Dream Couch

"He is suing, but the odds of his winning seem bleak. I thought you knew. Otherwise, I wouldn't have ambushed you like that."

"Clive and I kept up a snail mail correspondence. He knew I hated watching the news and most of the other garbage on television. I only have a TV to watch reruns and craft videos on social media. How is Olivia taking his death?"

"She has gone into seclusion. Your sister Ty is handling the press and internet trolls."

"That doesn't surprise me one bit. Ty has always been so strong and self-reliant. I will call and see if they need anything now if you will follow me to the door. This interview is at an end."

The agents left business cards and went without any further arguments. Farahd chuckled when Derrik chastised Warren for using the Columbo shtick. He plucked Rasputin from the floor and shared a meal with him as he pondered what to say when he called Olivia and Ty. Why hadn't they called him first? He feared something was amiss, and before his dread overwhelmed him, he dialed Olivia's number and spoke for nearly two hours about Clive, the funeral, and his inheritance. Relieved that it hadn't been anger but thoughtfulness that had delayed their contacting him, Farahd let his emotions boil over after ending the call with Olivia.

After splashing water on his face and accepting the loss of the father figure in his life,

Farahd and Rasputin settled down for a nap. Farahd planned to work this evening on a few of his less critical projects. Rasputin dropped off asleep almost immediately while Farahd stared at the ceiling, let the day's events play out in his thoughts, and wondered at the odds the authorities might return for a second or even third interview. Where had the duke gone? The obvious answer was that he had been in the limo's back seat. If that were the case, how and why did his ring end up in Farahd's possession? Could he have thrown it away as he entered the vehicle, and it took a strange bounce? Or, did the Janus Gate work, and for one reason or another, it wouldn't let that piece of jewelry cross the threshold? Farahd shivered at the thought that the nobleman had left this reality for another. Was he in paradise, or as the shouting match hinted, he was in hell for going against their designs for unknown reasons?

His eyes seemed to close on their own as the soul weariness he had been experiencing weighed down everything, and his only escape was the Dreamlands. Farahd became aware of his new surroundings and smiled. The weather was fair, the evergreen trees lined either side of the path, and the strange hexagonal tiles cut from an unknown orange marble-like stone made up the road. What mythical location had they quarried this unusual slate to build their roads? Anything was possible in this place, far from the waking world. Farahd savored the sense of peace and followed the road until he came to the edge of a town. A large wooden sign displayed prominently for all travelers to see, and though heavily weathered by sun and season, the words were still visible. Welcome weary souls to Ulthar, where the goddess forbids harming a cat in any way. Farahd grinned, knowing his love of felines would keep him from facing the goddess's wrath. The town appeared ancient but kept up well enough, and though worn around the edges, like a robe that brushes the ground, it felt safe and familiar. The café on a nearby corner reminded him of one he had visited in Paris. The sound of metalwork drew him to an eighteenth-century New England blacksmith. The town's layout surrounded a hill, and the streets ran from the gently sloping top to the lower end that bordered a great sleepy lake.

"Welcome to Ulthar dreamer," an elderly man greeted Farahd. "Be at peace and visit your friend at the temple that overlooks our town."

Farahd's gaze followed the direction the older man was pointing. He caught a glint of sunlight on great white stones. He took the nearest path upward, and as the trees thinned, he got his first look at the Temple of Bubastis. Hundreds of cats slunk, posed, or lounged in the spring sunshine. Rasputin stood patiently before the two gilded doors that led to the temple's interior. When Farahd tried to open one of the double doors, it wouldn't budge. A plaque above and written in hieroglyphics gave a clue to enter the temple.

A simple act of kindness will open any door.

Farahd looked about, but no one in the town seemed to need assistance, so he sat and waited for an opportunity to present itself. Rasputin rubbed his cheek against Farahd's leg and instinctively plucked the kitten into his arms, cradled him belly up, and gave him some loving. The squeal of metal announced the opening of the temple. Farahd rose and entered the darkened interior. Torches blazed to life as he approached them, and the cathedral-like ceiling rose into darkness. The sound of falling water filled the temple, and Farahd saw a small artificial cascade behind the altar, whose source must be a natural stream from further uphill.

"You rescued one of mine," a sensual female voice said from the shadows. "You gave Rasputin a home, food, and most of all, unconditional love. That is pleasing in my eyes. What is it that you seek, traveler?"

"I have unanswered questions, but my life is rich enough. If I had to ask for anything, it would be that you grant Rasputin a place of honor when his life ends. Friends are difficult to find; he asks so little and gives so much."

"So selfless," the woman purred. "I can tell you this. The father of your heart did not suffer upon his passing. Your married neighbor has sensual plans for you. The gate is real, and the duke's wickedness has followed him through the portal."

Farahd woke sometime later. It was dark outside, and Rasputin was once again peckish. He fed the kitten, went out to his workshop, and began working on a project he had received the week before. The jade bowl was beyond typical mending, but he had learned the Japanese art of Kintsugi, which uses gold as mortar to bond broken pottery. The bowl had been in the client's family for six generations and meant the world to her. This moment is where the joy reached its height when he could restore something believed beyond repair. After several attempts at dry-fitting the pieces, Farahd laid them out properly for easy assembly.

"Mow."

"Oh, hey, I am about to begin mending this bowl. Do you need something?"

"Mow." Rasputin took six steps, fell, rolled onto his back, and bunny-kicked the side of the crate holding the couch.

"What? Do you want to see what's inside? Alright, the bowl can wait for a little bit. Come here you... see, those three straps are attached to the bottom of the crate and keep it from shifting around. I removed the packing peanuts for a better look at the surface and gathered a sample of the coating. See, I took it from right over there. Huh, will you look at that? The coating is flaking. Here." Farahd settled Rasputin on his shoulder and grabbed a clean zip-lock baggie and tweezers. "I better keep those samples in case the lab needs more material."

Farahd gathered the loose patches of enamel and plopped them into the open bag. The original size of bare wood had been the size of a US quarter and about the same shape. Now, after removing the rest, the patch had tripled in size. Farahd pinched the seal shut and plopped the baggie to the side of his work area. He began the bonding process at the bowl's bottom and working outward and upward. It took time, but there was no rush, and after Farahd joined a dozen pieces, he took a break.

"Looking good," Farahd said. "I need to stretch my poor back." He stood, threw back his shoulders, and felt his vertebrae snap and pop. "That's the ticket."

He moved outside to breathe fresh air and let the evening breeze revive him. His smartwatch chimed the hour, and Farahd felt he should finish the bowl by two in the morning. It took a lot of patience to properly repair many of the fragile objects given into his care by people either wanting to see a family heirloom restored or greedy people wanting to profit from history. Their motives didn't affect the outcome or the enjoyment Farahd felt as these sacred relics passed through his hands. He remembered and meticulously documented all of them, preserving a sliver of history for any who would come after him.

"Perhaps one day I'll donate my notebooks to a museum or find a kindred soul to share them with, back to the grind."

Farahd returned to his workshop, settled in, and just before two o'clock, he fit the last fragment into place and took his first look at the reunited shards now made whole again. He yawned and decided a short cat nap would be just the thing before he began the next project. Farahd crossed his arms, lowered them and his head to the table's surface, and closed his eyes. The transition into the dream was swift and jarring.

"That didn't feel normal," he said as he looked around. "This isn't my home. Where am I?"

"Across the street and in your neighbor's house," the woman said, causing him to spin and come face-to-face with her. "My friends call me, well, many things ranging from slut to a slew of unpleasant monikers. You can address me however, your little heart desires."

"I've never seen or met anyone as beautiful as you," Farahd said. "Though, despite that, you are familiar to me."

"Come on," the woman said. "The show is about to begin."

Farahd followed the scantily clad woman down the steps into a living room that, with the blink of an eye, took on the dimensions and characteristics of a gentleman's club. Men and women of all ethnicities, levels of wealth, and physical attractiveness filled the immediate area. Cigar, pipe, and cigarette smoke filled the air, and six strategically placed spotlights illuminated the cloud. The room grew dark, and when it returned to normal, Claudette stood on the stage and opened her arms in welcome to her audience. Farahd watched as three masked men approached her and began prepping her for the performance that was to follow.

"Boy, are you in for a treat," the woman said as she pressed her breasts against Farahd's back and whispered in his ear. "Claudette will be in rare form tonight, I promise. Watch as they undress her; what a sight. Tits like those don't come around every day. Would you like to see her just after she graduates high school? Hmm? Behold a woman in her physical prime, though with no life experience. See how they use silk rope to ensnare her torso and limbs. Do you like the pigtails or the multiple piercings, or perhaps it is the firm round bottom? Here's one of my favorite parts."

The action unfolded as she narrated it, and to Farahd's delight, the men turned a bound Claudette to face away from the crowd, bent her over, and held up a gleaming metallic plug destined for her ass. They applied lube to the toy and her sphincter. The audience cried out lewd phrases, and Farahd could not look away. The tall thin man worked the toy into her backdoor slowly until, with a sudden pop, it slid in, and Claudette let out an audible sigh of relief.

"Some lucky man is going to sodomize her in front of that crowd," the woman continued. "Mmm, I knew it; you are as hard as a rock. May I free it and get a better look at it, please."

"I... what I mean is," Farahd stammered and stumbled over his words.

"You are inexperienced," she said without a hint of sarcasm or belittlement. "I can be as gentle as you want or as fierce as your heart desires."

"I don't know what to ask for," Farahd said as tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks.

The kiss surprised him. It was gentle yet hungry, igniting his need to drive away the loneliness he had accepted from an early age. He kissed her back as he took the woman into his arms. Farahd staggered back and broke the embrace. He was panting and shaking as his desire and mind warred.

"How is this possible? Who are you?" He asked as his knees buckled and he knelt on the deep plush carpet.

"That is a prickly question, but a fair one... what is she doing here?" The woman snarled as a tall albino woman dressed in oddly cut black silk clothing approached and bowed before Farahd and his companion.

"Hello, Farahd," the pale-skinned woman said. "Remember me?"

"I... I know that voice."

'Touch me. Let me feel your hands upon me.'

"I need to wake up," Farahd said as panic set in. "You cannot be here."

"You can't, silly boy," the albino chuckled. "This isn't your dream. She is in charge, not you."

She stabbed an alabaster finger at Claudette, kneeling and taking turns orally, pleasuring all three masked men. At some point, one of those men had fitted Claudette with a ring gag so they could easily violate her mouth. Farahd watched her expression, and it displayed anything but distress. However, he saw that she kept her gaze locked on the audience, not the three men using her for their pleasure.

"You may address me as Sorrow, and this is my sister Despair. I am here to do your bidding for a small price. Touch the side of my face, and I'll do anything you want. Anything."

Despair went on as if nothing had happened and urged Farahd into action. "Since you are here, why not enjoy Claudette's dream? Go to the stage, let her instruct you in the arts of pleasure, and make her dream come true," Despair moaned.

"Or you could direct us, and we could be your willing playthings. What do you say, sister?"

"I cannot have an opinion on this, but if Farahd wants me, I will gladly surrender myself."

"Why would Claudette want me on stage?" Farahd asked as the sisters began undressing him. "I'm just a man that fixes things."

"Lust is a powerful motivator," Sorrow said as she unbuckled his jeans. "Do you remember that thunderstorm when your car broke down, and you walked six blocks home? Do you recall stripping down in the backyard before entering through the backdoor? A random bolt of lightning revealed your nakedness to Claudette, who was drunk and looking out her window. A lonely woman inspired by your physique has dreamt about you for a while now. She even masturbates and fantasizes about your hands on her body."

'Touch me. Caress my body. Let me feel your hands linger over me.'

"You fix things. How about fixing her, for a bit? Satisfy her curiosity and hunger," Despair whispered.

"I don't know how!" Farahd screamed. "I wish I did, but I don't."

"He said the magic words," Sorrow laughed. "Can I stay and watch?"

"Just this once, now, Farahd, what do you want to know about sex?" Despair asked.

"What is Claudette doing now?" Farahd asked, and the sisters narrated the action involving Claudette and the three masked men.

"That is what the pros call the two in the hand and one in the bush technique," Sorrow chuckled. "One guy makes love to her from behind while Claudette strokes the other two and occasionally takes one of them in her mouth."

"Quite right, ooh, look at that, they are going to serve her up," Despair moaned as the men lifted Claudette onto a table that had magically sprung into existence. They placed the mother of two on her back with her head hanging over the side. One of the men slid back into pussy, another mounted the table and used her breasts to trap his cock, and finally, the last man fed her his erection an inch at a time between her talented lips. "Once that toy gets plucked from her ass, the real show begins."

"Whoa, I can see her throat bulging when he thrusts his hips," Farahd whimpered.

"If she were wearing a choker, I'd swear he would be trying to snap it. One of my favorite past times in fact, I love getting throat fucked," Sorrow admitted.

"It is a hazard of our nature," Despair agreed. "Snapping a choker is a hobby among certain people, and I feel it doesn't get enough attention. I bet Farahd's cock could snap a choker or two."

"His thing is thick enough to choke her, you mean," Sorrow giggled at her pun. "You could join her on stage."

"I am afraid my inexperience might spoil her dream and how she looked at me. No, I'll watch for now." The area began to darken, and a rhythmic vibration started shaking the dream zone. "What is going on?"

"Claudette is about to climax in the waking world, and we must withdraw. Wake up Farahd... wake up... wake...."

Farahd's eyes snapped open, and he sat up. As he wiped the sleep from his eyes, he spied something new on his work table, a book. The tome was none other than Metaphysical Orgasms and the History of Sex Throughout the Ages, written by the famed occultist Siobhan. Farahd was too excited about the book to be concerned about its sudden appearance. Supernatural forces never entered his thoughts as he brewed a fresh pot of coffee and began reading. Farahd didn't miss the slip of yellow paper between the front cover and the first page. It read simply, property of the Melvin library. It seemed to him that Claudette must have slipped in while he napped and placed the book where he couldn't miss seeing it when he awoke. Was this the reward she had mentioned? As the coffee percolated, he began to read.

A week had passed since the duke vanished without a trace, yet the manhunt continued, and the press and social media were still abuzz with the excitement of a potential nobleman assassin. Farahd sat on his front porch lounging in his antique rocking chair and watching the comings and goings of his neighbors, specifically Claudette and her daughter Aurora. Mother and daughter shared a few things, both genetically and personality-wise. They enjoyed being watched, wore skimpy clothing when they could get away with it, and often made excuses to cross the street and visit with Farahd. So, imagine the chaos created when a late model Bugghatti sports car pulled up and parked on Farahd's driveway. Aurora had to be held back by her mother to keep from dashing across the way and throwing herself at the vehicle's driver.

"Farahd, how the hell are you doing?"

"Dick? Or do you prefer Richard these days?" Farahd asked as the two men embraced. Dick sat opposite Farahd and tried and failed to appear calm, cool, and collected. He was anything but any of those things. Dick was sweating bullets, and his hands were constantly in motion. "What the hell is going on?"

"Do you have more of the sample you sent me?"

"You broke it down and discovered its properties, haven't you?"

"Yes. I hacked into the lab's database and erased any trace of those tests and their results. We could make millions, maybe more, but I need your cooperation. You sign off on the paperwork, we become partners, and I make us stupidly wealthy."

"What is so special about the paint?"

"To put it simply, this substance is the perfect radiation shield. No matter how strong the bombardment, it turns it aside with ease. Don't you see aerospace, nuclear energy applications, and medical and military possibilities galore? The components are cheap, but the process might be slightly costly, and in the end, we'll make hand over fist. That's not all; the sample you sent had a bit of wood attached to it. One of my assistants has a minor in genetics. He asked to send off the wood for DNA extraction to discover its origins. You won't believe it, but the testing returned, and the tree has been extinct for twenty thousand years. The object was made from the Yocatta Tree and only found in the Middle East."

"We have a problem; I have a partner, so any profits would have to be a three-way split. Gemma discovered the couch and sent it to me."

"Fine, there will be plenty of money for us. Now, let's see if I can recover the rest of the coating, and with that, I have a much better chance of reproducing it. Where is the couch?"

Farahd led Dick to the garage, and together, they removed the straps and lifted it out of the packing crate. They placed a waterproof tarp beneath the relic, and Dick pulled twelve spray bottles from his backpack. He explained that he hoped one of them should remove the coating safely, and it would drip onto the tarp, where he could transfer it to a heavy-duty container. Before they began, Farahd took photographs that covered every inch in case anything happened and the couch was damaged. He also set up three video cameras to record the process for legal reasons.