Did I have a dream, or did the dream have me?

– Rush, “Nocturne”

Last night I had a nightmare. I realized I was dreaming and forced myself back to consciousness.

As I began to slide back to wakefulness, the dream-demon tried to swallow my mind. Refusing to let me awaken without a fight, he attacked me with a claw of burnt midnight sky. His ebon hands fumbled about my head and face. I fled his ferocious assault.

Blackened flesh and sooty sinew melted away and the demon’s hands became rivers of inky darkness. The Shadow tried to drown me beneath waves of undulating, liquid hate. I tried to paddle away, but the crests were too high, and I’m a poor swimmer. Icy, coal-black water began pouring down my throat and ears. As my lungs filled, I began to panic. The terror of drowning erased rationality and sense, my most prized possessions. Perhaps the dream-demon would finally have me.

I coughed and spat as the waves crashed about my head. Suddenly, I caught sight of a tiny island – barely big enough for a single person to stand on – nearby. I struggled to reach it before the waters of demonic rage could claim me.

Spending the last of my strength on reaching the island, I collapsed on the white sands of the miniscule beach. I became aware of a thin, sharp sound in the distance. It grew stronger with each wave lapping against my knees. I turned to see a tsunami of unearthly proportions rushing toward me.

Seconds before I was to be consumed completely by the hateful sea, a face appeared in the colossal tide. The demon’s face – my face – laughed a loathsome, taunting laugh at me. Then the wave crashed down, and I was enveloped in the frigid, numbing waters.

I awoke with a start, clutching my black-and-grey blanket to my face.

This post is dedicated to my Twitter friend (would that be “twend?”), @Crzywritergrl. Read her blog, especially the tales of her lusty affair with a guy like Master.

I’m not gay or into BDSM (much), but like a lot of people, I did some experimenting in college. Shortly after I started school at Illinois College in the autumn of 1998, I met a guy who would change my life.

Before I go any further, I should take a moment to explain that I was only seventeen (insert Winger reference here) when I started college, due to my September birthday. I had always preferred the world of books and games, which can teach you many things, but are not a substitute for the real world. I was also a virgin, at least in the Bill Clinton sense. Copious amounts of Internet porn, a few handies, and some hummers, but never the “real deal.” I was naive.

I’m sure my naivité made me the perfect target for this chickenhawk. He showed up in my dorm about two weeks after class had started. I never learned his real name; he only introduced himself as “Master.” His name sounded ominous and thrilling at the same time, but he was genial enough. He told me he was from Providian (that’s in Rhode Island, right?) and he wanted to hang out and have fun with me.

I was suspicious at first. Why would an older guy like Master be interested in me? What could he possibly want from me? What could I possibly have to offer him? Master told me not to worry: whatever I liked, he was interested in. He wanted me to share all of my interests with him. He said he knew I would be cool to be with because I was going to an expensive private college. He told me that he’d been hanging out with some of the upperclassmen for a while.

I started hanging out with Master a little bit at first. We’d walk up to the gas station to get a pack of cigarettes, or order Jimmy John’s every once in a while. Each time we did something together, Master was so courteous, sending me a note thanking me for sharing my interests with him.

Soon, Master and I were hanging out all the time. We’d rent movies, do dinner, or go shopping for my girlfriend. Master didn’t mind being the third wheel: he said as long as I shared my interests with him, we could do whatever I wanted. By this time, Master and I had become such good friends that he would call, usually once a week, to let me know how much he valued our relationship. He still sent me notes too, decorating them with red lettering.

I started developing strong feelings for this guy, Master. They were feelings I hadn’t felt since I’d been with my first serious girlfriend. Even the girl I was dating at the time didn’t make me feel like Master did. When we touched, I felt a little jolt, a shock, sometimes. I was confused that I could feel this way about Master, but I couldn’t deny the truth; I was in love with him.

I thought that Master loved me too. He did so many nice things for me, I thought he must feel about me the way I felt about him. He threw me a party when I turned eighteen alone, away from home and family and friends. When I lost my virginity to my girlfriend, it was Master who bought the Trojans from the pharmacy for me. He gave my roommate a ride home when he felt homesick. When I wanted to drive for hours to see my girlfriend, it was Master who made it possible.

Suddenly, however, everything changed.

I dropped out of college shortly before midterms in my first semester. There were serious family issues I had to deal with, immediately. I was confident I could get through it with the help of Master. He had always helped me out before, so I knew he would be there when I needed him most. But I was wrong.

Master turned on me and revealed what he really wanted. He didn’t care so much about my interests now; he wanted reparations. He told me that it was high time I repaid him for his kindness. He said kids like me were always to be his serfs, if he even deigned to grace them with his presence. I was aghast.

Master then appeared to me as he truly was. He was not the suave, sophisticated older man who opened doors for me and showed me a good time. He was not the debonair gentleman I thought he was. No, Master was the fiercest of whip-crackers. He was a dominator, a violator. His zipper-head mask was adorned with silver rings, and I smelled the co-mingling of my Grey Flannel cologne and my girlfriend’s Sunflowers perfume. This bastard had been fucking me, even as I was fucking her!

As he shoved me to my knees and forced the ball gag into my mouth, I knew that I had no one to blame but myself. I had allowed Master to take over my life. I surrendered my self-respect to him in a vain attempt to live above my station. With each passing moment, I made myself more his slave. The sting of his riding crop on my ass was nowhere near as painful as the stinging, burning feeling radiating from my ego.

Master’s abuse of me lasted a long time, but eventually (with the help of Tiffanie, who’s now my wife) I turned the tables on Master. He’s no longer in control of my life. I decide when and what I do. When I first met him, I was but a student; now, I am the Master.