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Dream Diary

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Pia said:
how wonderful if dreams could become real?
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There are Buddhist sects that maintain that a dream is as real as waking reality, and are apparently distressed that so many people don't remember their dreams. Missing out on so much of their life experience. You make a point of remembering and even revelling in your dreams. ;):)
 
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Barbaria1 said:
(Madi! How about one of your dream pics to go with it?)


Glumly I sit on the hot sand of the arena floor, hunched forward, arms wrapped tightly around my knees, eyes wet with tears. Tangles of sweat-soddened hair half cover my bare breasts. Alongside me lies a cross of rough hewn wood, to which someone has affixed a small board. My name is crudely carved upon it.
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Madiosi-2018-190-ArenaDream.jpg
 
Barbs - not a flaying... maybe next time...

I scribbled some notes when I woke.... It was a bit fragmentary... and maybe drew from your inspiration.

Brilliant blue sky, white sun, black shadows. I'm dragged out from the cool of the cellars, my ankles and wrists still shackled. The noise! A roar, growing in intensity. I glance all around. They are all looking at me, at my rags, hanging from my bloodied shoulders. I can see the stake, chains hanging from it. Waiting.
Noise!
I'm there. He gives me a leather water bag and signals that I should drink. I know it will be my last swallow of water. I feel it, sweet and cold, as it flows into me. He snatches it away. My arms are roughly raised above me and the shackles are fixed to the hanging chain. They pull on it so that I am barely on tip-toes. My toes circle in the sand. I stare at the sand, knowing that they are all looking at me.
Noise!
He comes to me and raises my head, his eyes focused on me. He pushes my sweat-tangled hair from my eyes, letting his hands run down my neck to my shoulders. He tugs on the torn cloth that covers me. Tugs again. Hard. And rips it from me.
I am naked. The noise is filling me.
I wait.
He comes to me again. In his hands a sort of rake. A long pole tipped with horrible, sharp spikes. He holds it at my neck. He pulls it down my body, from my neck to my sex. Over my breasts. Over my belly. Seven spikes cutting into my flesh. Seven streams of blood. Then over my left breast. Seven more. And my right. Seven more. My whole body is bleeding, blood flowing over my body, over my hips, over my legs, warm blood sliding over me. I open my eyes. I close my eyes. My mouth won't scream. I want to scream. I can't.
He turns me. Three more times he runs the rake over me, over my back. Then again, over my side. And again, over my other side.
He stands back from me, watching me hanging there. Watching me gasping and bleeding. He raises his rake. The crowd cheer.
Noise. Noise. Noise.
He watches me, watches as I turn slowly on the chains, my legs unable to bear my weight. He watches me.
I see another man.
He is carrying a bundle of sticks. He is coming towards me. He piles them around my feet. I can't kick them away. I am hanging and bleeding.
He brings another bundle. And another. But they come only half-way up my calves. The sticks spread out around me. The crowd cheer.
Noise!
I see him with a torch. He is coming to light the sticks. He is coming to burn me. They will all watch me bleed and swing and burn. They want to see me burn. I can't even scream.
All I hear is noise.
 
Pia said:
Brilliant blue sky, white sun, black shadows. I'm dragged out from the cool of the cellars, my ankles and wrists still shackled. The noise! A roar, growing in intensity. I glance all around. They are all looking at me, at my rags, hanging from my bloodied shoulders. I can see the stake, chains hanging from it. Waiting.
Noise!
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Madiosi-2018-191-PiaDream.jpg Madiosi-2018-191-PiaDream2.jpg
 
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Pia said:
Barbs - not a flaying... maybe next time...

I scribbled some notes when I woke.... It was a bit fragmentary... and maybe drew from your inspiration.

Brilliant blue sky, white sun, black shadows. I'm dragged out from the cool of the cellars, my ankles and wrists still shackled. The noise! A roar, growing in intensity. I glance all around. They are all looking at me, at my rags, hanging from my bloodied shoulders. I can see the stake, chains hanging from it. Waiting.
Noise!
I'm there. He gives me a leather water bag and signals that I should drink. I know it will be my last swallow of water. I feel it, sweet and cold, as it flows into me. He snatches it away. My arms are roughly raised above me and the shackles are fixed to the hanging chain. They pull on it so that I am barely on tip-toes. My toes circle in the sand. I stare at the sand, knowing that they are all looking at me.
Noise!
He comes to me and raises my head, his eyes focused on me. He pushes my sweat-tangled hair from my eyes, letting his hands run down my neck to my shoulders. He tugs on the torn cloth that covers me. Tugs again. Hard. And rips it from me.
I am naked. The noise is filling me.
I wait.
He comes to me again. In his hands a sort of rake. A long pole tipped with horrible, sharp spikes. He holds it at my neck. He pulls it down my body, from my neck to my sex. Over my breasts. Over my belly. Seven spikes cutting into my flesh. Seven streams of blood. Then over my left breast. Seven more. And my right. Seven more. My whole body is bleeding, blood flowing over my body, over my hips, over my legs, warm blood sliding over me. I open my eyes. I close my eyes. My mouth won't scream. I want to scream. I can't.
He turns me. Three more times he runs the rake over me, over my back. Then again, over my side. And again, over my other side.
He stands back from me, watching me hanging there. Watching me gasping and bleeding. He raises his rake. The crowd cheer.
Noise. Noise. Noise.
He watches me, watches as I turn slowly on the chains, my legs unable to bear my weight. He watches me.
I see another man.
He is carrying a bundle of sticks. He is coming towards me. He piles them around my feet. I can't kick them away. I am hanging and bleeding.
He brings another bundle. And another. But they come only half-way up my calves. The sticks spread out around me. The crowd cheer.
Noise!
I see him with a torch. He is coming to light the sticks. He is coming to burn me. They will all watch me bleed and swing and burn. They want to see me burn. I can't even scream.
All I hear is noise.
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NOISE ... NOISE ... NOISE. :clapping: :clapping: :clapping:
 
I knew when I first saw her across the seminar room in the English faculty. She knew as well, I think. I’ll skip all the ‘getting to know you’ stuff. Let’s just say we connected. She was doing her PhD in some odd corner of post-structuralism, here in this cold, damp corner of Sussex from her uni in Baltimore.
Just so you know: her name was Juliet. She had blue eyes and thick hair that sometimes fell over her shoulders and was sometimes piled up on her head. Her lips seemed to be always just parted, always shimmering.
I think we were two weeks into things when we discovered our shared passion. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe I sort of caught her with a nail when we were making love. I remember that we soon graduated to biting and scratching and slapping. And to introducing some strange things into our bed. Sharp twigs. The spiked shells of chestnuts. Barbed wire.
It could have stayed like that. Well, not really. We bought a whip that we shared. And cufflinks that we took turns to wear. And a chain that we looped around ourselves. We made love in our own blood. It could have stayed like that.
Maybe it was her idea. Maybe it was mine. Two beautiful little scalpels. So fine and sharp. We held them to the light in her flat overlooking the sea. Blue scalpels.
We sat on the bed, our legs entwined. Our bodies an arm’s length apart. She said I should go first. I looked at her lovely face and at her round, swelling breasts, then cut her across her nipple. It was so beautiful. I loved her half-held-back moan.
She ran her blade from my left shoulder to my right breast. Not deep. But deep enough. Then it was my turn. And then hers. Until our bodies were traced like a map with red lines, heaving to draw in breath against the beautiful pain.
We lay together, damp in our blood, then sat again and started cutting once more. On our sides, our thighs, our bellies. Until we were crimson. We leaned in to each other and kissed and then, I suppose we knew it was the right moment, both, at the same time, sunk our blades between our ribs and gasped and kissed and knew that what we had done was how it always had to end.
 
Pia said:
I knew when I first saw her across the seminar room in the English faculty. She knew as well, I think. I’ll skip all the ‘getting to know you’ stuff. Let’s just say we connected. She was doing her PhD in some odd corner of post-structuralism, here in this cold, damp corner of Sussex from her uni in Baltimore.
Just so you know: her name was Juliet. She had blue eyes and thick hair that sometimes fell over her shoulders and was sometimes piled up on her head. Her lips seemed to be always just parted, always shimmering.
I think we were two weeks into things when we discovered our shared passion. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe I sort of caught her with a nail when we were making love. I remember that we soon graduated to biting and scratching and slapping. And to introducing some strange things into our bed. Sharp twigs. The spiked shells of chestnuts. Barbed wire.
It could have stayed like that. Well, not really. We bought a whip that we shared. And cufflinks that we took turns to wear. And a chain that we looped around ourselves. We made love in our own blood. It could have stayed like that.
Maybe it was her idea. Maybe it was mine. Two beautiful little scalpels. So fine and sharp. We held them to the light in her flat overlooking the sea. Blue scalpels.
We sat on the bed, our legs entwined. Our bodies an arm’s length apart. She said I should go first. I looked at her lovely face and at her round, swelling breasts, then cut her across her nipple. It was so beautiful. I loved her half-held-back moan.
She ran her blade from my left shoulder to my right breast. Not deep. But deep enough. Then it was my turn. And then hers. Until our bodies were traced like a map with red lines, heaving to draw in breath against the beautiful pain.
We lay together, damp in our blood, then sat again and started cutting once more. On our sides, our thighs, our bellies. Until we were crimson. We leaned in to each other and kissed and then, I suppose we knew it was the right moment, both, at the same time, sunk our blades between our ribs and gasped and kissed and knew that what we had done was how it always had to end.
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Ummmmmmmmmmm :confused:

The writing grabbed me. Intense!

Still trying to work out how I feel about what happened. That just might take me awhile.

Certainly an attention grabber!
 
Pia said:
I knew when I first saw her across the seminar room in the English faculty. She knew as well, I think. I’ll skip all the ‘getting to know you’ stuff. Let’s just say we connected. She was doing her PhD in some odd corner of post-structuralism, here in this cold, damp corner of Sussex from her uni in Baltimore.
Just so you know: her name was Juliet. She had blue eyes and thick hair that sometimes fell over her shoulders and was sometimes piled up on her head. Her lips seemed to be always just parted, always shimmering.
I think we were two weeks into things when we discovered our shared passion. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe I sort of caught her with a nail when we were making love. I remember that we soon graduated to biting and scratching and slapping. And to introducing some strange things into our bed. Sharp twigs. The spiked shells of chestnuts. Barbed wire.
It could have stayed like that. Well, not really. We bought a whip that we shared. And cufflinks that we took turns to wear. And a chain that we looped around ourselves. We made love in our own blood. It could have stayed like that.
Maybe it was her idea. Maybe it was mine. Two beautiful little scalpels. So fine and sharp. We held them to the light in her flat overlooking the sea. Blue scalpels.
We sat on the bed, our legs entwined. Our bodies an arm’s length apart. She said I should go first. I looked at her lovely face and at her round, swelling breasts, then cut her across her nipple. It was so beautiful. I loved her half-held-back moan.
She ran her blade from my left shoulder to my right breast. Not deep. But deep enough. Then it was my turn. And then hers. Until our bodies were traced like a map with red lines, heaving to draw in breath against the beautiful pain.
We lay together, damp in our blood, then sat again and started cutting once more. On our sides, our thighs, our bellies. Until we were crimson. We leaned in to each other and kissed and then, I suppose we knew it was the right moment, both, at the same time, sunk our blades between our ribs and gasped and kissed and knew that what we had done was how it always had to end.
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Image1.jpgself-disembowelment.jpg

Madiosi-2018-195-bloody dream.jpg The bloody dream
 
I had a very nice 'dream' this morning, you know, in that half-awake, half-asleep time.... It was about my favourite rope. It's a lovely, thin hemp rope about 2m long with little metal closures on each end. I've tied a few knots in it. A bit later on I will tell you about my dream....
 
So... my bed is one of those with iron bars at the end, you know the sort. I like to lie naked with my rope, slowly dragging it across my breasts, my nipples, my belly, my sex. And I looked up and thought I could use the bars. I passed the rope round one, tying it off. Then ran it down behind my back. I could feel it on my skin and I liked that. I pulled it up between my legs and using my hand measured just the spot to tie a small knot. Just the right spot.

Then I worked the rope and its lovely knot closer in to myself, so the lovely knot lay just on my sex. And then looped the rope back around another bar, over my head, so it could work like a sort of pulley. Sort of. And taking my hand above my face, I took the short end of the rope and pulled.

It felt so good to pull hard and harder, drawing the knot into myself, then releasing the pressure and pulling suddenly again, so the knot cut into me as it moved. I looked down and saw myself becoming red and felt the burning pain and pulled again until I saw some blood from where the soft skin between my legs had chaffed. And I released the tension and pulled again and again and again until I was soaked in my own sweat and I could see the sheet below me turning red. I bit on my arm, the arm I held above my face. I pushed my face into my arm and pulled again and again and again.

Later I untied the rope from the head of the bed and looped it around my waist. I tied some more small knots into it and then I stood up beside the foot of the bed so I could see myself in the long mirror that stands there. I tied it now to the rail at the bottom of the bed and pulling tight, squeezed the rope around my belly, pulling and releasing so that the knots tightened to me and moved around and cut into me. I looked at the tightness of my waist, how small I had made it, how beautiful it looked. I released the rope and touched the burned welts and blood with my finger tips and ran my finger tips into the blood at my sex and tightened the rope and pulled again and again. My body arched as I absorbed the pain and I ran my free hand over my breast and squeezed myself hard until I whimpered and pulled again and again.

I untied the rope and touched the marks I had made on my body. I felt the hard metal ends of the rope and doubled it on itself and taking the folded end raised it up and thrashed my back hard, again and again. And then thrashed my belly and my breasts so the beautiful little metal tips cut into me and covered my mirror in the blood that jumped from the little tears my lovely rope made in my flesh. I thrashed my body again and again and again until my white skin became red with a sheen of blood.

I didn't want to stop. I loved my rope so much. But then I stopped and walked to my shower and watched my blood run over me and pool with the water around my feet and I felt the little cuts and welts I had made on myself and ran my fingers through my hair and pushed my breasts against the glass of the shower and ran my fingers deep into my burning cunt and sat down, in the water that fell from the shower, and I felt happy and conent.

My little rope is such a kind and good friend to me. I love my little rope. I hate it when I am away from my lovely little rope. I will always keep my rope with me. It helps me dream so well.
 
I think I might try to dream about myself being burned at the stake. I'd like that I think. I'd like so many things I think. Most of all I'd like to be crucified. Whipped and crucified. Maybe someone will be kind enough to do that to me?
 
Pia said:
So... my bed is one of those with iron bars at the end, you know the sort. I like to lie naked with my rope, slowly dragging it across my breasts, my nipples, my belly, my sex. And I looked up and thought I could use the bars. I passed the rope round one, tying it off. Then ran it down behind my back. I could feel it on my skin and I liked that. I pulled it up between my legs and using my hand measured just the spot to tie a small knot. Just the right spot.

Then I worked the rope and its lovely knot closer in to myself, so the lovely knot lay just on my sex. And then looped the rope back around another bar, over my head, so it could work like a sort of pulley. Sort of. And taking my hand above my face, I took the short end of the rope and pulled.

It felt so good to pull hard and harder, drawing the knot into myself, then releasing the pressure and pulling suddenly again, so the knot cut into me as it moved. I looked down and saw myself becoming red and felt the burning pain and pulled again until I saw some blood from where the soft skin between my legs had chaffed. And I released the tension and pulled again and again and again until I was soaked in my own sweat and I could see the sheet below me turning red. I bit on my arm, the arm I held above my face. I pushed my face into my arm and pulled again and again and again.

Later I untied the rope from the head of the bed and looped it around my waist. I tied some more small knots into it and then I stood up beside the foot of the bed so I could see myself in the long mirror that stands there. I tied it now to the rail at the bottom of the bed and pulling tight, squeezed the rope around my belly, pulling and releasing so that the knots tightened to me and moved around and cut into me. I looked at the tightness of my waist, how small I had made it, how beautiful it looked. I released the rope and touched the burned welts and blood with my finger tips and ran my finger tips into the blood at my sex and tightened the rope and pulled again and again. My body arched as I absorbed the pain and I ran my free hand over my breast and squeezed myself hard until I whimpered and pulled again and again.

I untied the rope and touched the marks I had made on my body. I felt the hard metal ends of the rope and doubled it on itself and taking the folded end raised it up and thrashed my back hard, again and again. And then thrashed my belly and my breasts so the beautiful little metal tips cut into me and covered my mirror in the blood that jumped from the little tears my lovely rope made in my flesh. I thrashed my body again and again and again until my white skin became red with a sheen of blood.

I didn't want to stop. I loved my rope so much. But then I stopped and walked to my shower and watched my blood run over me and pool with the water around my feet and I felt the little cuts and welts I had made on myself and ran my fingers through my hair and pushed my breasts against the glass of the shower and ran my fingers deep into my burning cunt and sat down, in the water that fell from the shower, and I felt happy and conent.

My little rope is such a kind and good friend to me. I love my little rope. I hate it when I am away from my lovely little rope. I will always keep my rope with me. It helps me dream so well.
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Oh, I get high with a little rope as my friend ...
Mmm, get high with a little rope as my friend ...
Gonna try with a little rope as my friend ...

Apologies to Lennon & McCartney
 
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Pia said:
I think I might try to dream about myself being burned at the stake. I'd like that I think. I'd like so many things I think. Most of all I'd like to be crucified. Whipped and crucified. Maybe someone will be kind enough to do that to me?
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I will gladly volunteer to do that to you or, better yet, have it done to me with you :D
 
I actually considered making a topic about this before I found this topic. I wrote down as much as I could a few months ago of a strange dream I had, well ok most dreams are strange, but this one was so vivid and real to me that I actually looked up those dream websites that try to explain peoples dreams as being past life events or psychic connections to other people in the world.

Anyway, in my dream I was walking around this indoor mall with my sister and one of her friends. It's strange because I do not have a sister, and also the fact that the mall was empty, yet all the stores were open. No music played, no resturants cooked, no music, nothing. In my dream, I was aware of my "style" and the style of those who were with me. It must have been back when I went to through my "goth" phase, because what little clothing we were wearing was pretty much just black and spikey red and black bracelets. I say little because all I was wearing, was a black shirt and that stopped at my waist and some near knee high boots, but nothing else, no pants, and no panties. It was the same for my dream sister and her friend.

The farther we traveled into this empty mall, the more surreal it felt, but we were happy. At least that was my impression anyway. In my dream we came to a store that had this real scuzzy looking young man in front of it, heavy set, short black hair that looked really greasy, and I remember thinking how this guy did not look like he had taken a shower in a month. he waved us over and we joined him outside the store where I am assuming he asked the three of us to hang out with him in the back room he hand behind the store, so we went with him.

The back room he took us to was interesting. I remember there being an old juke box, a pool table, and a couch with a short legged long table infront of it.

I sat on the right side of the couch while my sister stood beside the table on the right, and her friend stood across from the table as we talked with this guy who was really friendly, but looked and smelled nasty as all hell. Why we would even give a guy like this the time of day was beyond me.

A few minutes later, he pulled out this small glass tube of a purple looking powder and gave us each one.
Without question we took it and inhaled it into our nostrils as if it were a drug. Nothing happened right away, but when it did, it was only then in my dream that I felt panic. I got dizzy and lightheaded and I felt really weak. I noticed that the two with me also were woozy. the friend my dream sister brought with her fell onto her back, across the table in front of me and my sister and I stumbled to our feet and turned to face the man. I fell to my knees and leaned forward on the carpet. at some point my sister must have fallen as well because she was infront of me and I had a good view of her shaven pussy as it gently rested in front of me.

I think the three of us lost conciousness because the next time I open my eyes, I was in a dark square room on a very large bed, the kind that had one of those canopies above it. the room was lit only by candles and I could make out shapes all around the room of chanting women in dark red robes I could not undestand what they were saying.

I looked to my right and left in my dream and saw my sister on my right and her friend on my left. all three of us were bound completely naked to this bed, our wrists bound above our heads and locked together on the headboard. our legs were spread and linked together with rope. I could feel my sisters leg against my own and that of her friends as well. my sister and her friend were still asleep from the drug, and I was so very tired still as well.


my speech was slurred, but I could still hear everything clearly. the chanting grew louder. then the women in the room disrobed and came onto the bed with my sister and her friend and begin to rape us there. my sister and her friend never woke up, but I felt everything that was happening to me. the entire time the chanting never stopped.


afterwords, 3 women approached and climbed onto the bed and sat on my belly and the other two did the same for my sister and her friend. they had daggers in their hands and I was frozen with terror. the two next to me to raised their daggers above their heads and then pushed them down into the the heart of my sister and her friend. they never stirred or made any action. I remember crying as I looked at my sister.

I could not look the woman who was sitting on me as she brought her own dagger down into the area between my breasts.



I woke up from my dream and found that I was crying for real, and felt really sick to my stomach. I ran to the bathroom and vomited a little. That dream has stayed with me all this time, but I have never had another like it since then. I kinda hope I never do again to be honest. it just felt so dirty and unpleasant, and I could not understand how I could be so stupid in my dream to walk around half naked in an empty mall, trust some random guy who looked the way he did, and then also die in some dark room with some satanic cult ritual of some sort.
 
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