And Stephen Spielberg’s assistant said …

A couple I know are both actors. Let’s call them James and Joanna. This one is about them. And Stephen Spielberg.

Dream #3

I was going to be staying with James and Joanna for a few days. James showed me to their spare room where I would be sleeping, – a small dark room with a single bed, and dominated by a large, old, mahogany wardrobe.  I was told to make myself at home and come downstairs when I was settled. I enquired about the wardrobe, but was told firmly it was nothing of interest.

When James had departed, my curiosity was peaked and I investigated. Internally, the wardrobe was divided into two halves: on the left hung bondage harnesses, thigh length PVC FMBs, riding crops, and shackles, and the item that most caught my attention, a full length, Napoleon style coat made of burgundy latex. It was gorgeous, and in RL I could happily commission such an item to be made. In the other side of the wardrobe was a stack of magazines, VHS cassettes, DVDs and books. The magazines were predominantly 1970s vintage German bondage. The films of a similar ilk.

I picked a book from the top of the pile and examined it. Being a poorly paid actor, James had obviously had some dubious gigs, and it turned out he had put pen to paper about the time he had hosted a TV game-show which featured a group of 30-somethings on a tropical island. The book jacket and its coloured plates suggested this was either a sex-game-show, or some twist on Big Brother, where participants were encouraged to fuck each other, all the while being observed by a heard of remotely controlled, voyeuristic cameras.

As I thumbed through the book, noticing the DVD of The Scenes We Couldn’t Show On TV stored in a pouch inside the back cover, James walked into the room. I tried to put the book away, but he took it from me, read from it briefly, and reminisced about interviewing one of the contestants while she was riding the cock of another. He laughed a TV-presenter laugh as he made some comment about her having a microphone thrust in her face and a dick thrust in her pussy.

James picked the rubber coat from the bed where I had carelessly put it, and, stroking the silky material, enquired whether I liked it. Obviously I did, but in my state of embarrassment at being caught snooping, I stammered something noncommittal.

I was ushered downstairs to the kitchen, which turned out to be full of film crew. Lights and sound equipment were piled up everywhere, and enthusiastic young production staff busied themselves with clipboards. Joanna, dressed in nothing but a black and scarlet corset, was sat having her face painted by a makeup artist, and her pubes trimmed and dyed by another.

A panicking PA was chattering animatedly into a walkie-talkie: something about a missing cast member. When she finished, Joanna spoke to her suggesting I could step into the role. It would only be as an extra in an orgy scene, she advised me. No one would ever see my face. Just my cock and arse. I did have a decent sized cock, didn’t I? All Joanne and James’ friends had good cocks. And Mr Speilberg would be so grateful. And with that she grabbed my hand and dragged me off upstairs to the set.

Yes. Somehow I really do manage to dream this shit!

You’ve had three clues, from three dreams.
What’s the connection? (Other than sex … obviously.)

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