Is this really a piece of erotica, or have I just written a personal fantasy that isn’t really sexual at all? When the person in question isn’t stealing all of the duvet, I tend to sleep better with someone in bed next to me. My dreams have definitely started getting better since I’ve been taking anti-depressants, but I still often wish that there was someone there with me when I wake up in the middle of the night.
Sometimes she wakes up screaming.
It’s not the kind of scream that she gives when I tear yet another orgasm out of her poor wee cunt. I’ve made her scream. I know her scream. But after that scream she is breathless and smiling and melts into my arms.
The scream she makes when she jerks out of a nightmare is different. Not one of pleasure, a surrender to my power over her, but one of heart-stopping fear. The medication helps, she tells me and we’ve worked out a routine that keeps the dark, scary thoughts as far away as possible. Hot tea and meds, light spanking, orgasms, and then cuddling until she drifts off to sleep. When she does I scoop my laptop off the floor and work for an hour, sometimes more, but always next to her. Holding her. Touching her.
She used to tell me what the dreams were about, the ones that woke her up and left her shivering in the bed next to me. Afraid to move in case she woke me; it took me a long time to convince her that not only did I not mind, but I wanted her to wake me up so I could comfort her. Luckily, I can punish my little sub with a hairbrush spanking or a week of edging and denial. when she disobeys my orders to wake me up so I can cuddle you darling.
The fact she doesn’t tell me anymore is scary. I worry about why she hides them, and can only imagine it’s because they’ve gotten darker. She tells her counsellor, and that’s far more important than me knowing. There’s a game we play though, where she tells me what she’d like to have dreamed about. She describes her latest fantasies, painting them as dreams. For her, it’s a way to escape the embarrassment that sometimes comes with telling me what filthy things she wants me to do to her. I love the insight it gives me into her head, and how she relaxes as the sexy thoughts replace the scary ones.
When she wakes me up in the middle of the night, part of me snaps awake instantly. I pull her into me, holding her tightly and whispering reassuring worlds in her ear while she shakes softly. I wrap my arms around her until she’s escaped the clutches of the dream, and then wipe away any tears that have fallen. I make her hot milk, and get her something to eat if she needs it. Sometimes that’s enough, and she’ll fall asleep in my arms again quickly. Sometimes we get up, pulling on warm jumpers and baking post-midnight muffins in the kitchen, with her making sure the cakes don’t burn as I kiss her deeply and slip my hands down her pyjama bottoms. Sometimes there is sex, when we’re both half-asleep and so tired, our hands and mouths working on auto-pilot because we know each other better than we know ourselves. We fall asleep together in a messy tangle of limbs, with me murmuring that she’s a good girl.
Sometimes she wakes up screaming, but I’m always there.
Image sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.