The dream always begins the same way: I’m in the dark and a door opens before me. The room I’m walking into is brightly lit with tile floors and walls, bare and clean. There’s nothing about the space that is inviting, yet it is not the repulsive nor uncomfortable, it is familiar in the limited way that a doctor’s office can become familiar. The room is not warm or cool, in fact my physical presence seems arbitrary and excessive against the cool sheen of the ceramic tile and the shiny chrome of the fixtures. I never realise that I’m naked until I catch my reflection and see that I am unclothed. I never see myself in a mirror, I never look at my own face, I simply see a blur of flesh tone that looks like mine reflected back to me. As soon as I’m aware that I’m naked, I’m ashamed. I immediately move to cover my breasts and thighs, to protect the thatch of dark hair between my legs from prying eyes. What eyes? Am I being watched? I look around to see if someone sees me but I can never be sure if I’m completely alone.

On the wall opposite of where I came in there is a large rubber cock hanging off the wall. In some versions of the dream the cock becomes an actual man, standing against the wall with his shoulder blades pressed into the tiles, his hips jutting forward and his feet planted firmly. He is never there when the dream begins but he sometimes appears later on. When I see the rubber cock hanging on the wall I always have a twinge of memory, the kind of memory that you have dreams where you can’t be sure that you know what you think you know, and the more you think about it the more impossible it seems and the further away the thought floats. It’s as if I know that rubber cock. Each time I can vaguely recall that I have being in this room before. I have crossed the cold tiles to that cock, I have knelt, I have put my hands against the tile and leaned forward until I can take it into my mouth. There is no one else in the dream, no one telling me what to do, I simply move towards the downturned cock and assume the position below it as if by habit. In my stomach I can feel a knot, a twist of tension that is both excitement and trepidation. It’s as if I know that I am being adjudicated, tested. Somehow the invisible eyes are seeing my every move. There’s nothing about the cock that is unusual or exceptional but I know what it is there for. Or maybe it’s that I know what I’m there for. 

I kneel on the cold tile. I am both nervous and reverential. I lean forward, my palms sweating against the cool tile, and I stick out my tongue to catch the underside of the head. The rubber feels as lifeless  and inert as it looks. I begin to lick and suck out the tip leaving my hands against the wall, leaning in, wrangling the semi-soft cock with just my mouth. Once I have it fully in my mouth I begin to lose track of the fact that it is artificial. My head begins to swim as I suck and lick diligently, practicing, practicing, practicing. There is a thought, or a memory, in the back of my mind that spurns me on and soon I am in a frenzy of desire. On my knees I work that rubber cock with my mouth and I begin to take it farther into my throat. I am impatient, hungry for it, and working as hard as I would if there was a person attached to it. If I let my thoughts move in that direction the dream will adapt and turn that rubber cock into a real flesh-and-blood, breathing man.

I never realise that the transformation has occurred until I hear his voice. It is low and slow and dreamy, as if he’s just come up from underwater. He says very little and his voice is so smooth that I keep my eyes closed feeling his cock slide across my lips and tongue over and over and my body begins to feel warm and heavy with the rhythm and the worship of it all. When he speaks he only ever says ‘good girl’ or ‘faster’ or ‘deeper’. There is no conversation, there is no question that I will do exactly what he has asks me to do.  Just as I begin to enjoy that he is a real person, responsive and alive, I realise that my mouth is full of rubber again. Try as I might I can never make the vision of him remain. He slides in from my peripheral vision and by the time I begin to enjoy him he’s gone. When he vanishes, I don’t stop with the rubber cock, in fact I persevere. I double down and work that dildo with my throat and lips and tongue as if I can conjure him again.

It is then that I can feel the intensity and weight of my purpose in that room. All of a sudden the sterile, oppressive light feels like a stage. I feel as if I’m in a glorious, glittery pool of spotlight and I have a fascinated crowd before me, watching me suck dick like my life depends on it. As I continued I can hear his voice but this time it’s only in my own head it isn’t in the room as if he is there. His voice repeats over and over: practice, practice, practice. His words become a mantra as I bob up, slobbering over it desperately. I grow more determined, more crazed and focused. Suddenly something makes me look up and I see his face contorting in pleasure and I greedily suck for the prize of his love sliding down my throat. But that prize never comes. I wake up and the room is gone, the cock is gone, and he is gone. I am alone again with only the fleeting ephemera of memory.

Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.