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Slowly, his hand made its way up towards my chest. I froze for a second. A while ago, all of this was gentle, tender. Now, it started getting rough, and I hated myself for not disliking it, or shutting it down immediately.
I moaned when he took my nipple in between his fingers and tugged on it. The smell of my arousal filled the poorly lit room, and I turned my head to the side in shame. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t want to stop him.
He released my hair, but not before placing a soft kiss on the strand twirled around his finger. It made my heart pick up its pace almost to the point of jumping out of my chest.
His hand trailed lower, teasing my body, waiting for a reaction. It was slow, to the point of insanity. I’d never felt this way. No man had ever made me feel so ashamed for feeling so alive.
He laughed, loudly.
That sinister laughter filled my ears, and all I could think about was how it sounded beautiful.
Then, it happened.
Perhaps, he decided to put me out of my misery and finally touch the part that’d been aching since this all started. Or maybe, he wanted me to suffer under the immense pleasure I began to feel. To make me feel both delirious and ashamed.
At first, he was touching my inner thighs, leisurely going upwards. He made a few pauses, and each made me sigh in desperation. It was a dream, so I could enjoy it. In the morning, I’d pretend I didn’t imagine him doing this to me, I’d pretend I didn’t feel an ache at the mere thought of him. I’d pretend I was still afraid — I’d pretend I didn’t want any of this to turn into reality.
His hands were cold, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their stead.
Finally, his index finger found my clit and all I felt was bliss.
It started out slowly, with him rubbing his fingers in circles. He kept the same pace and intensity for a while, and it was enough to leave me yearning for more. A small moan slipped my lips, and it earned a chuckle from him.
It was as deep as his voice, filled with mischievous intent.
I found myself lowering my body, trying to feel more of him. However, the more I pushed down, the farther away it seemed, until I completely gave up that idea.
He removed his finger from my clit, and slowly pushed it inside of me. I couldn’t stop the noises that came from me, even if I wanted to. It was like I was no longer myself. I had no control over my body, mind or actions.
His finger was thick, and before I could get used to the action, he added another one. Instinctively, I arched my back, giving him better access.
Nothing but our heavy breathing could be heard.
Soon enough, he picked up the pace and I saw stars. I was nearing the edge, and with each stroke, my eyes rolled to the back of my head. I screamed out, feeling my orgasm completely take over me.
And then, I sat up straight.
I was sweaty as hell, my heart threatening to leap right out of my chest. It took me a few minutes to regulate my breathing before I could realize the insanity of the dream. My mind was my worst enemy, and it didn’t look like it would stop.
It wasn’t the first time I had this dream about him, but this one was different. It was more vivid, more detailed. I remembered everything, unlike the other times. With each passing minute, I’d forget more and more of the dream, but not this time.
I had a wet dream about a serial killer who had kidnapped me.
And I was wet beyond belief.
I blinked the thoughts away, my brows knitted together. I was certain I had fallen asleep in the living room, with a knife under the small pillow. He must’ve carried me upstairs, and that whole thing made my skin crawl.
My sleep was so deep that I hadn’t even felt a man carry me.
I really was easy prey.
Throwing the covers off my body, I slipped out of bed. I made my way towards the wardrobe and pulled it open. There were shirts that were just my size, pants, underwear, socks. Everything I needed was right there, but it wasn’t mine. I didn’t own any of this.
It was the middle of the night, and I had no strength to argue with myself. I took the first oversized shirt I found, and a pair of underwear, a towel and walked right out of my room to the first bathroom I saw.
Since I did that snooping session a while ago, I knew all the products that were in there. It was too late for a hair wash, since sleeping with wet hair made my neck hurt the next day. And using the blow dryer would wake the beast, which didn’t want to risk.
All throughout the shower that I desperately needed, I couldn’t stop thinking about that goddamned dream. To make matters even worse, the mere thought of the things that I hallucinated made me wet and excited all over again.
