Something was tickling his thigh. Light, almost not a touch, it was moving over the skin on the inside of his leg just firm enough to brush the soft pale hairs there and cause the laughter inducing sensation.
Daniel squirmed and gasped lightly when the touch brushed deliciously close to his balls. He licked his lips and canted his hips just a bit forward to capture the feeling. It was still soft, soft and smooth, some separate touches but others all in a line and held together. The softest razor edge he’d ever experienced. Like a feather.
A feather! He stilled, unwilling to move the blanket lest he see something he didn’t want to. It was like the nightmares he’d had as a child, of being surrounded by creatures who meant him harm and being unable to move in case they saw him. He used to hide his head under the covers and lay there, panting and terrified until the sunlight scared away the shadows, but this time, he couldn’t hide that way. The monster was under the blanket with him.
That touch moved again and the muscles of his thigh jumped, a full body shiver wracking his broad frame. He was ashamed that it wasn’t completely fear which caused it. Near enough, though. It took all of his will to move a hand, slowly, toward the sensation. Waiting for those sharp fangs to bite down, waiting to come into contact with knotted and feather strewn hair.
I shouldn’t be this terrified. I’m a full grown man! I shouldn’t be afraid of monsters in the dark!
He despised the owlish creature for stealing away his comfort and giving him such a childish fear. At least he wasn’t hiding in the closet. God, no, the closet would mean he wasn’t in my bed! Why couldn’t he . . . no, it. It’s an it! One crisis of identity at a time, thank you! Why couldn’t it be a closet monster? Closet monster. Good God, tell me I’m dreaming. This is a nightmare. Delusion. I’m going insane. I never recovered from the accident and I’m laying in a coma somewhere, living a nightmare world inside of my head!
He felt his own leg and shifted the hand inward, down his hip and up around the outer thigh. Any moment . . .
Then he felt it, and his hand clamped down. Jumping into an upright position, he yanked the offending thing up to meet his eyes.
A feather. A single owl’s feather which had slipped into his briefs, probably from that ridiculous nest he’d been laying in before.
He closed his eyes in the exhaustion that only comes from the sudden absence of fear and gave a hiccupping sound. It might have been a laugh if not for the hollow and desperate edge to it. Crushing the feather in his fist, he fell back to the pillow.
Wait, I wasn’t wearing briefs.
His eyes opened wide, and he screamed when he came face to face with an owl’s gaze and that mouth with its Cheshire grin.
“Stole my face,” it accused, and reached for him.
Daniel slammed his head into the wall when he jerked into wakefulness. He swore and bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed. His cock was straining in his Y-fronts as if he’d had an amazing wet dream, and he drew his legs up to himself, hiding the offending organ from his own eyes, hiding his depravity. Something was wrong with him. But he should be glad, right? It was only a dream.
The feather, crumpled and broken in his fist, mocked him.
The Clog Blog 