By the time our stomachs are full of vegetarian lasagna, carrots, and dessert, Bruce and I share a glass of delicious French wine, aged in oak barrels to sweet perfection. I stare at his tight muscular, larger-than-average body still sweaty from his day, wearing an obvious craving on my expression. Noticing my stare, he replies with a devilish grin and diligently works his way to me.
“Cheyanne has been asleep for a couple of hours now, madame,” using a French accent to match the bottle of Chanson burgundy wine. His delivery is easily as dry as the wine. “Before that tasty poison numbs your impel…” He continues with his horrid, yet undeniably appealing, accent. “Shall we?”
He struggles to untie my hair, working his way through it. His soft breath lightly purring behind my neck sends chills down the small of my back, as he proceeds to unbutton my shirt with his other hand. The weight of my hair is suddenly released. Running his thumb down the crease of my shirt, he slides it off my shoulders with ease. His eyes noticeably gaze intently at my breasts, barely covered by a few long locks of hair; I can see his pants start to tighten. Gazing deep into his piercing blue eyes, I get on my knees and start to unbutton his pants. Firmly gripping the base of his cock, I run the top of my lips along his foreskin teasingly. His slight distinguishing taste of sweat and wine mixes in my mouth. I stare deep into his eyes, never losing connection, as I pant in desperation to please him. I widen my mouth allowing him to enter, licking and sucking him into a full erection. Bruce is large at full erection with a slight curve, and as he shakes with delight, I taste his precum. This is a sure sign he’s pleased and a complete turn-on for me. The mere idea of gratifying him saturates my panties because I know he became spellbound and trapped in my sexual love spell. All the while, he believes it is I who submits to his needs and wants as if it were him in control. The poor man doesn’t realize sexcraft is an actual thing as he pants for me like a thirsty dog that’d turn blue in painful frustration if I didn’t assist. I know what is to come next as he grabs my hair firmly, lifts me to his lips, and delicately places my back onto the floor to please me for good measure. Gripping a thigh tightly in each hand, he slides deep inside me—long, hard strokes, forcing my back to the floor, pinning me with his weight. As he starts moving faster, I contain myself from screaming, but moan heavily as the strength of him pushing hard on my erogenous zones causes some of my restraint to falter. That moment of control is all that he’s granted before I straddle him and use the might of my thighs to flip him below me, thereby making him my slave-ride. I ride him hard and fast, forcing him to submit, and though he’s easily physically strong enough to resist, he doesn’t in fear that I’ll stop pleasing him. We reach our climax together as I wrap my legs tight around his back as the painful tension released, while he slows to prolong the orgasm, extending our high a few seconds longer. After a few minutes of relaxation, I lick his neck one last time, inhaling the sweet aroma of his pheromones and sex. After being with someone an extensive amount of time, you tend to be familiar with their scent, everything about them. I find this familiarness to be a very arousing awareness that makes even the dirtiest sexual experience feel clean. Gathering up our clothing from the floor, we head off to our comfortable soft bed. Still dizzy from wine, a very satisfying orgasm, and exhausted from a long day, we slip heavily into sleep.
IV
Deafening Silence
It is the dark of night, though there are sweltering sands carried by heavy winds burning my feet as I walk at a somnolent pace into an unknown void. Estranged and afraid, I begin panting in desperation for a cold breath to soothe my burning lungs, only to inhale more of the fiery air smoldering them. The pumping of my heart becomes loud, creating a penetrable sound as its extreme drumbeat sings a thumping song of fear, while I cry out, “Hello? Is there anybody here? I am lost…” My voice trails off, as if to indicate that I’m alone in this insufferable realm and that exerting my lungs to speak is futile, but I continue shouting into the blank until I’ve exhausted my windpipes, and only the resonance of my voice echoes in response.
I suddenly feel a cold eeriness come over my body. This is not an inviting sensation, approaching terror, but I’m too curious to turn back the way I came. If I had, what good would it do me? I have no idea where I am and how I became here. A sudden clatter without revealing motion disorients the moment. I had hoped for such a sound, but didn’t anticipate it, and my heart jerks with intensity. Unexpectedly, a young girl appears from nowhere. She seems unaware that she stands directly in my line of tangible vision, my only focal point, as if she doesn’t have any idea I’m here. A combination of the darkness and her remoteness makes it hard to see her in perfect view at first, so I walk closer, ever so reluctant as a fearful spectator. What I can make out is her dress, long and torn, as if she had been in these clothes for centuries and they’re weathered from continuous use. The closer I get, the more I note an eerie resemblance. She looks quite a bit like I did at her age, almost exact, but she carries what seems to be the symbol of the Udjat on her shoulder, shaped exactly like the Eye of Horus. I try to think logically in an attempt to bring sense and clarity to this unusual scene. But it is impossible to understand why this girl is in front of me, especially when I have no explanation for why I am here myself.
While struggling to find a shred of reason to cling to, figments of other beings begin to arrive in view, and they don’t notice me, just as she doesn’t. They don’t even seem to sense my presence.
My gut creates a vibe I can’t ignore. Something seems dangerous about the situation, like an evil presence lurking around this girl, around me. I know that something terrible is about to take place by the anxiety projected off her face, and I can feel it like it’s my own.
I suddenly become aware of several large disfigured men pursuing her. One of them, large enough to grasp both of her wrists in one hand, ties her hands firmly together behind her back, forcing her to her knees. They cover her eyes with a blindfold while she fights relentlessly by kicking and trying to pull away in a panic. The other men trail off into the distance towards what seems to be more victims. I can scarcely make out what looks like a mother crying at her daughter’s capture, and with two smaller children in her arms, as she kneels beside them holding them tightly. I allow myself to become consumed by fear as I freeze in useless terror. Maybe she needs help? I try to convince myself with all of the clout I can muster to force away from the paralyzing fear. My legs won’t move, no matter how hard I try. I attempt to scream, but my voice is too brittle to force out the words. I want to reach out and stop everything. But I am just as much a figment to them as they are to me, and nothing more. That is my only justification for inaction.
In an instant of recollection, a sense of familiarity hits me full force. It is the type of memory that escapes you (or you escape from) until the day you’re forced to recall a part of your past. It feels like a reflection of my younger self, kneeling at this man’s feet, and I can sense this treacherous heartache as if it is my own, and perhaps it is. I recognize the familiarity, but I don’t understand the correlation besides the overtones of déjà vu. Even so, my impulse, infused with fear, overcomes any sense to give in to the obsceneness and panic that has been feeding on me since I found myself here. Here in this obscure memory, with a young version of myself unaware of my presence.
Just behind her, I witness men in arms gripping firmly at the mother’s hair, close enough to her skull to hold her head immobile. Still with both of the toddlers in her arms, crying in a panic, the man uses his other hand