Natural Endurance

I fall asleep around five and then I'm somewhere else entirely. Stone chamber. Torches burning. Cold enough I can see my breath, except I'm also naked, which seems about right for the week I'm having. Brilliant.

There's four of them and I know who they are before they step out properly.

Patricia. Short silver hair, sixty-three, that Girton posture even when she's wearing nothing but black hold-ups with lace tops. Looking at me the way she did that morning in Steve's kitchen. Not leering. Assessing.

Megan's there too, same stockings, smooth between her legs from that Brazilian, and she's watching me the way she did in the car park. Hungry.

Katie, young but moving like she's done this before. Eyes older than her face.

Then Lily walks out last and she's got her phone out, filming, and her voice is wrong. Layered. Like three people talking at once. "Don't stop on my account."

Christ, even my nightmares have a theme.

They're circling and their feet make no sound on the stone.

Katie starts with the Shakespeare. "Fair is foul and foul is fair. Hover through the fog and filthy air."

"Er, that's Macbeth right?" I say, because apparently I'm thick enough to correct witches in my own nightmare. "We did that at school."

Patricia stops right in front of me. Looks me up and down. "But did you pay attention to what happened to Macbeth, Dan?"

"Um, not really, I was too busy fancying the MILF playing Lady Macbeth."

She almost smiles. "Honest. I like that. Even when you're damned, you're honest about it Dan."

Then Megan's got her hand wrapped round my cock and her fingers are freezing but I'm hard anyway because my brain's not in charge even in bloody nightmares.

She strokes me. Slow. "First the wife, ripe with strife, hungry for another life..."

A voice from the darkness, nasal and pedantic: "The tags said 'Loving Wives' but the husband isn't involved. This belongs in 'Non-Consent/Reluctance!' Reported."

"I am involved," I say to the void. "I'm right here being..."

"Why is the prose so purple? Just get to the action."

"I'm not writing this, it's a bloody nightmare..."

Now Katie's behind me, pressed against my back. One hand cups my balls while Megan keeps working my shaft. Her other hand's on my throat, not choking, just there. "Then the daughter, shouldn't oughta..."

Lily's circling with the phone. "Want to see his face when he realises."

"Too much dialogue," someone wheezes from the shadows. "Not enough description of the feet. Two stars."

"There's stockings right there!" I'm pointing at Katie's thighs like an idiot. "What more do you want?"

More voices now. Getting louder.

"Cuckoldry is a disease. Why isn't the husband fighting back?"

"I read this to my wife and now she's asking for a 'Dan.' You're ruining my marriage..."

Katie drops to her knees. Takes me in her mouth, warm after Megan's cold hand, tongue working underneath.

Lily's still chanting. "When shall we four meet again. In thunder, lightning, or in rain?"

"Four's not right," I manage. "S'posed to be three witches..."

"I'm the disappointing sister. I break patterns."

Then I'm on my back without seeing how that happened. Dream logic. The stone's so cold it burns. Katie straddles my face, lowering herself, and I can taste her already, sweet and wet against my tongue.

Megan's between my legs now, wrapping her hand round my cock, then she's sliding down onto me and christ she's tight, gripping me as she bottoms out.

"When the hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won."

"Unrealistic," a voice announces. "Women don't get that wet that fast. The author's never actually been with a woman."

I try to respond but Katie's grinding on my face and all I can do is lick her, work my tongue while Megan's riding me.

"Tell him what you need," Lily says. Still filming. "Want you to beg for it properly."

"No build-up, no character development, this feels like AI. This is why literature is dead."

"This isn't literature or AI," I manage when Katie lifts up. "It's a fever dream brought on by..."

"Hope your workplace finds out who you really are slimeball..."

And that's when I see Marc, sorry I mean Steve! Minds playing tricks on me

Not walking. Just there. One moment absent, next moment in the doorway. Coaching gear, whistle round his neck. But his eyes are empty. Not angry or sad. Just hollow.

Ashley's with him. White polo shirt. Red toenails. That toe ring.

Steve's watching me fuck his wife while their daughter grinds on my face and I try to say something but the dream won't let me stop.

"The protagonist is irredeemable. No arc, no growth."

"Well yeah, that's sort of the..."

Ashley kneels next to us. Takes off her glasses, folds them, sets them on the stone. Then she's wrapping her feet round my cock while I'm still inside Megan and I don't know how that works but I can feel both. Her arches squeezing. That toe ring dragging.

"This doesn't count," Ashley says. "Penetration is sin but feet are just physio."

"A grandmother? The author needs therapy."

Now Patricia's above me without any transition. Sixty-three years old, those hold-ups framing her thighs. She guides my cock to her entrance, already wet, slides down inch by inch.

Looks down at me. "You're very ready for someone who claims this is wrong."

"I need therapy because I'm having this dream!" I shout at nothing.

Megan and Katie hold my wrists to the stone. Lily's circling, still filming. All four of them chanting: "Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble."

Steve's walking closer. Those empty eyes watching his mother take me inside her.

"Where's the husband's revenge? This is Loving Wives."

"Pretty sure consequences are incoming..."

Patricia's moving on me. Rising until just the head's inside her, then sinking back down. Seven years without this, she'd said.

"We fought a war so we wouldn't have to listen to British people."

"That was two hundred and fifty years ago, mate. Let it go..."

Lily leans in. "Film this. Want to see what you look like when someone actually fucks you right."

Katie finds my mouth with her hand. "I am in blood stepped in so far, that should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er."

That's Macbeth after he kills Duncan. After he's damned.

"More Shakespeare quotes. Just say 'I'm fucked' like a normal person."

"I'm fucked. Happy now?"

Steve's right next to us. Ashley reaches out, wraps her hand round my ankle, slides it up my calf. Wedding ring cold against my skin.

"Mate, I can explain..."

Steve's hand settles on my shoulder. Colder than the witches, colder than stone. Like ice burned through to bone.

Opens his mouth. Wind through caves. Then words, quiet and wrong.

"Trust the process, Dan. Trust the process."

His hands are on Patricia's hips now. His mother's hips. Guiding her rhythm. Pushing her down harder, making her take me deeper.

Ashley's got both feet on me. Arches working. "This doesn't count. Jesus is fine with feet."

"Now the ghost is helping? What category is this?"

"Supernatural horror. Obviously..."

"Needs better tags then."

Patricia's moving faster. Steve's hands controlling the pace. Lily filming everything. Megan's got two fingers in my mouth while Katie shifts, lowering her cunt back onto my face.

I'm tasting her while I'm buried in her grandmother, while her dead father helps his mother ride me, while his sister films it, while his physio works my legs with her feet.

"The pacing is all wrong. Too rushed."

I'm going to come and I can't stop it. Patricia's cunt tightens, milking me, and Steve's hands hold her down as I start to spunk inside her. She gasps, low and elegant, and I feel her pulsing as she comes too.

Katie's grinding harder, thighs clamping round my head. Comes with a shudder, flooding my mouth.

Ashley pulls her feet away. Sits back. Starts cleaning them with her tongue. Licking my spunk off her own toes. "Still doesn't count."

Lily stops filming. Looks at the screen. "Got it all. Want me to send it to Steve?"

Steve's hands tighten on Patricia's hips and his empty eyes are looking right into mine. Something's changing in them. Not anger.

Understanding. Betrayal. Knowledge.

Patricia leans down. Lips by my ear. "You're intelligent but lazy, Dan. Distracted. Which is it this time?"

"Both."

"Honest. I still like that. Even when you're damned."

"You're destroying families. Hope you're happy with the view count."

The torches go out.

Patricia's voice in the darkness, distant, fading. "You're the wicked thing, Dan. Don't apologise. Just own it."

Lily: "We're going to have a perfectly normal breakfast when everyone gets home. Can you do that?"

Ashley: "Same time Thursday. Bring your reading glasses."

Steve, hollow and wrong: "Trust the process."

---

Wake up gasping. Soaked through. Tangled in sheets that smell like sweat and fear and spunk.

Normal morning outside. Dog barking. Lawn mower three doors down. Sun through the curtains.

Just a dream. Weird fucked-up dream from too much sex and not enough sleep and a guilty conscience that won't shut up.

Down the hall Steve's alarm goes off and he's calling for Megan to bring him coffee. Alive and solid and completely unaware his ghost just helped me fuck three generations of his family in a stone chamber that doesn't exist.

I sit on the edge of my bed with my head in my hands.

Macbeth was a warning about ambition. About taking what isn't yours. About ignoring prophecies you know are true.

How did that end for Macbeth?

Murdered by a bloke not born of woman. Which in modern terms probably means Katie's going to stab me with a kitchen knife while Lily films it and Ashley explains how stabbing doesn't count as long as there's no penetration.

Fair enough really.

My dad always said I lacked impulse control.

Should've listened to that prophecy too.