19th of June

Of course, the dream has returned, and of course, it has become clearer once again. And while the images are still hazy and indistinct, I finally remember the words that honeyed voice whispers to my every night. All of them.

"I so would love to remake you in my image... Doesn't that arouse you?"

It's just a dream. Nothing more than a dream, maybe an expression of some twisted, deep seated perversion of mine, one that I should address with a psychologist or maybe an occultist, but it is just a dream. And while it has an undeniable effect on my manhood, that is all, that is all the effect it CAN have!

But why, then, do I feel a faint sense of disappointment when I think of the half-remembered image of sensual voluptuousness that belongs to Her?

That I dared to write the above at all... Only the fact that no one will ever read this allows me to be this frank about my inner turmoil. I may refer to a theoretical reader here and there, but I fully intend to destroy this diary before my demise. What I write in here... what I write now...For you see, dear never-to-be reader, I have not shared a rather disturbing development that today has brought. While I had not necessarily gotten used to the nightly emissions of my seed, at least I could be sure that however embarassing they were, my member would soon return to normal. But now? Today? I am loath to admit it, but my manhood seems to remain half-erect at all times, the slightest touch making it tingle and pulse.

I could barely fit it in my undergarments, and in my Sunday's best, there now is a rather noticeable bulge - which, of course, has not gone unnoticed by Miss Blake. Ever the consummate housekeeper, she did not question me further, just as she never commented on the wet stains in my sheets where I tried to wash away the more sticky ones with water.

But still, this development has made my decision firm: I shall consult with a psychologist at my earliest convenience. The effect of the dream has gone beyond a passing annoyance now.