I've been having these dreams

"I've been having these dreams," says Caligula, idly
caressing his elbow with a thumb. "Wild, crazy dreams."

"Aha," said the doctor.

"I mean, everyone has surreal dreams, sometimes intense, but these
ones - they're the kind where you think, 'That can't have been a dream,
can it? I must be remembering something I saw at the cinema'. You know
what I mean? It's all too neat and tidy. With ordinary dreams, you
usually wake up before the climax, and there's tonnes of stuff that
doesn't make any sense on analysis, like your dog speaks to you, and
you're surprised at first, but then your dog explains that all dogs can
speak on television, and you accept it."

"Aha," says the doctor.

"And you don't even have a dog!"

"Aha. Yep."

"But these dreams are different. Nothing like I've had before. Nothing
at all. For a start, I'm in my room, the same room I'm sleeping in, and
everything is in its right place."

The doctor interrupts with a sharp, clinical intake of breath. He puts
his finger under his nose, as if deeply troubled.

"I want you to be frank with me, Mr. Caligula. Are these dreams?
sexual? in nature?"

He peers at his patient with a well practiced look of polite interest.
Caligula, in turn, mimics the doctor's previous pose, finger under
nose.

"Yes, doctor. Yes they are. Is there something wrong with me?"

"It's too soon to say!" laughs the doctor. "Probably not. But go
on."

"Well, it's almost as if I live through the night twice. I'm woken by
something. Certain? events take place, sometimes lasting several hours.
I return to my bed, and close my eyes. Then I wake up again a moment
later. Except that I was sleeping the whole time."

"Can you be sure of that?"

"Yes. I mean, no. Every nerve and fickle sense of my being says it
happened, but let's just say that the ? events are not ones which the
rational mind can allow for."

"Somewhat fantastical?"

Caligula nods, eagerly.

"Somewhat fantastical."

The doctor pauses to write something on his clipboard. He seems
pleased with it.

"Perhaps involving some kind of fantasy figure?" he suggests. "A movie
star, or a woman you've known?"

"No, no, no," says Caligula. "There's no one else in the dream at all.
No one but me."

"So you wake up at night. There's no one else in your room but you.
You stay up for a few hours, engaged in?" the doctor shrugs as if to
say 'for the sake of argument', "?practices of a sexual nature. Then
you go back to bed."

"Yeah, but I'm not talking about self-pleasure," says Caligula,
leaning forward. "As a matter of fact, doctor, I don't perform any kind
of sexual act myself. Not actively. I mean, it's not under my
control."

"I see. Your penis simply comes alive of its own accord?"

"Yes!" shouts Caligula. "I start getting a serious hard-on!"

"Aha."

"You bet! And I'm not talking about a regular bus ride kind of a
hard-on that you can shove between your legs, but a major blue-veined
Nazi salute of an erection, the kind that wouldn't go down if you tied
it to a Russian sub."

The doctor's eyes rove around nervously, but Caligula is in full flow,
and won't be staunched by gestures.

"And it's not idle either. My cock buzzes. It drives me crazy. It
takes me to the brink and then let's me drop back, over and over. And
the rest of my body gets punctured with pleasure too. It's like there
are invisible fingers all over!"

"Yes, yes, I see."

"And you know the really weird thing? I don't even stay on the ground.
At some point early in the dream, I'm suspended in mid-air. It's like
I'm making love to the wind or the moonlight three or four times a
night."

"Aha," says the doctor, scribbling something else down, possibly for
effect. "Now. It doesn't sound to me as if there's anything wrong with
you. It's quite natural to have dreams of this sort if you feel
restless or unsatisfied."

"But every night!"

"Unusual, I agree, but not unheard of."

"And they're so real!"

"Again, not a cause for alarm. There's not much I can recommend,
except perhaps," he smiles, matily, "the love of a good woman."

"No medication?"

"I'm afraid not. It will undoubtedly pass, if you give it time. If
you're really desperate, you might try one of the sleeping aids they
sell in high street shops, but it's not really something I can
prescribe treatment for."

Caligula looks downcast.

"But, look. They're not even proper dreams. I mean, in the dream, I'll
come something like three or four times. But when I wake up, there's no
mess on the bed. Believe me, I've looked."

The doctor smiles.

"It sounds to me like you have many men's idea of an ideal sex
life."

~

Caligula's bedroom is a jumbled affair, part luxury suite and part
student dig. There are heaps and pools of his clothes landscaping the
floor, while a luxurious four poster bed - the kind that can swallow a
person whole - stands like a castle among the mess. Food remnants are
to be found here and there, and a full length mirror with gothic
bordering guards the doors of an elegant wardrobe.

It is the boudoir of a mad king.

Caligula himself is fresh from the shower as he enters the room,
troubled by the promise of another restless night. Thinking that a
physical examination might offer an explanation , he stands in front of
the mirror and drops the towel. The soft muscles of his chest and
abdomen glow like hot sand, not too pronounced, but visible. The only
flaws - a mole here or there. Frustratedly, his thin hands and eyes
hunt for some contusion or lump, for a wound or a cancer, something to
produce in front of the doctor like a four of a kind and say, "Ha!" But
his flesh is nothing if not a smooth meander every which way, thinning
here and there to cross a bridge of bone. His rump is rougher - a thin
gauze of hairs upon it - but it is still pert, and yields like dough
between finger and thumb. And his feet are fighting fit, and his face
is completely intact. His curly, butter blonde hair has no lump or
crack stashed with it.

Now he comes to his penis, the last vestibule of hope. It hangs from
him like the tongue of a hungry beast. Of course! If the problem lies
anywhere, it must be here. The glans, the foreskin, the fraenum -
conspirators hiding the bite of a poisonous insect, a bruise the colour
of mustard, or a terrible crookedness.

But no. Nothing. His cock is in good health.

Caligula relinquishes it, angrily, and as he does so, he - finally -
realises something is amiss. But it isn't what he expected, or hoped
for. Not at all. His feet, he observes, are now about a foot away from
the carpet. He's floating, like in a dream!

But I haven't even gone to bed yet! (He protests to himself). How can
I be dreaming already?

"Salutations," says a voice in his ear.

Caligula jumps, or more accurately, he jerks in mid-air. His ear
grazes something.

"Oof!" says the voice. "Don't do that without warning us."

"Us?" says Caligula.

And from each of his shoulders, a girl with wings, roughly the size of
his one of his own hands, flies down and turns to face him. A moment
later, a third joins them, arriving from who-knows-where.

"Like I said, salutations," says the one on the left.

She has hair the colour of American apples, falling like miniature
playground slides either side of her snowy face and pointed ears. She
seems to be wearing a doll's chemise.

"My name is Angela. Angela Firestarter. These are my companions, Coral
Cox - " (she gestures towards the middle faery, a smouldering
copperhead who sports nothing but frilly undergarments and daubs of
gentian eyeshadow.) "? and Watermelon, as she likes to be known."

Watermelon is yet another redhead, her hair the colour of her
namesake's inner flesh. Between her open shirt, knotted beneath the
bust, and her frayed, blue jean-shorts, a firm and rosy midriff ripples
slightly.

"Great to meet ya!" she says, while the more sultry-looking Coral bats
her eyelids.

Stunned Caligula can only fish-gape. He would like to back up, towards
the bedroom door, but he is suspended, frictionless.

"You know what we're here for, don't you?" asks Angela.

"We've heard all about you, Mr. Naughty!" Watermelon winks.

"I?I?" stammers Caligula, hunting cluelessly for a useful reply or
question.

"Well, girls - you'll never guess what," Angela half-turns to the
others. "I appear to have come out without my knickers on. Look."

Caligula looks, as the faery hoists her chemise up to her hips,
revealing a sequin-sized triangle of dark hair. She touches it
tentatively, as if contemplating a paper cut. Then, to his surprise,
she slips the chemise over her head completely, and lets it fall. She
is wearing a pearly bra beneath. Bra but no knickers.

"Gosho Gosh, Angela," says Watermelon. "What a coincidence! I've got
it the other way round."

And with that, she undoes the knot of her shirt, unleashing a
faery-sized pair of ladybumps. Her nipples - barely as big as
Caligula's moles - are almost plum-coloured. She unzips her jean-shorts
and pulls them roughly off, revealing knickers that must be the
matching pair of Angela's bra.

Contrary to what he might have expected, were the current situation
put to him only in theory, Caligula's tongue-like cock begins to
twitch, and rear, till it is no longer tongue-like, but fat and gently
curved.

Angela and Watermelon fly to his shoulders, and start rubbing their
bodies against his pink ears. What's this to be? A foursome with
faeries?

"Hold your hand out," Angela says, as if in answer to the
thought.

Caligula acquiesces. Whereupon the moody Coral throws off her bra,
flies into the open hand and reclines, grinning from ear to pointed
ear.

"Rub Coral's breasts with your thumb," Angela commands.

Caligula's thumb descends.

"Softly now."

He does as he's told, and the tiny faery's tits spread and slip
beneath his digit like rubber putty. Putty in his hands! Her eyes are
shut tight with delight, and after a short while she hums. This
satisfies Angela.

"Now thumb her between her legs."

Again, Caligula obeys, slowly caressing the depression in Coral's
bitty knickers like he would the heel of a loved one's palm. Coral
squirms - seems uncomfortable for a moment, but then breathes out, and
relaxes. Caligula feels the vaguest beginnings of heat and moisture at
the end of his thumb. He throws in a few subtle, unexpected motions,
and Coral chirrups.

"Right! Balls to the wall!" says Angela.

"Oooo, yes!" squeaks Watermelon.

And before Caligula can ask what she means, the two faeries have flown
low, and gripped an upper thigh each. Coral slips out from beneath his
thumb and darts right up to his face. She raps on his lips.

"Huh?"

And in that 'Huh?', Coral has put both legs over the lower lip, into
his mouth. She makes a beckoning gesture and Caligula, hoping he has
understood correctly, sticks his tongue out. At the same time, Angela
and Watermelon hop up to his erect penis and run their hands along it,
coaxing a last few pulses of blood into the shaft so that it begins to
turn bright red. Coral steps out of her knickers, tosses them casually
to the floor, and climbs onto the protruding tongue. She manoeuvres
around a little, seeking the best place to straddle, then begins
rubbing herself against it, panting.

Angela and Watermelon also discard their undergarments. And Angela
abandons Caligula's cock to dart about between his thighs, just beneath
his balls, stirring the nest of hairs there. Another swoop, then she
nuzzles up between his buttocks, as if wriggling into a seat on a
crowded sofa. She spreads her arms out and runs her hands along each
cheek.

Watermelon kisses the tip of his penis lightly, then bites into it.
Caligula makes a sound that would be a wince, if Coral wasn't
pleasuring herself against his pumice tongue. Then Watermelon wraps her
arms and legs around the shaft of his organ, squeezing slightly. And
she moves herself up and down, swivelling around like a pole dancer,
all the while keeping her mouth upon the glowing head.

"Liking it?" asks Angela, playfully slap-drumming Caligula's
bum.

"Uh huh," says Caligula, and all three faeries move the rhythm up a
notch.

Coral mews and purrs; Watermelon bites again, three times, each more
light than the last, and presses her whole body - breasts, belly,
thighs - firm around the hot penis as she manipulates it.

Angela slides out from between his plump buttocks, and flutters
towards his scrotum, which she begins pulling and pawing at. Coral
elevates her panting, and makes fierce, snarling thrusts against
Caligula's tongue. She is wet and tingling all over her legs and feet
and miniscule vulva. Her cunt may be small, but it rages like a mile
high pyre. She makes a sound like the whine of a mosquito, and traps a
little piece of Caligula's tongue between the contracting muscles of
her vagina.

Unbeknownst to the human, Angela, stirred by Coral's whine, slips a
small hand into her own cunt. Watermelon furiously swings and twists
around the penis, hugging it to her.

Then Caligula's abdomen tightens. His testicles feel like zinging
pinballs. He gets the sensation of warm sauce melting inside his shaft,
then he comes, rapidly, shudderingly.

"Good boy, Cal," says Angela, withdrawing her hand and giving his
balls one last kick. "Now for something completely different."

"Yff! Yff!" says Watermelon, her mouth still full of penis tip, her
hair, face and shoulders dripping with cum.

Caligula is too busy basking to even think to wonder what they mean.
But he is alarmed when he suddenly perceives he is shrinking. No! It's
the faeries! The three faeries are growing! He looks wildly about him.
Mistaken again, for the room is growing. But no. The room must be the
same size! It is he, Caligula, who is shrinking, and the faeries who
are simultaneously growing.

What's more, their wings are receding into their backs. And when
Caligula looks over his shoulder, he realises that he has sprouted some
of his own, and is flying of his own accord. The faeries, meanwhile,
touch down on the ground, now human-sized.

"Looks like the tables have turned, girls," says Angela.

For all her enhanced size, Watermelon still looks as if she's been
dipped in a vat of ejaculate. So Coral starts licking it off her,
madly, quickly, making circles, S's and figure of 8's with her tongue.
Watermelon falls back into the bed, dragging Coral with her, clutching
the girl's face to her spattered bosom.

"Do it to me, baby!" she cries.

"And you, my dear little man," says Angela, pointing a slender index
finger directly at Caligula. "You are going to do it to me."

Caligula misses a beat with his wings. But he is still in the
afterglow of his orgasm, and finds himself warming to the
challenge.

"How?" he asks. "There's only one of me, and I wouldn't know where to
start."

"Don't worry about that. I've started for you," says Angela. "All you
have to do is go in here?" (she slides the same finger into her pussy,)
"?and make some noise. Think you can handle that?"

"Ha!" Caligula replies. "Think you can?"

And like a kamikaze pilot, he rushes headlong into the inviting folds,
driving his whole head in. There is darkness - the darkness of
blindness. And heat - the heat of a tropical fever. And moisture - the
moisture of one's own body's steady sweat. Caligula turns, forces his
arms up, pulls himself in deeper.

"Mmm," Angela licks her lips, and lowers herself gently to the
bed.

Alongside her, Coral, her lips covered in jizzum, snakes her face down
Watermelon's body, across her trembling belly, and into the rich smells
of her cunt. Watermelon throws her legs open as wide as they will go,
and winks at Angela.

"Isn't this fun, Angela!"

"Oh, it's - uh! Oh my?uh!"

Caligula has tunnelled his way to Angela's G-spot, and is now making
sweeping arcs with his arm, like a breast-stroke swimmer. At the same
time, his legs, still just protruding from the opening, have felt their
way forward, between the labia, and happened upon the clitoris. He
draws around it with the toes of one foot, lightly prodding it with the
other.

"Uhhh," says Angela, biting her lip.

On Caligula swims! How natural and easy this is, he thinks.

And Watermelon sits up, reaches for Coral's tits with her hands, can
hardly grip them because of the lashes of pleasure that Coral's tongue
inflicts upon her.

On Caligula swims!

"Oh!" moans Angela. "Oh! Oooh!"

Her cunt muscles contract, at speed, almost fluttering. She arches her
back steeply, as in a death spasm.

"Oh fuuuuck!"

She falls, heavily, back into the sheets.

"You made it the moon!" says Watermelon, pushing Coral's head deeper
into her sizzling crotch.

Angela just lies there, flushed and painted with sweat, her breasts
rising up. Then down.

Up.

And down.

Then she rises, slowly, languorously, from the bed. And the small body
of Caligula drops from her cunt, bounces on the carpet, lies still.
Little limbs all over the place. Slick with juices.

"Oh my God, Angela," says Watermelon. "You killed it."