She is on her knees, facing away from me. She has skin like buttermilk, naked but for a pair of black leather boots. She doesn't speak; I think she might be gagged, although her hair hides her face.
Her lover is slender and tall, a muscled man with salt and pepper hair and a nineteen fifties combover. He looks like he wouldn't be out of place in the navy he reminds me of Mark Harmon., and I pause briefly to wonder how on earth I know this and when I look at him I know that he's me. But then, I'm fairly certain she's me too, and possibly my lover. He hold a bottle of fine champagne, and tears it open, spraying it across her back.
He takes a second bottle and presses the cork into her anus, pulling it loose with a sharp and painful looking gesture. He quickly places the overflowing bottle against her, pouring the champagne inside her like some hedonistic enema.
And this is what I woke up to. A month has gone by without a single dream, and then I am presented with this Freudian abomination? I'm almost ready to call my therapist, but sometimes a woman sodomized by a cigar is just a woman sodomized by a cigar.
She wondered if your accent was real.
And that is quite a dream!