I release a rumbling, cruel laugh. “Yes, you will.” I slide my foot back and rest it against her pussy again. “Earn it. Make yourself come on my boot like the desperate whore you are.”
She shudders, head tipping back and eyes falling shut as she struggles against the lights trapping her in place to rock against my boot. That gorgeous flush spreads down to her chest, and sweat beads across her skin, shimmering in the red and green glow.
After a few tries, she gasps as she manages to get close enough to rub her horny little pussy against the leather. She does it again, letting out a shaky moan, and an answering growl of appreciation erupts from me before I can hold it back.
I squeeze my cock as I watch her struggle, already far too close to the edge for my liking. “That’s it, Princess. Such a good girl.”
Her hooded gaze drags up from where she’s rubbing against my boot like she’s in heat to stare at my crotch. I give my cock another squeeze before moving my hand away so she can see the hard, angry length pressing against my jeans.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasps, eyes widening as she gets a hint of what’s in store for her.
Another laugh bubbles out of me. “What did you expect when you begged a monster to fuck you? I’m going to destroy you, Princess.”
Her fear and arousal swirl through the air, choking my lungs until all that exists is her desperate sounds and the obscene sight of her sopping cunt rocking against the toe of my boot. It goes on and on, and I can tell she’s frustrated. That she needs more.
My impatience to see hershatter wins out over my cruelty. She cries out in protest as I pull my boot away, but I’m on my knees before her, gripping her thighs too hard as I bring my mouth to her swollen, needy pussy.
“Yes,” we both say, hers choked with relief and mine a greedy hiss.
I only get a swipe of my tongue before it’s torn away from me, but it’s enough to imprint her taste on me for eternity. To know I’ll do anything to taste her again.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Waking up orgasming isdefinitelypreferable to waking up panicking. Five out of five stars, only feedback is “I wish the dream had continued.” My nightmare monster going from hunting me to tying me up and torturing me sexually is the best upgrade I’ve had in years.
While I’ve read about things like that in books, the thought that I mightwantthat has never occurred to me. Considering how my fear tangled up with arousal in my dreams, and that I came so hard I woke myself up, it obviously is. The words he used… or my mind came up with, should have made me upset, or ashamed, but instead they just made my pussy weep more.
The liquid pleasure of it is still dripping from my limbs as I wake and open my eyes. The ceiling and I are getting very well acquainted, considering how much time I’m spending staring at it these days. Gazing at it in the afterglow of an amazing orgasm is entirely preferable to wondering if I am going to be able to get out of bed at all, though.
Don’t get me wrong, I manage to get out of bed most days, but I am grateful to have a job where I can stay there, should I need to—and some days I need to.That’s just the nature of my anxiety. Some days it’s manageable, and others it’s got me deep in its grips.
In hindsight, I think I’ve probably always had anxiety, but my attack has really just turned everything to a thousand. My life was quite structured growing up, and as much as I hate to admit it, that helped. I had to do a lot less thinking.
Also, I suppose I did do alotof journaling. And while in the journaling I mostly treated it as if I were talking to my future spouse or children, sometimes god, itprobablyhelped me process some emotions. Groaning, I decide that maybe I should start journaling again.
I really doneed to find a therapist, or at least message a few to see if I can get on their schedules. I’m still nervous about the repressed memory shit, but surely in this day and age there has to be some sort of directory so I can avoid anyone who still does that. If I’m journaling, too, I’ll have a concrete record of what happened to me, of whatishappening to me. That way, they won’t be able to suggest anything different. Because while journaling will help with my fears—I am unfortunately certain—I also know that my background doesn’t exactly lend itself to looking objectively at one’s behavior.
While I feel great today, borderline relaxed (but maybe that’s just the orgasm talking), I don’t think I’m cured overnight from one earth-shattering orgasm.
If I could ensure that I had dreams like thateverynight…maybe.
It’s amazing how a good orgasm can change your outlook on life.
Pursing my lips, I roll onto my side and think about what might have changed. For the past year, I’ve had nothing but nightmare after nightmare. Over and over, I’ve been assaulted, in increasingly creative ways. Even when IthoughtI was having a good dream, it would inevitably morph into a nightmare. Did I just wake before it could turn last night?
No, I doubt it, because instead, last night itstartedas a nightmare and ended as something entirely different. So what changed?
On my nightstand, the spine of my book sits blatantly, as if bonking me over the head. It’s thick and black, the curving white words obscure to some yet signaling to others the delicious depravity within. Considering my reading, perhaps it makes sense that my brain would use that as an opportunity to take those same, previously terrifying, twisted scenarios, and twist them further until they bend back around to being sexy.
Maybe Sleepy Ada knows what I need better than I do. If I see a therapist, maybe Sleepy Ada will stop doing her thing… or, maybe they’ll help me tap into whatever genius Sleepy Ada has going on…
Regardless, Sleepy Ada isn’t going to do my job for me, lucky bitch, so I launch myself out of bed to begin my day.
While I brush my teeth, I can’t stop picturinghim.
For the first time, I got at least a semi-good look at my nightmare—the one that I am reasonably certain has been the same for several months—and I am sort of shocked at howgoodhe looked. The stark white of his mask reflected the colors of the lights I was tied in. The stacked eye-holes, all red, seemingly trained on me in a way that made me squirm until I was dripping onto the chair. Below that, the mask ended, revealing a mouth with the sharpest teeth I’d ever seen. At first, I’d thought he had long, almost delicate fingers, but instead they’d been tipped by claws that had scraped my neck like a promise.
