Dreams with a Black Horse
~ "The night-time of the body is the daytime of the soul" ~ Tantric saying.
Last night I dreamed of a black horse. Upon waking, I looked in the
dictionary of dreams that I keep in my bedside table to see if there is any
significance to this particular night time vision. It seems a dream of a black
horse is a dream of passion. Considering all that has happened in the past
weeks, I am not surprised.
She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. The petite figure
perfect. A coal black mane hung down to the small of her back and shimmered
with highlights that matched the blue of her eyes.
"It's entitled Black Horse," she said, slightly aloof, raising her
elegantly rounded chin slightly as we stood before Maurice Boucher's latest
offering in the Maroczy Gallery on 75th. and Patzer Way.
All I saw were globs of paint that looked like they had been applied
straight from the tube with, to me, no rhyme or reason. Horse Shit would have
been a more apt title, I was thinking.
There wasn't a price listed. That would have been too declasse.
"It has a hard on," I said, nodding with a knowing air, rubbing my chin.
She stared at me for a moment, taking in the grungy jeans, the faded black
T-shirt, then at the painting. I could almost hear the gears grinding, tiny
wheels whirring.
She turned back toward me with a slightly suspicious, slightly speculative
look that narrowed her long-lashed lids. I didn't look successful, and I didn't
look gay. I was six-two, broad and muscular.
"Are you an art critic?" she asked, her tone skeptical. A lovely brow was
cocked ever so slightly as she waited for my answer before deciding whether to
drop the haughty manner.
"Actually a painter," I lied. I knew nothing about art, but then I doubted
Maurice or this lovely thing did either.
"Oh," she replied, slightly distant, taken aback.
If I was a painter I wouldn't be buying.
But then not too distant, for one could never tell. I might be one of
those rare odd ball painters who were rich and famous, perhaps a friend of the
curator. She wouldn't want to risk offending. For all she knew I might have a
painting or two hanging in the gallery.
"Jason Sloane," I lied again giving her my best winning smile. It was a
name I'd recalled seeing on a series of abstract paintings once at a local
exhibit. I extended my hand.
She took it with a far off look clouding her eyes, no doubt she was trying
to place the name. I could see she hadn't.
"I occasionally have a showing in the gallery," I said.
"Oh?" This time there was interest in the 'oh'.
I knew she had just started at the gallery because I played chess a lot in
the park across the street on my free time when I wasn't tending bar nights in
Rick's Tavern down the block; I knew all the employees by sight from watching
them come and go day after day.
"Actually I just popped in to say hi to David." David was David Clairemont
the curator. At least that's what the brochure in the lobby said. "And that's
when I saw you standing here by the Boucher. You're new, aren't you?"
A nervous smile. "Yes, it's my first day." The haughty manner was gone;
the human being struggled to emerge like a figure out of a partially finished
sculpture. "I'm afraid I still don't know exactly what I'm supposed to be
doing. Mr. Bacon, the manager, just told me to circulate and smile a lot. Mrs.
Freely, the art director, was supposed to show me the ropes, but she has the flu
and won't be back for another two or three days."
"Well, I wouldn't worry," I said. "I'm sure you'll work out fine. I'll
put in a good word for you with David." I gave her a wink.
Her smile indicated that she was impressed and grateful. She was hooked;
now all I had to do was start reeling her in.
I sweet talked her into lunch at Fianchetto's, a sidewalk cafe, and over
Florentine minestrone and a young Beaujolais, slightly chilled, I managed to
talk her into posing nude for me -- hinting that fame might come to her as it
had to Picasso's mistress, Fernande.
My cock was hard as a rock as we climbed three flights of stairs to my
studio apartment. Actually it wasn't my apartment. I was merely house-sitting
for a friend who was on vacation overseas. But it was perfect for my purposes.
It had a skylight on a sloped ceiling. And since my friend was an amateur
artist there was a easel in a corner with tubes of paint and blank canvases.
Even a few abstracts finished. I had no idea if they were any good or not, but
Wanda -- that was her name, Wanda Smith -- thought they were very good, and she
chattered away about how they were nice examples of the 'non-representational',
and being 'much in the vein of Kandinsky', and so on.
To me her summation sounded like something parroted from freshman art
class.
I offered her some more wine: a Madeira, a heavy malmsey, this time. And
after a couple of glasses and some soft vibes from the stereo, I suggested she
remove her clothes and let me pose her.
My cock was throbbing so vigorously by this time that I was afraid I would
cum before I got started.
For a moment she hesitated, and my heart stalled; the thought that she
might back out was more than I could bear. I was more turned on by her than I
could ever remember being with another woman. I had to see her naked. Had to
have her. To . . . well, you know . . . .
Carefully she sat her wine glass down with a noticeable intake of breath
and stood up. A rhythmic Latin number was playing. She began swaying to the
beat as she removed her blouse.
My heart moved up to my throat and lodged there.
Slowly she moved her hips from side to side, lowering her skirt, stepping
out of it and tossing it on the couch next to the blouse.
She was gorgeous. The skin an unsullied, creamy white. The breasts were
full and firm, jiggling provocatively as she tossed her bra aside.
Shyly she avoided my eyes, and I sensed that within her a raw animal hunger
was vying with an innocent, modest reserve compelling her to do something she
would normally not do. And that made me want her even more.
When she was naked she walked with a slightly tipsy lilt to where a pallet
with an arrangement of pillows had been set up.
I pulled my T-shirt out and let it hang down so my hard-on wouldn't show;
when I stood up I felt my legs tremble slightly.
She smelled of a heavenly scent. The red silk covering over the pallet
formed a backdrop that set off her naked flesh dramatically. Her baby blues
stared up at me, and I was thrilled to discover a rising eagerness in them.
Whether intentional or not her body shifted into daringly provocative poses at
my slightest touch. Her skin was soft and warm.
"Don't you need to tweak my nipples?" she asked with a disingenuousness
that sent my blood pressure soaring.
I remembered from reading it somewhere that photographers manipulated
nipples to make them show up clearly -- but not painters. Stupidly I was almost
on the verge of telling her that when I realized what an asinine mistake that
would be.
"Yes, quite right," I said coming to my senses.
I touched them. Held them between my thumbs and forefingers and rolled
them slightly. They were already as hard as pebbles. She arched her back as I
squeezed them, milking them. A small murmur came out as her red lips fluttered
apart in a sigh.
Her small hands covered mine pressing them tightly against her breasts. No
music was sweeter to my ears than her passionate moans of ecstasy.
"Kiss me all over," she whispered hotly after pulling my head down until
her lips were against my ear.
I stood up and quickly removed my clothes, flinging them away from me as if
they were on fire. Released from the confinement of my jeans my cock became
fully hard with trembling jerks until it slapped up against my belly.
She reached up and grabbed it around the base and pulled me back down next
to her on my knees.
"Kiss me all over," she repeated, writhing sensuously up against me.
Our mouths met in a wet, feverish kiss. Our slick tongues entwining. My
hands ranged frantically over her body as hers did over mine. She gripped my
tongue between her smooth white teeth and made a grrr sound, then pulled me over
on top of her.
"I can't wait," she said, gasping for breath.
She grabbed my cock and held it against her cunt lips.
If there was need for a rubber it was too late, for I was already dipping
deep into her well.
She began bucking her hips against me, her breath hot and ragged against my
cheek.
I began thrusting into her. Drawing my cock out to the tip, then ramming
it back in.
I felt her cuming; her cunt muscles squeezed my cock like a tiny python.
"Don't stop," she begged. Her hands gripped my buttocks holding me in her
as she trembled uncontrollably beneath me.
She came again as I pulled out and began licking at her like a raunchy
hound. I circled her nipples with the tip of my tongue, flaying them with it
as if it were a whip. Her fingers became entwined in my hair pulling and
twisting as she cooed unintelligibly, her body as compliant as a young willow
bending in the wind.
I explored every inch of her, licking, sucking and kissing as if the world
was coming to an end. Like Phil Specter's 'Wall of Sound' her moans formed a
continuous backdrop to my slurpy machinations.
When my mouth locked on her cunt lips, she went crazy, humping, twisting
and grinding her lithe body against me like someone having a seizure.
I had already cumed once; now I began spewing fuck all over her, and when
depleted I fell in a semi-stupor next to her.
I watched, through half-lidded eyes, as she scooped up my cum from her
belly and lick it from her fingers. When she was through she snuggled up next
to me, and we slept.
When I woke up the next morning rain was tapping at the skylight.
She was gone. Wanda.
I should have been happy. Another conquest. Just another one night
stand. But something wasn't right.
I took a shower, then made some coffee.
My chess set was on the table. A black piece had been moved.
The black knight to Nf6.
The previous day I had opened with the white pawn to c4 intending to play
myself but hadn't got back to it.
Under the knight, which was in the shape of a horse's head on a pedestal,
was a folded scrap of paper.
I opened it.
~ Let's play ~
As I glanced around the room I noticed something else amiss. The easel had
been moved. Fresh tubes of paint had been squeezed empty and one of the blank
canvases was missing.
That night I had my first dream. I was mounted on a black horse on a giant
chess board. I had defeated all the white queen's minions and was pursuing her
through a forest of pawns.
She was naked, and as she ran from me she glanced over her shoulder with
terror in her eyes. The white king was powerless to help her, for he was
blocked by a rook and a bishop.
She was mine!
I gained on her. My cock was huge and hard. The foreskin had slid back
over the bulbous head, dripping pre-cum, and was slapping my belly in rhythmic
time to the three-beat gait of the black horse.
Leaning down like a Cossack jighit, I grabbed her around the waist and
straddled her across the black horse in front of me.
The foaming, white lather of the horse and the sweaty heat of our naked
bodies made my slick cock slide up and down in the crack of her wet ass with
titillating ease.
Guiding the horse with my legs I bent her over the mane, as she struggled,
arms flailing, and easily shoved my wet cock up into her as the horse cantered
along.
Her frantic struggles slowly ceased as I worked my enormous cock in and
out. In time she began to respond, thrusting her hips back as I entered her.
The black horse charged on leaving behind a battlefield of scattered pawns
and other pieces, and soon we were alone on the giant chess board that stretched
from horizon to horizon . . . .
And then I woke up from my wet dream with cum all over my belly.
"Ahem," Fast Eddy murmured.
I looked down at the board taking my eyes off the gallery. I hadn't been
paying attention to the game. With his second move Eddy had embarked on The
English Opening with Nc3. I responded with Nf6 sliding into the Sicilian
defense. Then groaned realizing that e4 would have been a better response. Oh,
well.
I shook my head seeing Eddy's puzzled look.
And returned my attention to the gallery.
Three days had passed and I hadn't seen her going in or out. My wet dreams
were draining me; I had to find her.
I called the gallery from a pay phone and asked to speak to Ms Freely, the
art director, and was informed that she was still out on sick leave. When I
asked for Wanda Smith, I was told that she was no longer employed and had left
no forwarding address.
Dreams of the black horse continued every night. Sometimes it was the
painting in the gallery. Only it was huge, and a giant naked Wanda would topple
it over on me, threatening to crush me, but I always woke up before it did.
Then there was the black horse appearing as a chess piece. And Wanda would
appear naked -- beautiful and alluring -- riding it. But no matter how hard I
tried I could never catch her.
Everytime I woke up my belly would be slick with cum. My cock was
constantly hard. At work I had to leave my shirt out to hide my erections.
All I could think about was Wanda.
Days came and went, then one night as I sat alone in the apartment, I heard
a faint rapping at the door.
It was Wanda with a tote bag hanging from her shoulder.
She gave me a quick little smile and lowered her head shyly.
"Can I come in?" she asked.
"I tried to find you," I said, when we were seated on the couch. "But you
were gone."
"Did you? I know."
She was wearing a short wrap skirt and a tank top without a bra. I stared
at the outline of her nipples. My cock was bent in my jeans and as it grew hard
began causing pain.
"I was planning on going to Acapulco," she said, but I kept having these .
. . dreams."
"A black horse?" I murmured.
She gazed at me with those sweet baby blues. A faint sexy smile formed on
her lips.
"I think it has something to do with this," she said.
She reached in her tote bag and pulled out a small canvas.
It was the Black Horse painting from the gallery.
"You stole it?" I blurted out with disbelief.
She tilted her head to the side and looked at me as if I were retarded.
"Of course I stole it. It's what I do. I was sizing it up when you hit on
me."
"But if they catch you, you'll go to jail."
"Yuh think? But they're not going to catch me. They don't even know it's
gone."
"But how --"
"I put a copy in its place."
"You did another one, a copy," I muttered stupefied.
Then it dawned on me why there had been a missing canvas and the tubes of
paint squeezed out.
She raised her curved fingers to her lips and blew across the nails with a
nonchalant air.
"I'm quite good," she said with an impish boast. It's been weeks, and no
one's noticed the switch. I doubt if even Boucher would remember what it looks
like. It's a piece of crap. He probably completed it in five minutes. I did."
"You did? Why?" I muttered.
"Yep." She nodded firmly, like an executive finalizing something.
"It brought us together," she added, with a slightly syrupy tone.
"I thought I would never see you again," I said, compelled to confess my
feelings although I felt wimpy for doing so.
"Acapulco wouldn't be Acapulco without you," she said. "We could go
together," she added with a pert glow of enthusiasm.
I stared at the hem of her skirt; if it were an inch higher I would know if
she were wearing panties.
"I don't have any money," I said morosely. "I'm not really an artist --
famous or otherwise."
"I know," she grinned. She nodded toward the paintings stacked in the
corner next to the easel. "When I saw those I almost gagged. Really amateur
stuff."
"They're not mine," I said, faintly defensive. "They were done by a
friend. This is his apartment. I'm house sitting for him -- but you raved over
them," I protested.
"Hmm, I was horny; I wanted to get in your pants," she quipped.
"You used me?"
"Yep, and I'm going to again -- unless you'd rather I --"
She rose slightly as if to leave.
Without thinking I slid next to her and pressed down on her shoulder.
She stared into my eyes with a satisfied, little grin.
"We'll have plenty of money," she said unzipping my pants. "Blacky is
worth roughly 500 thou in the right market."
She straightened out my painfully cramped cock and began to inflate it with
her mouth.
When it was at its glistening best, she stood up and stripped; she wasn't
wearing anything underneath.
"Are you into tantric yoga?" she asked.
When I was naked she took my hand and led me to the pallet and had me sit
cross-legged on it. The lotus position.
"It's important to keep your spine straight," she said. "So that your
psychic current can pass freely bringing you to a state of cosmic
consciousness."
While she was giving me all this mystic spiel I was thinking how nice my
cock was going to feel shoved up inside her tight little belly. I was burning
in anticipation.
She stood over me. Her shaved pussy was only an inch from my mouth. I
stuck my tongue out and licked up her slit. I must've hit her joy stick, for
her legs buckled suddenly. She gripped the top on my head to keep from falling.
"Stop," she gasped. "You'll release my kundalini, the sleeping mystic
force, the fire serpent."
"Sounds good to me," I said.
"Not so," she answered. "Once released it can ravage body, mind and
spirit. The carnal appetites are intensified. A whole catalog of evil passions
take over."
Again I'm thinking, sounds good to me.
"We want to reach samarasa, the nirvanic state. It's ten times better. Ten
times more intense. Your dharma."
She lowered herself, kissing my lips lightly. I felt the head of my cock
spreading her labia and the tight grip of her ring of muscle around the flange.
But the head was as far as my cock would go in her. The position I was sitting
in made it impossible to enter her fully.
"Relax," she whispered. "Keep your eyes fixed on mine. Empty your mind of
thought. Concentrate on my eyes."
I did so. And I'll have to admit that after a maybe a minute or two I felt
as if I were being drawn into other worlds. Her eyes became deep pools of
desire pulling me in. Swirling maelstroms.
As if from far off I heard her say, "Breathe with me. We must breathe as
one. If you think you're going to cum hold your breath and roll your tongue
backwards against the roof of your mouth."
I felt like I was going to cum, but I did as she said and it suppressed the
impulse. By now, though, I didn't want to shoot off. If reaching samarasa was
ten times better than a normal cum that was something I wanted to get into.
The more I stared at her face the more unfocused I became. We were
breathing as one, our bodies became one. The room dissolved around us.
I have no idea how much time passed, but suddenly I felt an overwhelming
force drawing me out of my body. I floated in some ethereal sphere filled with
intense multiple climaxes.
Then I drifted into slumber as I heard America singing, "I've been through
the desert on a horse with no name . . . ."
And I was somewhere in a desert on a black horse. 'The sky with no clouds
and the heat was hot and the ground was dry.' The far off mountains looked as
if they'd been painted with thick globs of paint squeezed straight from the
tube. Below on a plain that looked like a giant chess board a wagon train was
moving slowly along.
On one of the wagons was a beautiful woman with a long black mane cascading
down from the back of her sun bonnet.
Men on horse back rode alongside listlessly, their heads drooping in the
noonday heat, their rifles held slack across their saddle horns.
I had to have the white woman. I motioned to my naked warriors who sent a
flight of arrows arcing through the clear air.
Riders fell from their saddles into the dust, arrows sticking from their
bodies.
Scattered shots were returned as my warriors followed me down a hillock on
the attack, hooting and hollering wildly.
The whites fled before us in wild confusion. Wagons toppled over as
wagoneers panicked their teams. They broke ranks and fled across the plain in
random directions.
I followed the woman whose bonnet flew off her head as she frantically
whipped her horses into a gallop.
Tightening my legs around the flanks of my horse I drew back my bow and
sent an arrow through her lead horse. The other horses stumbled. The wagon
pitched headfirst over their writhing bodies. The woman was thrown clear.
She picked herself up and began running through a stand of pawn-shaped
cacti. Soon her dress was ripped from her body by their needle-like spines.
Naked except for button boots she scrambled over the hot desert sand. I toyed
with her coaxing my horse to bump her from behind with its nose causing her to
sprawl on the ground.
After awhile she grew too tired to rise back to her feet and began crawling
on her hands and knees.
She stared at my huge hard cock as I climbed off the horse. Her body was
wet with sweat. Her hair clung to it in wet strands. Her glistening flesh was
streaked with dirty rivulets. Her breasts quivered as she gasped for breath.
She attempted to fight, but she was exhausted. Soon I wrestled her onto her
back and spread her legs.
She groaned as I entered her. I held her wrists above her head pressed to
the ground. She turned her head as I tried to kiss her. But I wouldn't stop.
I licked the dirt and sweat from her breasts. I sucked on the pink nipples
causing them to rise like leaven dough. She sucked in a deep breath. Faint
unintelligible protests came from down in her throat.
Yet her body gave back inspite of her revulsion. Her hips returned my eager
thrusts -- while tears of protest coursed down her burning cheeks.
But I had been fooled, for as soon as I released her wrists she grabbed a
stone and struck me on the side of the head.
When I recovered she was running across the plain.
I chased after her. Sweat and blood dripped onto my chest. I panted
loudly -- not from exertion, but from primal lust. My cock ached painfully; my
need to have it in her was overwhelming. It slapped against my belly as I raced
along threatening to spew fuck at any moment.
The woman's boots threw sand up into the air behind her as she scurried
before me.
I was the swiftest runner in my tribe. I gained on her with every stride.
All around us came the whooping of my warriors and the screams of white men
being butchered and their women raped.
Smoke, from wagons that had been looted and burned, clouded the sky.
I gained steadily on the woman whose pace was slackening by the second.
I reached out and grabbed her by the hair yanking her off her feet.
We rolled down a slight incline and I ended up on top of her. Her breasts
rose and fell rapidly as she gasped in ragged breaths for air. Her naked body
felt as hot to me as the sun-baked desert sand.
I flipped her onto her belly. I would treat myself to a rear entry this
time. Her body stiffen as I pressed the sand-coated head of my cock against
her asshole.
She gave a wounded cry as I shoved it in. Her fingers clawed at the
ground. I kept pushing until her firm asscheeks were against my belly.
Then I lay still on top of her feeling her vibrations beneath me. Her
sweat-soiled face was turned sideways against the ground; the breath from her
mouth -- grimaced in pain -- made tiny puffs of dust rise up. Her eyes were
shut tightly; her smooth white teeth bared in agony.
We lay still like that for a long while. Gradually our breathing became
attuned. Her body was no longer stiff. The grimace was gone from her mouth.
I kissed the nape of her neck and began moving my cock in and out. She
murmured softly. Her pink tongue licked the ground. I licked the corner of her
mouth.
I turned her over and reentered her cunt. Our mouths touched; our tongues
moved against each other. She wrapped her legs around my waist pulling me into
her. The leather heels of her boots spurred my asscheeks. Her fingers twined
through my long mane, twisting and tugging.
The desert sun burned our naked bodies. Its heat became our heat.
Our bodies rocked together.
But I was not fooled this time. She was responding in order to make me cum
so that the rape would be over.
Her cunt tightened around my cock milking it, but I held my breath and
rolled my tongue backwards against the roof of my mouth.
After a time her movements became more frantic. I smiled. Trying to
arouse me to a climax she had also succeeded in arousing herself.
Soon she was begging me to fuck her in coarse barely coherent words
interspersed with forlorn cries and moans from the licentious pit of her deepest
need and desire.
As frantic as she, I thrust my cock deep into her wet, tight hole. Our
bodies slammed together brutally. The savage hoots and shouts, the screams of
murder and rape surrounding us only added to our feverish excitement. We fought
each other like animals, biting and slapping. Her fingernails left a wake of
bloody trails down my flanks. Her cheeks glowed red from my unrestrained slaps.
We tore at each other guided by a primal force that was beyond our will or
desire to resist.
When we came it was like an explosion. A derangement of the senses, then
an integration into oneness. Samarasa.
When I awoke we were lying face to face on the pallet. My cock was in her
to the hilt.
"That was fantastic," I said, kissing the corner of her mouth. "You were
right about samarasa. I've never experienced anything that intense."
Wanda raised her eyebrow. We didn't reach samarasa," she said. "We let
our kundalini possess us -- our carnal lust."
Damn, I thought; you mean it gets even better? If it does I'm not gonna
make it; I had almost had a heart attack as it was.
"Did you dream the same dream as I?" I asked.
"Indians attacking a wagon train?"
I nodded.
Uh-huh," she murmured putting her arms around my neck and pulling her sexy
little body even tighter up against me. "I liked the way we did it; it was
hot."
"Do you think that maybe we like crude sex too much to ever reach
samarasa?"
"She grinned. "It's the journey that matters not the destination."
We sold Black Horse for a suitcase full of money to an Arab in the back
room of a seedy pawn shop. But when we got back to the apartment we had
misgivings. What if the dreams stopped now that it was gone?
As we lay down on the pallet that night. Leigh Nash was singing:
"Hey now, hey now,
Don't dream it's over."
I was on a black horse, and I was wearing a suit of armor. From the window
of a castle a beautiful maiden with a long black mane was crying out for help .
. . .
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