Gagged(2)

I’m not seeing so much as being allowed to see. I’m not here so much as being allowed to stay.

The sense of the tall, broad man behind me intensifies enough to dimple my bare arms with gooseflesh. The bumps run under my nightdress. Everything tingles. I’m naked, save a pair of plain white panties under this simple garment. But I feel entirely bare.

I want to run. And to stay where I am.

I sense the man about to speak. I know this like I know he’s behind me, even though I’ve not seen or heard his approach. I can’t see a shadow or his reflection, or feel his weight subtly distorting the floor.

Yet I know he’s there. His mere existence is bold, like cologne.

I know he’s a foot behind me.

I know he’s wearing something fine — a suit or tuxedo.

I know he’s looking down at my simple, thin, girlish garment and judging me.

I know he’s staring at my body.

And I know he can see through the dress. He can see my skin. He can see the back of my right shoulder. He can see the small scar, from when I was thirteen, from the belt. He can see the old scratches and wounds, left where they would be visible to a lover alone.

I know he’s leaning forward, maybe wondering if I realize he’s there. Wondering if he’s startled me. Thinking himself invisible, like a ghost. His head, his mouth, near the back of my neck. His hands near the sides of my waist, millimeters from my hips.

I can feel him almost wrapping around me without touching, like a human shroud.

Then he speaks.

“You want to run.”

I can’t reply. Because yes, I’m dying to run. The voice is soft but not kind. Most of me still knows this is a dream, but the voice feels so real. My brain is replaying it, trying to convince me that I’ve imagined it all, when the man speaks again.

“But you can’t run. There’s nowhere to go.”

I sense him moving closer. I should turn to confront him. I should force myself to wake up. But I can’t do either.

“If you’re never afraid, you’re never truly alive,” he tells me.

My dream eyes have closed. My dream lips have parted. My breath has slowed, leaving in long, shaky exhales that fog the glass. My heart thrums in a deep bass rumble. I feel the dream man’s face inches from my neck. I see my blonde hair at the left side of my peripheral vision, half-forward over my shoulder, the way I wear it in life. What stays behind exposes too much skin. He’s close enough to disturb my hair with his breath.

“The problem with fear,” he tells me, “is that you have to let it in.”

His hands haven’t touched me, but I’m somehow sure they’ll pass right through my nightgown if they try. I want to run. And still I’ve not moved a muscle.

My eyes are still closed. I’m now sure that he’s reached around me and that his hands are near my breasts, but I don’t want to look. I tell myself there’s no point in fleeing. What’s about to happen is certain. He’s too strong to stop me.

My nipples harden. I feel myself getting wet, and embarrassed. Despite the two layers of cotton between me and the man, I’m suddenly sure he’ll notice. He might misinterpret me. My bare feet move, parting my thighs just enough to feel the room’s air between them.

If he knows, he might touch me.

I don’t want that. It would be a violation.

I stay where I am, my feet sliding farther apart, a tightness growing within me.

“But it’s okay,” the man tells me, his lips seemingly inches from my right ear. “Because once you let fear inside, it’s the last decision you have to make. Then someone else can decide for you, making choices you won’t allow yourself to make.”

He still hasn’t touched me, and yet my every nerve expects it. I can no longer sense the movement of my nightdress and am suddenly positive it’s no longer there, my panties gone with it. I’m nude, from my toes to the top of my head. I don’t know how it happened, and without opening my eyes I can’t look around, even within the dream, to be sure. But I can feel the way my sex feels cold, cool air wicking moisture from between my legs. I feel gooseflesh everywhere.

It’s terrible that this has happened. I don’t know this man, and if I had any choice at all, I’d grab my pile of clothing, wherever it is, and run. But it’s too late. He’s made me do this. He’s stripped me bare. He’s parted my legs and bent me somewhat forward; I can feel the window’s cool press against my palms, the way my small breasts hang away from my chest.

I don’t know how this happened, but I can’t stop it. I don’t want to be here, but the decision’s been seized from my hands. There’s nothing I can do but wait for him to do as he pleases — and touch what he wants to. But it arouses me so much, and I know what is coming. I’ll feel his hand brush my erect nipples. I’ll feel his palm high on my inner thigh, his fingers sliding upward to brush my wetness.