As Erik's mind cleared itself of the heavy fog of sleep, he noticed three things in quick succession:
First, he wasn't wearing anything. He usually wore boxers to bed, but now he felt the sheets against his bare skin.
Second, the bed was too small. His feet hung far over the edge — he could almost bend his knees and rest his heels on the floor.
Third, he was intensely, excruciatingly hard.
"What the fuck?" he muttered, and tried to sit up in bed. To his surprise, his head struck a wooden beam on what seemed like a low ceiling. Wincing, he looked down, squinting to try and adjust his eyes to the low light.
He'd had morning wood before, but never like this. The tent in his sheets reached up more than a foot in the air, almost as high as his head now that he was sitting up, and it was thick, too. He saw the outline of his dickhead through the sheets, now that his eyes had begun to adjust, and it looked almost comically huge, as big around as his fist. He shifted further in bed, as if to lean forward and get a closer look, but the feeling of his comforter sliding against his dick sent a jolt of pleasure up his spine. He gasped, throwing his head back, fists clenching around the sheet below him.
"This is...some crazy wet dream," he managed, breathless.
It didn't seem like he was asleep, but it was the only thing that made sense right now. He was dreaming, and it was a fucking good dream if just moving around felt that good. If this is a dream, he thought to himself, I say a chick should show up. Give me something to really get me off. He tried to grin at the thought, but he couldn't quite manage it. Between the pleasure coursing through him and the nagging feeling that this was more than just some perverted fantasy, he couldn't seem to calm himself down.
And, as if it really was a lucid dream, at that very moment he heard a knock at what must be the bedroom door.
"Erik? You awake?"