Dream a Little Dream

Rated NC-17 for language and imagery.
This one I'm blaming on Mama Cass.

There is this dream that Xander Harris keeps having. It sneaks up on him when he is least expecting it; it seeps into his mind, his body, and his soul.

And it's vivid, damned vivid.

If you asked him to tell you about his dream -- which you never will because he'll never tell a single living being about it, but if he did tell you and you happened to ask -- he could tell you in shocking detail about how the sheets feel bunched up beneath his hands and knees. He could graphically describe the events that led to his being on his hands and knees, tell you about the heat and weight of the muscular thighs pressed up against the backs of his. Ask him about the hands of the other man, and he could show you exactly where on his hip the right one was, and tell you how the left one felt tangled up in his hair, holding it like a horse's reigns.

He could describe to you the tongue that runs up his spine, collecting the sweat between his shoulder blades as if he were reading an excerpt from some erotic novel.

Even awake he could tell you exactly how it feels to have strong, non-callused hands running their way down his arms, entwining with his own when they have completed their journey. The dream is so vivid that he could describe in lurid Technicolor detail what it feels like to have another man's cock in his ass, despite that fact that no man has ever gone there.

It's a dream that culminates each morning with his rolling over; slipping into his fiancee's tight embrace and riding her like she was Seabiscuit and the Triple Crown were at stake. Whenever he has this dream, and he's fucking Anya as though his life depended on it, he never comes until she slips her finger in his asshole.

He's had this dream four times now.

Last night was the fifth.

He hasn't quite come back to his senses, but he knows Anya is not happy. It can't be because she didn't come. Because she did. Three times before he finally came with a soundless scream.

“You okay?” He stupidly asks her once he can finally breathe again.

And therein lies his first mistake of the day.

When he finally turns and looks at her, she is not wearing the look of a sated lover. Instead she's wearing a look that reminds him what she used to do for a living. A look that gives him a shudder, and he slips out of bed and slinks off to the shower.

He's rinsing the suds from his body when she slips in behind him. They do a dance of avoidance as she tries to slip under the stream of water until he's squeaky clean and he steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. He's finishing up shaving when she steps from the shower and any thing he may have had resembling an erection brought on by the sight of his wet and glistening girlfriend is killed the moment his eyes meet hers.

Xander knows he's in big trouble.

All is not well in Xander land, and he blames it all on Spike.

Spike and his warm, sticky sweet butterscotch smooth voice.

Spike and his evil, sinister vampire thrall.

If it hadn't been for Spike and his voice and his thrall and his talk of implosions and explosions, Xander would have never drunkenly agreed to allow Anya to fuck him in the ass. And that strap on Anya had bought would still be in the back of the closet where it belongs, instead of sitting on top of his chest of drawers where it has been ever since he freaked out the first time he felt it's bulbous head nudge up against his asshole begging for admittance three weeks ago. He's begged Anya to put it away, get rid of it, but she hasn't, so there it sits, mocking him every time he goes to change his underwear.

Sounds kind of odd, doesn't it, that a man who can't seem to get off unless he's being finger fucked would be so freaked out by the prospect of getting a little action in the back door. But it's not the idea of being penetrated that bothers him. What bothers him is the fact that once he was greased up like a pig at a country fair, with that thing poised at the crack of his ass, something in his mind clicked. Deep back in the recesses of his sub-conscious he became so acutely aware that it wasn't real. That it wasn't flesh and it wasn't blood and that it wasn't attached to a sleek well-muscled, yet compact vampire with bleach blonde hair and a voice that makes his toes curls and his dick throb.

But he'd never tell you that either.

The End