Page 45 of Somno Slave

A broken sound catches in my throat. A hand covers my mouth instantly.

“That’s a good girl,” it whispers, voice dragging through my skull.

The panic that follows is so huge it almost tears through whatever is holding me under. Tears sting my eyes instantly. I try to bite down. Scream. Move.Something.

My teeth barely scrape against the hand over my mouth. It stays there anyway, firm, unhurried, like whoever this is already knows I can’t stop them. My breathing turns ragged against the palm covering my mouth.

And worse, there’s a sudden, low pulse between my thighs.

Heat.

Need.

No no no—

I squeeze my eyes shut.

The hand between my legs pauses for a second, almost like it’s feeling my reaction. I can almostfeelthe smile stretching across their face, and my stomach turns harder.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” they press harder. A pathetic sound escapes me. I want to crawl out of my own skin. My body keeps fucking answering it.

Every breath seems to drag the feeling deeper. My hips shift weakly beneath the pressure before I can stop them and horror crashes through me so hard my vision blurs. The hand between my thighs drags higher slowly enough to make my stomach knot painfully. My body arches before I can stop it. I could throw up.

The shame of it hurts almost more than the fear now.

It lingers there like it has all the time in the world, dragging reaction after reaction out of my body while I lie trapped inside it, forced to feel every betrayal as it happens. My thighs twitch. My breathing catches. Heat keeps pulsing low through me no matter how violently I want it to stop. It feels cruel suddenly.Deliberate. Like the point isn’t pleasure at all but showing me how easily my body can be turned against me.

I don’t know how long it lasts but eventually the room starts pulling away from me again. My panic dulls at the edges first. Then the weight behind me softens into something less certain. The hands blur into heat and pressure and distant sensation.

The last thing I feel is fingers pressing hard into the inside of my thigh.

Then... nothing.

I wake gasping. I sit up too quickly. The duvet falls from my legs. My body aches in small humiliating places again, thighs tight, chest oversensitive beneath my shirt, awareness lingering low in my stomach like a bruise beneath the skin.

“No,” I whisper immediately.

I look down slowly, and stop breathing.

Four faint marks stain the inside of my thigh.

Fingerprints.

Dull reddish pressure marks high against sensitive skin.

My pulse stumbles violently. “Fuck.”

I touch beside them carefully without pressing directly against the marks. The spacing is wrong for my own hand. My stomach twists so hard I nearly gag. I throw the duvet away from me and stumble out of bed too fast. The room tilts sharply. My hands shake violently as I check the lock again. The windows. The wardrobe. Beneath the bed.

Nothing.

There’s nothing.

My chest hurts from how fast I’m breathing by the time I grab my phone.

The brightness burns against my eyes.

I type too quickly the first time.