21st of June.

The dream has changed. For the first time in over a week since it started, there is a marked change, and God help me, I find myself welcoming it. After all, if there are changes, surely that means that there may be an end to them, one day?

That is to say, the changes in the dream where rather disconcerting. There was the usual close contact with delicious softness, the teasing whisper, the fingers on my manhood - but release did not come as usual from that alone. No, after She whispered to me, She kept stroking me and bent lower, gently licking one of my nipples. I was surprised to feel it pulse and harden at the gentle touch of her tongue, and when she sucked it betwen her plump lips, a jolt ran through me and I finally reached my climax, waking up in the process.

Once more, I had my right hand around my member, squeezing out the last of my seed, and my left on one nipple - which was, just like in the dream, erect and throbbing and oh so exquisitely sensitive. It is peculiar indeed, but I do not have the time to ruminate on this if I wish to make it to work on time.

After the first entry this morning, while I got dressed, I noticed something strange about the way my clothing fit me, more specifically, how it felt curiously tight around my chest. It does seem I have put on weight, just as I thought yesterday, likely from Miss Blake's amazing cooking. That would be the most logical explanation, and yet, I remember what She tells me every night in my dream, about remaking me in Her image... and immediately, I feel my shaft surge to full hardness as I write this, just as it did during my morning wash at the basin in my room. And just like in the morning before waking up, I now touch myself, gently massaging the bulge in my pants, marvelling at how it pulls the fabric tight, how the throbbing gets more insistent as my arousal waxes, how my pulsing nipples seem to mirror the excitement, and think back to what happened at work.

Presley Babcock, good old Presley Babcock, back from his vacation, appeared about an hour after I arrived to talk with me - just meaningless pleasantries and tidbits about our weekends, but I am afraid I was not the sparkling conversationalist I usually fancy myself. I found myself giggling chuckling and nodding along with everything Presley said. I am afraid I barely remember what he told me, I was much too absorbed by the way his face lit up when he laughed, the way his well-fitted suit barely concealed his physique, except for maybe a certain part of said physique right between his legs.

I do not know why I fixated on that so much, except that I was surprised to see how noticeable it was. How did I not realize dear old Presley sported such impressive equipment? I can practically see it before me, large and erect and throbbing, easily as big as the one She gifte

What have I done? What have I done just now? I have touched myself - with a waking mind no less - until I released in my pants, and I did it thinking of Presley Babcock!

I have once more turned to brandy so I could soothe my frazzled nerves. It has worked remarkably well, and I wish to take this clearness of mind to examine what has happened more closely. First of all, I have enjoyed it, have I not? And it happened in the privacy of my own chambers. If no one ever reads my diary - which I will endeavor to ensure - these circumstances will never be known outside these walls. So what does it matter if I enjoy the thought of Presley Babcock's physique? If I am absolutely honest with myself, and I presume the **** helps considerably in that, I have always found myself able to appreciate my dear friend's body for its athleticism. Presley Babcock is captain of the Miskatonic University rowing team, after all, and thus much more well-trained than my own, rather slight build.

Is it a crime to appreciate beauty? I think not.