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| Caracal |
on Tue 9 Dec 08, 3:44 AM to Caracal's blog.
I don't normally remember dreams but this one has just woken me up and I feel compelled to write it down.
I was at home, in a house which is not my current home, and was hosting a party. Being a person that needs some quiet time to recoup from being with numbers of people, I had slipped away upstairs to my room and was looking out of the window across the road and out to the fields beyond.
I realised that there was a man lying on my bed, watching me as I gazed, lost in my own thoughts, happy thoughts of contentment at the merriment downstairs. I stared at him, knowing him but also never having seen him before. You're the Quiet Catcher I said, recognising him from his reputation (if that makes any sense). He has thick grey/white hair, slightly unkempt and past collar length, regular and slightly rugged features, the type of man who was as comfortable in a well cut suit as in faded soft corduroys, not slim or muscular but a healthy build, one of a man who kept fit by keeping active, not from the gym. I knew that he was 56, he wore an old black overcoat with a red satin lining and it smelled of something akin to hessian or peat. I think he wore a fedora hat.
He watched me as I moved to the other side of the bed, he fascinated me, I was drawn in by him and we talked, talked, talked, laughed, challenged, stimulated. He seemed to know a lot about me. All the time I was aware of his power, pulling me to him. I could already feel his grip of my hair but knew he would never have to hold me that way, no need for physical control, it was his mind that was piercing mine and that is what would keep me to him. Oh he was certainly dominant but I knew he had a very masochistic streak as well and he wanted to harness my skills for his pleasure whilst respecting my mind, intelligence and my own power. He didn't want a pushover but someone to meld minds with, not grind genitalia, although his strong hands and self assurance gave me the sense that he would know how to use them. He would be happy to pass over the control to me at times and it would be a balance. He didn't want to be a sadist and he knew that I was already leaving that behind so there was no need to hint of physical infliction of pain.
I knew from looking into his eyes that he lived in the woods, near where they used to make charcoal. A cottage with a woodburning stove, a place of near self sufficiency, somewhere I would make my jams and preserves, somewhere I would cook for us, somewhere I would visit but never live. He would send me out with my whips when I was stressed from work as he understood what I needed, there would be no-one to hear me as I worked out the frustrations of the day, unwinding the coils of tension from my shoulders as the precision of the repeated actions took me into a calmness akin to meditation. He drank fine single malt whiskies, just one in the evening mixed with water, sitting in the living room whilst he watched a small TV. His kitchen would be my domain but his home would never be my domicile.
He had a crook cane in his hand and crashed it down on the bed, it splintered and I picked up a long fragment, bending it in half and waving it around. Sparks were flying from the ends of the cane, making pretty patterns. He chuckled and told me to put it down.
I'm not even wanting a relationship right now and am certainly not the marrying kind but I'll marry that man when I am 56.
How very very peculiar.
Edited Tue 9 Dec 08, 4:03 AM by Caracal
