Chapter Two

November – Seven Years Later

I awaken, startled by the nightmare. At least this time I didn’t wake up screaming, as I have for the last several days.

The dream was real: beyond my imagination to create and strangely familiar…

A forest, thick and turbulent, fills my eyes. I am bound, while all around me great beasts with gnashing teeth and earthy growls loom, poised to strike. My imagination makes it so real that I’m startled awake, gasping for breath, moaning, sometimes screaming enough to wake Ben. The images soon grow fuzzy at the edges and then finally disappear into the shadow land of dreaming. To make them reappear, I’ll have to dive back into that mysterious realm of sleep, with no certainty that I’ll remember them any more clearly when I wake again.

Every night this dream consumes my mind, and I feel its awful force. I wake with my hands between my legs, clutching at my crotch, fingers frantically rubbing my pussy toward its climax. This feels as driven as my adolescent masturbation and stronger. I have no control of myself at all, where then, I reason, I might have stopped the desire if I’d really tried.

This morning, a Saturday when he doesn’t have to leave, Ben snuggles in against me and holds me tight to his chest, while I cry buckets of irrational tears.

“Maybe you should see someone,” he tells me as his hand runs gently through the mass of tangles knotting my hair.

My body turns momentarily rigid. The tears stop. And then a sudden welling of energy rises from my center. What I want to do is fuck. The desire rises between my legs and with unnatural determination, I open them wide and capture Ben’s thigh between them. I move against his hairy flesh and feel his crotch against my hip, responding as his penis grows erect.

I cover his face with kisses, trace the lines of sinewy muscles with my fingers and press my neck to his lips. He gets the message and begins to kiss back, to suckle, to bite, to squeeze my ass with nails clawing my pretty pink behind. His face moves slowly down my throat, leaving hickeys all the way to my chest, where he bites the tender flesh of a tit and I start to scream from the pleasure.

“Yes, baby, yes,” I’m repeating, sometimes softly, sometime with such urgency that I believe I’ve driven him mad. He’s a reasonable, dispassionate man, twenty-nine, with blond curls at the top of his head and surrounding the swelling stalk between his stocky, muscled legs.

I postpone his further abuse of my breasts until later, so that I can grovel down his torso and swallow his erection with my hungering mouth. I almost gag as it tickles the back of my throat, but he has a natural instinct to shove himself deeper—like he’s in charge—and thus I’m compelled to oblige him and give him what he demands.

“Take it, bitch! This is what you want,” he angrily seethes. He hates his anger as much as I hate my unwanted dreams. But we seem doomed to answer a hunger that drives me and pushes him to the far edge of civi