It wasn't fair.
"IT'S NOT FAAAAAAAAAIR!" Zac screamed, rolling off the bed and onto the cold stone floor. He thrashed and kicked, a whirlwind of impotent rage. "TORTURE! THIS IS TORTURE! I'M CALLING THE DEMONIC HR OFFICE!"
He remembered his dream. He remembered it all with a horrifying, perfect clarity. He remembered Skarg chasing him through the snow. He remembered that he had lost his breath when being tackled. He remembered the glorious, magnificent moment he had shed his mortal coil of virginity and become a true, red-blooded, omega, bottom, monster cock depository.
But now… he couldn't remember the sensation.
He remembered that he was shivering in his dream. He remembered bumping into a tree and that it made him clutch his shoulder. He remembered his eyes watering when Skarg had been stretching him. He could recall the events like a movie he had just watched. But he couldn't remember how any of it felt. Not the heat of Skarg's body, not the pressure of his entry, not the earth-shattering climax. It was a memory without the feeling, a story without the soul. It was like reading the description of a five-star meal instead of tasting it.
"NOOOOO!" he wailed again, scrambling to the heavy wooden bureau. He grabbed the handles of the top drawer and yanked with all his might, intending to rip it out and smash it to pieces. Unfortunately, the demon-made furniture was built to withstand the casual tantrums of minor gods. The drawer didn't budge. Zac just succeeded in stubbing his toe.
He hopped around, cursing, before turning his fury on the bed. He grabbed the edge of the mattress, intending to flip it in a dramatic show of defiance. It was like trying to flip a granite slab. The thing barely moved, and he succeeded only in straining his back.
And the worst part? The absolute, most humiliating cherry on top of this shit sundae? When he woke up, he was totally flaccid. Completely, utterly, tragically blue-balled. The dream had given him the climax, but his body had been cruelly left out of the equation.
He spun around, looking for something, anything, to break. His eyes landed on the small, slit window overlooking the chasm. With a roar of pure frustration, he rushed at it and began pounding his fists against the smoked, unbreakable glass.
"Let me out!" he yelled between impacts. "I'll jump! I'll do it! At least the fall might feel like something!"
His fists just bounced off the glass with a dull thud, the pain radiating up his arms.
A polite, dry cough echoed from behind him.
"You are finally awake, Avatar. I trust you slept well?"
Zac froze. He slowly turned, his fists still raised, his breathing ragged. Bune stood in the now-open doorway, both heads looking at him with a mixture of concern and mild amusement. The butler was holding a fresh, neatly folded set of black robes.
Zac's mind, stripped of reason and fueled by pure, unadulterated horniness, made a split-second decision. He saw Bune. He saw the only other living (or un-living) thing in the immediate vicinity.
He released a primal, undulating war shout, a sound of pure, frustrated need, and dove at the butler.
"GIVE ME PENIS!"
Bune shrieked in fright, a synchronized, high-pitched sound from both heads. His butler-ly composure shattered. He reacted on instinct, tossing the neatly folded robes he was holding directly at the incoming human as if trying to catch a rabid bat in a blanket.
The black fabric unfurled in mid-air, wrapping around Zac's head and shoulders. Blinded and tangled, his forward momentum carried him out of the room. He tumbled into the hallway, his feet catching in the trailing cloth, and landed hard on his face with a muffled oof.
Bune stood in the doorway, panting, his four hands braced against the frame. His two hearts were hammering against his ribs.
"Did you have a nightmare, Avatar?" the Right Head asked, its voice trembling slightly. "They are quite common here. A side effect of the ambient psychic energies. Actually, it would be strange if you didn't have a nightmare."
Zac didn't answer. He just lay on the hallway floor, a heap of black robes and existential despair. Slowly, painstakingly, he untangled himself and rolled onto his back, staring up at the cold, unforgiving stone ceiling.
"Bune," he said, his voice eerily calm.
"Yes, Avatar?" the Left Head replied cautiously.
"Can you possess people's dreams?"
Bune blinked. Both heads exchanged a confused look. "Of course," the Right Head said, as if stating the obvious. "Even a low-born imp can manage something as simple as that. It is one of the foundational skills of our kind. Why do you ask?"
Zac continued to stare at the ceiling, the pieces clicking together in his mind with a slow, horrifying certainty. The chase. The catch. The climax. The lack of feeling.
"Why?" Zac asked, his voice hollow, as if all the joy and pain had been scooped out of the galaxy, leaving only a cold, sterile void. "Why would someone not remember how things feel in a dream?"
Bune laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "A safety feature, little avatar," the Left Head explained. "If you were, for example, eaten and slowly digested in a dream and you remembered the visceral, agonizing pain of it when you woke up, your mortal brain would likely short-circuit. You'd probably choke on your own vomit and die immediately."
The Right Head looked down at Zac, a slow, dawning horror on its face. "Did… did one of the others…?"
Before Zac could answer, Bune lunged. The butler grabbed Zac, hauling him to his feet with surprising strength. He began smelling him all over, both heads moving with frantic, desperate energy.