couldn't see his face, but there was something familiar about him, a memory of someone I'd known, though I couldn't remember exactly who it was.

"Who?" I pleaded. "Who is he?"

"He weighs on your heart," Makya said.

"Tell me who," I cried. "When? Where?"

"There is no when," he said. "There is only now." The woman who had handed me the ear of corn got up and stirred the cooking pot again, and then she ladled some of the contents into a gourd and handed it to me, along with a spoon carved from old silvery wood. Despite all the questions I'd had, the answers I needed, I was ravenously hungry, and I began to wolf down the food. It was a savory stew of beans, chunks of squash, kernels of corn, and some gamy, stringy meat. I used my fingers to scoop the last morsels from the gourd and looked up again, intending to ask for more. But there was no one there. They'd disappeared, leaving me alone with the fire.

And then I was riding again, clinging to the horse's wet hide, the rain falling in big drops that turned the sandy floor of the canyon into a muddy quagmire. There was a flash of lightning and a second later a booming peal of thunder, and then I heard it, a wall of water, a flash flood pouring through the box canyon, coming closer, gaining ground on us. I spurred the horse on with my heels, urging him to gallop faster, to outrun the deluge behind us.

Copyright 2003 by Anais Ninja

The excerpts above were taken from the full length versions of Exile, Wanderings, and Phoenix Rising, the full version of which shall be posted at a later date. If you enjoyed Dreamtime, be sure and read Exile and Wanderings as well!