She blamed her dreams, although of course they were the ones pointing the finger. And those digits w

She blamed her dreams, although of course they were the ones pointing the finger. And those digits were firmly aimed in her direction.  But it was how she found out, and she enlisted the blame at the cause, rather than the cause of the cause. She didn’t think about her subconscious, and how it was producing these ideas, conjuring them out of the aether of sleep and wrapping them around her limbs, her eyes, tying her down and sending electric thrills between her legs. It wasn’t her dreams that created that shadowy, vague, desperately masculine figure towering over her. They were just the conduit.  Without them, though, she may have remained blissfully unaware. There was a part of her, a very real, solid, angry part, that wished that she’d had dreamless nights, just a void between bouts of consciousness. It wasn’t quite the majority, but it was close. Oh to be normal, to want normal things from normal people.  Not her. She liked to be tied up. She liked to have control wrested from her. She liked to feel the thrill of being called a slut, a cunt, a whore. She liked to be dressed up just so she could be dressed down. Each kink a different dream, every one surreal, confusing, and embarrassingly exciting. She resented every one, even as she ploughed her hand between her legs at the thought of them.  The problem was, as vivid, powerful and depraved as her dreams were, she wouldn’t truly understand what she was until one of them came true. Until she made them come true. But it was only a matter of time.  -- source link

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