Grip of Death

I’ve been having these… nightmares. No one else would call them that, but that’s what they are.

“Allah, protect me.”

Those whispered words before sleep never save me, but I say them anyway. My kneeling by my bed never saves me. Not the dream catcher, not the talisman, and not the jewel I bought from the soothsayer. They always came.

I try to stay awake, focusing on anything other than sleep, but the moment my head hits the pillow…

Tap tap tap

Like rats skittering down the hallway. The click of the door heraldstheir arrival. Tap and slide, fingernails moving along the wood floor. I’m paralyzed as I hear them coming to me. Tugs on the comforter, on my clothing, and finally on my skin as I’m stripped down.

Hands, too many to count, stroke along my body. The caress would feel amazing if I wasn’t gripped by fear at the sight of them. Thin fingers, covered in old blood and bruises, tickle my lips. They skitter along my chest, my arms, and my legs. My hands and feet are held in a loose grasp, but I’m too gripped by my fear to notice. But they’ll force enjoyment from me, they want my fear mingled with my pleasure.

A twist of a nipple, hard and then harder still makes me arch. A nail tracing the opposite nipple, another scraping down my inner thigh. It’ll draw blood and leave marks on my skin.

I try desperately to contain my gasp as a firm hand wraps around my cock. Oh, god, it’s so good. That fears slips to the background, my pleasure sparkling in the darkness as my hips rock into the hand. A finger breaching my ass pushes a hoarse cry from my mouth. They work in tandem to torture me, bringing me to the edge with a surge.

“Do you want…”

I know the question. It’s whispered to me every time, but I’m unable to see who asks. I’m unable to do much more then whimper.

“Do you want to come?”

Desperately, I wanted to come desperately, but what I want doesn’t matter. Not to the hands tormenting me with pleasure and not to the voice whispering low and sinister in my ear.

“What do you want?”

I try to open my mouth to reply, but there’s hands circling my throat. Tighter and tighter, I struggle in vain as my hands and feet are held down. It’s painful and I’m dying even as the hand stroking along my cock increased its speed.

“You long for the death only I can give you.”

Holding on to the last thread of my life it was trying to choke out of me, I feel the tingle in my groin. The hands around my throat squeeze tighter right as I erupt. I can hear the crunch of the bones in my neck, the life draining from me even as my cock dribbles the last of its spunk on my stomach.

I wake with a start, gasping and frantic. Safe again. The feeling of phantom fingertips caressing me lingers in reality. A throb at my throat tells me of the marks that will remain.

The same dream every night, and I can do nothing to stop it. I‘m trapped in this repeating dreamscape. I dread sleep and my body’s reaction to the hands coming to torment me.

It’s made me long for the death – the pleasure- those hands give me.