"John's Really Weird Dream"
by Spike
4/99

Disclaimer:  The characters of John Fitzgerald Byers, Ringo Langly and
Melvin Frohike belong to someone else who doesn't let them get any of
this good stuff.  I just want to see them happy and sated for a change.
Rating:  NC-17  for geeks doing... well, each other, mostly. 
Spoilers:  nary a one
Archive:  yes, please
Summary:  John has a really weird dream.
Thanks & Acknowledgments: to Dawn Pares for lovely, useful beta -- with
extra bonus points for volunteering. <g>  And to Amy B. who wrote me
wonderful feedback suggesting there needed to be more Byers/anyone
except maybe a girl, Frohike or  barnyard animals...  Well, who could
resist a challenge like that?
Web Page:  http://avalon.net/~nonie/spike/spindex.htm
Feedback:  yes, please.  Public or private to Spike21@home.com

"John's Really Weird Dream"
by Spike

It started off just fine.  He was walking across a lovely green meadow,
hand in hand with the very nice girl from the photo shop.  At least he
*thought* it was the girl from the photo shop -- she was about the same
height, wore the same pretty flower print shift -- except that in the
dream her hair was blond instead of auburn and the meadow was a little
boggy, the ground sucking noisily at his shoes.  The sky was an odd,
electric shade of green.

And in the dream John kept glancing over at the girl, but he never
really could get a good look at her face because her newly blonded hair
kept falling across it as she walked.  Which John was finding quite
alluring and yet at the same time frustrating because he really wanted
to see her face.  And finally he couldn't stand it any more.  He stopped
her, took her by the shoulders and gently turned her to face him.  But
then the wind picked up and blew the long, wheat colored strands around,
sending it flicking up to hide her eyes or her nose or her mouth. And
John really wanted her mouth.  Leaned in to kiss her, but he always
ended up just kissing hair and finally *she* got frustrated and said:

"You'll need these, John."  And she slipped her fingers into his breast
pocket and took out his glasses, which she handed to him -- except they
weren't his glasses, they were black horn-rims.

"They're not..." John began, but then, as is the way of dreams, they
were somewhere else -- a hayloft and they were naked.  Making love, only
the girl was bonier than he'd expected, harder all over, and this was
very exciting to him.  He found himself writhing against her hardness,
wildly aroused -- biting at the taut flesh of her shoulders, the
distinct curve of her collarbone.   Kissing down across her chest.  Her
breasts were almost nonexistent -- flat hard pads of muscle with tiny
nipples...  His mouth stayed to suckle those hard, pink buds while his
hands ventured further, explored the rack of her ribcage, the winged
flanges of her narrow hips...  Close, he was close.

A phone rang somewhere in the dream, distracting him -- or maybe it was
a telegraph clattering.  He climbed down the ladder from the loft to
find the source and found himself walking out of the barn into a
farmyard.  

A storybook farmyard, where all the animals were absolutely the
healthiest,  most beautiful, best cared-for animals he'd ever seen.  Not
in cages or pens or stalls either, just free to walk around the
farmyard.  In the dream he was fascinated by their shiny coats, their
clean animal smell.  He found himself reaching out to touch each animal
as he passed -- marveling at the bristliness of hogshair, the silkiness
of the cow's.   And marveling too at the heat, the life of these animals
under his hands.  He lifted a chicken into his arms, cradled it,
stroking the softness of its feathers, feeling its tiny heart thudding
against his naked chest.  He teased out a single feather, tugged on it
gently and it came out in his hand.  Felt strangely guilty about the
act.  The feather was downy, but the quill was very sharp.  The chicken
had other sharp edges too -- the horned feet scratched incidentally at
his arms and belly, the beak that currently nuzzled against his throat
could also wound.  But the animals seemed so calm and unafraid that he
knew they would not harm him.

In fact the barnyard felt like the calmest, most beautiful place on
earth.  The air warm enough to go naked, as he still was -- strangely
without embarrassment, without shame.  The most natural thing in the
world to be calm and free like the animals and he felt himself becoming
a creature of the place...

"Hey, John," said a familiar voice.  John turned to see Melvin Frohike. 
Melvin wore denim overalls and a bandanna around his head.  He carried a
bucket of dried corn which he was sprinkling on the ground for the
chickens.  The chicken in John's arms flapped its wings impatiently and
John put it down.  Realized he was naked and hoped Melvin wouldn't
notice.

But Melvin seemed completely occupied with his tasks -- feeding the
animals, grooming them, brushing their coats which he did with a large
soft brush.   It looked so pleasant a texture that John felt compelled
to reach out and touch the bristles of the brush.  Just as he'd hoped --
the bristles firm but silky like a fox tail.  He ran his hand back and
forth across the brush, then felt embarrassed.

But Melvin just said:  "That's cool."  And started running the brush
over John's hand and arm, then his back.  Slow strokes, strong and firm,
and the brush was so *good* against his skin.  He buzzed and tingled
everywhere it passed.  He bowed his head a little and Melvin went on
grooming him -- his neck, his back, his buttocks, his legs.  Grooming
him and murmuring to him, like he had with the cows and the pigs, what a
lovely creature he was -- healthy and strong -- and following each
brushstroke with a comforting stroke of his hand.  And gently moving
John around to get better access to his flesh, lifting John's arms to
brush his underarms and ribs, easing John's legs apart so he could run
the brush along the insides of his thighs, his calves.  

John thinking he should probably stop this, that it wasn't really
*right* to let Melvin do this, but it felt so *good*.  And when Melvin
turned John around to begin the process again, John didn't stop him. 
Didn't stop him when he ran the brush over John's head, or through his
beard -- laying the hairs down just so, just the way he liked them. 
Didn't stop him as he moved the brush down, grooming John's shoulders,
chest, belly.   Didn't stop him even as the brush encountered evidence
of just how good it *did* feel -- his penis, stiff and rosy and leaking
copiously.  Truly embarrassed, John tried to find his voice, but
Melvin's hands were there, strong and soft, and the brush sweeping
buzzing sweetness across his testicles and he shuddered, felt his knees
try to buckle.

"Shh, shh..." Melvin whispered in his ear.  "Easy, John.  Beautiful
John.  Everything's copacetic..."  So wrong but pleasure was painting
itself in the buzz of the brush and the soothing tingle of Melvin's hand
sliding over the leaking slickness of his glans.  He rocked forward a
little into Melvin's hand, wishing suddenly that Melvin would just take
him in his mouth instead of all this rigmarole with the brush and the
animals.

"So ask him, doofus," said Ringo.  He was standing behind Melvin,
wearing the pretty flower print shift and sandals.  His pale pink
lipstick was a little smudged from when he and John had  been kissing
before.  John wanted to smudge it some more.

"Is this...allowed, now?" John asked.

"Oh man," said Ringo, rolling his eyes.  "You gonna go all narc on us?" 
In answer John reached out and fisted his hand in the loose cotton of
Ringo's dress, pulled Ringo's sharp lips to his and took a kiss off
them, tasting lipstick.  Then he did it again, slipping his tongue in
past the sharp ridges of teeth, felt Ringo open to him.  Kissed long and
endless while something slippery and hot moved over and back across the
head of his dick.

And then somehow they were somewhere else again, soft cotton and he was
on his back and Melvin was between his legs, bristled face abrading his
thighs as Ringo straddled his chest.  Ringo was naked now too, and his
long silky hair fell down on either side of his face.  Lovely hair, and 
the head of Ringo's erection bobbed near John's mouth, slender and
rosy.  Reflexively John arched his head, tried to capture it between his
lips.  Ringo obliged by thrusting his hips forward and as the sweet,
firm head of Ringo's cock slipped across his tongue, the heated ring of
Melvin's mouth descended on his own cock.

Liquid glide of pleasure.  Desire pouring through him like something
warm and thick, filling him quickly and he was floating, sinking,
drowning sweetly in the flood.  Underwater now, the three of them
floating down through pillars of ruined cities, through the timbers of
sinking ships --  everything a lovely greenish-blue but not cold, not
drowning.  The water was warm, the warmth was in him like a tide, salty
and sweet.  He could hear himself moaning wildly, felt himself brush up
against the skin of consciousness -- the reality of a mattress under his
back, liquid heat of a mouth around his cock, weight on his chest, his
own mouth full -- moaning muffled still and arching to force more of
himself into that heat, force more of his mouth onto that hot, slick
sweetness.

Feeling dream dissolve like melting ice.  Blinking, eyes opening to see
the tower of Ringo's body, Ringo's face wearing that sleek, blank
ax-blade look that could be agony but wasn't.  To feel his own body
cradled and worked -- his hips welded to the mattress under the solid
weight of Melvin's hands...

And orgasm bubbling up from underneath, taking him by surprise just as
waking took him -- a feeling like bubbles bursting inside him, soft but
relentlessly accelerating in intensity and he was coming long and hard
and slow in Melvin's mouth.  Again and again and screaming hoarsely
around Ringo's cock because if he didn't he would surely die from so
much pleasure...

*

Melvin came back into the bedroom carrying two enormous mugs of steaming
coffee and a tallboy of cherry Coke for Ringo who bounced up and plucked
it off the tray before fitting himself back in under John's arm.  John
smiled, wondered if his eyes would start focusing anytime soon.  Melvin
sat on the edge of the bed, handed him one of the mugs.

"How you doing, John-boy?" Melvin asked.

"Good," said John.  He sipped at his coffee.  It was good, too.  No --
it was great.  Melvin made *great* coffee.  Melvin was a wonderful human
being whom he loved dearly.

"I love you," he said.

"Hey," said Ringo.

"I love you too," he said to Ringo.  Melvin rolled his eyes.

"Weirdly Pavlovian, John," he said.  "Suck you off, bring you coffee and
you always say the same thing."

"It's still true," said John, shrugging.  Smiling.  That was Pavlovian
too -- the little smile -- it would stick there on his face, goofy and
sweet, for days.  Couldn't be helped.  He did love them.  They made him
this happy.

"So," he said.  "Just out of curiosity, what...uh, sparked this
bacchanal?"

"You did," said Ringo.  "You were rolling around on the bed and moaning
like... well, like you moan when you're getting some..."

"It was pretty hot, John," said Melvin.  "And you didn't seem to
mind..."

"I didn't mind," said John.  "I *don't* mind. I--"

"'Love you guys,'" Melvin and Ringo chorused together.  "We know." 
Melvin climbed back onto the bed and scooched down so he could rest his
head on John's lap.

"So what *were* you dreaming about anyway?"

"It was really weird," John said.  "I mean you were there and you were
there.  And we were having sex in a barnyard..."

"So what was the weird part?" Melvin asked nuzzling one bristly cheek
against John's  thigh.

"Well for one thing, Ringo was dressed like that cute girl down at the
photo shop..." said John.

"Mmm.  Tasty..." said Melvin.

"Who's tasty?" Ringo asked, fisting Melvin's hair and pulling back his
head.  "Me or the girl?"

"How many times do you have to hear it, already?" Melvin snorted.  "All
your martial arts are the best."

"Passable," said Ringo.  He released Melvin's head, turned back to
John.  "'Kay.  Ringo in drag and...?"

"And then there was a chicken and I uh..." still strangely shamed by the
act, John's voice dropped to near inaudibility and he lowered his head
and mumbled.  Melvin's eyebrows shot up. 

"What...?"

 Ringo snerked high, sharp laughter and cherry Coke through his nose,
nearly choked and turned bright pink.  It took a few seconds to figure
out exactly what was wrong, but by then it was too late, hysteria had
set in.

"For heaven's sake, guys," John said plaintively while Ringo whooped and
coughed and Melvin dissolved into some kind of snorting, shaking fit. 

"*Plucked* it...I said 'I *plucked* it...'"

=end=