To the Devil of My Dreams

Know that my subconscious has noticed your absence, and taken its own steps to fill the void left behind. It has conjured up its own form of you for my dreams — and indeed, 'twas you therein. I am not one to forget such a face, nor those eyes that see straight through to the core of my soul. Yes, your face I saw and your name I called you by, as you willed me to trust you. Whether by my own naïveté or my instinctive knowledge of your yet-secret self, I did trust you.

As the slender fingers of one hand wrapped themselves oh so eloquently around the feminine lines of my neck, you looked straight into my eyes and told me not to worry. Your other hand skillfully made its way down the length of my body, the reassurance of the soft contact in harsh contrast to the pressure 'round my throat. Do not fight this, you said, you will understand. And I tried not to fight, oh I tried. But the mind can only do so much to quash the impulses of the body. Stop trying, just let it go, you told me without sounding out a word. And so I did, I stopped trying.

And I felt it.

Your grip on me tightened and I ceased to see your face, but sight at that point was irrelevant. So it began, a slow and familiar tension creeping into my body and settling between my thighs. No, I didn't understand it, but I was beyond any chance of controlling it and was a slave to its effect on me — to your effect on me. I let myself go, aware only of your hand around my throat and the climax ripping through my body, wave after wave pulling me farther from reality. And so it was that I lost myself, stolen by your hand into a world new to me and not yet my own.