“Belong to you.”
“Please.” I’m begging. Needing the release more than my next breath.
“Say it, Gabriella. Say you belong to me.” His cock slips between my wet thighs, rubbing the length of my slick labia as another rush of wetness leaves me. Christ, he feels good. Too good, and my eyes roll back when the blunt head caresses my entrance. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
“Always, pretty girl.” And then he slams into me, and I’m left on the precipice of pleasure and pain. On this thin ledge where everything around me stills and my screams echo through the vast space.
I’m floating. My body feels sensitive and wet, and there’s a burning sensation on my chest that contrasts against the bliss between my thighs. The two merge and overwhelm my senses while this man I’ve yet to see face to face takes me like a savage beast.
Each stroke is punishing, his cock pistoning in and out while I can barely stand. There’s no lead-up. No way to describe the sudden wave of euphoria I experience when his sweaty chest vibrates with his groan, the sound of his pleasure breaking me into a million pieces.
He fucks me harder. He’s merciless and I come, pushing my hips back and meeting him thrust for thrust.
“Good girl. Let me feel you.”
“You have me.” The response leaves me before I can understand what I’m promising. To whom. Because all I know in that singular instance is that I don’t want this to end. To lose him.
“Not yet.”
My brows furrow as my walls contract around him, pulling him in deeper. “Not yet?”
“Not until you see what I see.” His hold on my neck tightens and his mouth presses against my ear, his exhale rough. His cock stretches me a little more, and I raise onto the tips of my toes. “I’ll have you, Gabriella. But first, I need you to focus…look down, pretty girl. Feel me come, coat you with my seed, as reality hits.”
I follow his instructions and scream.
Red. All I see is red. All of it coming from me.
From a gash deep across my chest that bathes the room in my life’s essence.
I’m bleeding out. My skin is flayed open, and a burning coldness fills me—I’m suddenly freezing and can barely breathe. Each hollowed breath hurts, and yet I’m aware of his come dripping down my labia and thighs.
Aware of the tender way, he places a kiss just below my ear.
It’s all I can cling to as my knees go weak.
As my vision starts to fade and just before darkness claims me, I hear him one last time. “They did this to us.”
My eyes snap open, and a scream rips from my throat. I’m shaking, clutching my chest with my left hand while the right is trapped between my clenching thighs.
I still feel him. It was so real.
Small aftershocks course through my body without my permission while my mind can’t escape the image of me bleeding out. The gash—the burning sensation accompanied with a steadying pain—while his cock flexed against my walls.
This is too much. Not normal.
Am I suffering from night terrors?
Because what kind of person has a wet dream where they’re killed? Because if that were to happen in real life, I’d be dead. I’m scaring myself.
“I need help.” Slowly, I pull my hand out of my panties, ignoring how slick each fingertip is. The realization hurts, but I can’t continue ignoring that maybe the dreams and stress are affecting me more than I thought. “There has to be a scientific reason this is happening. Someone who can help me.”
They did this to us.
They did this to us.
They did this to us.
I can hear him in my head. It’s on repeat and my skin heats, my heart skipping a beat while beads of sweat fall down my temple. They mix with my tears, this uncontrollable sob that escapes my chest, and I curl into myself.
It takes me a while to calm down, to breathe normally, and when I do, I don’t hesitate to grab my phone and ring my therapist’s office.
They have an opening for two today.
I take it.
Something has to give.
“The doctor will see you now, Miss Moore,” the mid-thirties nurse standing at the door leading to his office calls out to the practically empty waiting room later that afternoon. It’s just me and a man. Older. Jittery. And who I’ve avoided making eye contact with each time he looks my way.
I’ve been here a few times over the last twelve months to treat my insomnia at the suggestion of my primary physician. There have been small windows of times I’ve refused to go to sleep in order to avoid entering that dream and felt ill. That is, until my doctor told me how damaging it is to the body—promised that the prescribed anti-anxiety medication to help me sleep/relax would limit my recollection of each episode.
How there was a chance, minimal but there, that a deep-enough relaxed state of sleep would leave me without dreams.
Bullshit. All of it.
I do dream. Vividly.
And yet, here I am, nodding while walking toward her. She’s smiling, so happy and carefree, and at the moment I’m hating her for it. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Right this way, Miss Moore.” We don’t talk after, and once near to the open door where my doctor waits, she pauses and waves me forward. “Go right ahead. I’ll see you on the way out.”
“Right.” Another fake smile and hers widens, nodding at me as if I’d sent her blessings of health and more money than she could spend in ten lifetimes. The interaction lasts less than ten seconds at most and then she’s gone, speed walking back toward the front while I’m hating every moment of being here. “Come on, Gabriella. Get it together.”
Not the best pep talk, but I turn and walk into Dr. Silva’s office, while the man himself is behind his desk. He’s leaning back with his dark brown eyes on the door, and the light dusting of silver hair that adorned his temples has spread in the last year. With each visit, it has become a little more prominent until encompassing his entire head.
“Nice to see you, Miss Moore. Please take a seat.”
“Glad to be here?”
My psychiatrist laughs at my question and nods, already writing something down in his ever-present notepad. “And how have you been since your last appointment...” his eyes shift to his laptop screen where he squints “...four months ago? It also says here you owe me lab work and a progress report on those dreams and their frequency, if any have occurred.”
“I’ve been busy and just signed the contract for my next show.”
“Congratulations.” The painting to his right is mine, a commissioned piece of his favorite place in the world: a lighthouse in North Carolina. “That’s great news, and we’ll get back to that; I’d love to attend.”
“Once I have the dates, I’ll let you know.”
“Perfect.” Then silence. A long and awkward one, until I cough and he raises a bushy brow. “Answer the question, Gabriella. Are you still having that one recurring dream?”
“I am.”
“How often?”
“Enough that I am here questioning my sanity.”
“How so? Please explain.” Dr. Silva pushes his glasses up a bit, his face so neutral. Not so much as a twitch or smile, fake or not. “Have you been taking your meds as prescribed?”