Short Stories~ Bytes & Peaces

Rae Sunshine

Word Count: 7400                                     Set in: 60's and 70's- UK & USA.

Something that I wrote when I was stumped, unable to write what I should be working on!  
Any spelling mistakes etc. please let me know.

Johns dreams haunt him... 

He slammed the car door and stomped wearily toward the studio. Sleep had eluded him- yet again.

Music, however much he loved it, infiltrated his dreams. Of course, Paul would say this was a good thing, great actually. But the issue was, none of it was his.

Not one ounce!

And none of it was male.

None of it was Beatlesque-like. It was female this noise...

And no, he wasn't doing a Paul and getting some little girl in to sing his bloody ditties.

The thought had crossed his mind of course; wondering idly if maybe if he did get some sheila in, the dreams would dissipate and run away, never to be seen again. They didn't, he couldn't. That was Paul's game anyhow, not his. Maybe he could have dredged up an all-male group but female, nope. Too much estrogen there, folks.

Soooo the dream stayed.

Like a dog with a bone his dreams teased him, drilling feminine lah lah lah's into his skull. And what good was it. He couldn't capture the melody. He had tried. Notebook at the ready on the bedside, torch, pen, pencil, a fucking pencil sharpener for goodness sake, and still the melody evaded him. The nib of his pen drew blank on the page, the pencil snapped.

Couldn't tell Cyn because the fleeting minds eye view of the figure that owned the lah lah lah's was a vision. Blonde yes, Cyn no. This blonde was youngish, her voice projected the innocence of it all. Her curves were dusted in dreams and limbs but tentacles of his own, reaching, trying to capture her. Lips would appear, then vanish. Red catsuit-like clothing like nothing that he had ever seen in real life; well maybe Cat Woman on telly, but even Cat Woman's get up seemed rather drab and tired, in compare.

Time marched on. The dream stayed strong.

The game was up. Told Paul today. Dreamt that female in red last night again. No, not Paul in red, the other one. The lah lah lah one. Her face appeared fleetingly.

It didn't stop the dreams telling Paul. He didn't help none either. Nothing, not telling, not hoping, seemed to shake it loose of its hold on my mind.

Yoko snuggled closer and that face was nothing in compare. Yoko was strong, pushy, all business. The dream, she was my libido, my sexual needs. And the voice came through like I was in the studio, ear against the speaker, listening, enjoying, all alone. All for me. All, only for me.

Is she, this lah lah lah dream, even real? Have I heard her on the radio, seen her on that new variety program whilst half doped and sweating through the high. Yoko brought that. The dope. The heavy stuff anyway. H. Hell in a syringe. Feels so good I know it's bad. Disgusting. But she fed it to me and I can feel myself wanting to say no for seconds, then the rush... then the calm. So good. So, I let my arm straighten like I'm a robot or a toddler waiting for his flu jab and the doctor to give me a lollipop. She doesn't give me a lollipop though. She doses up and stares vacantly right alongside of me. Till I sleep proper, and there she is. Red catsuit, leather. Tight, so f'ing tight it hurts to think too hard about the rubbing and tightening as it moves. And the zip... It must run the length, nape then snug all the way through and down to her pert behind.