They glare, snarl, and sink their sharp claws into the tender flesh of my consciousness.
Why are they coming right now? I’m over that part of me, have completely erased it and found myself a new beginning.
At least, I hope so.
An old wooden ceiling materializes above me and I attempt to move.
One problem: I can’t.
My muscles are slack and I have no control over them. It’s then I realize that I haven’t completely opened my eyes and only a slit allows me to catch a glimpse of the ceiling.
A sharp sting of nerves explodes all over my limbs, and my brain revs to full capacity.
I know this feeling too well. The muted panic, the distorted consciousness, and the invisible black hands of panic squeezing my heart and squashing my chest bones.
That’s exactly what happened when I was caught in a trap, had to feel every sting of its sharp edges, and inhale every polluted breath, but I couldn’t escape.
I couldn’t move.
I wanted to, I really did, and I fought and thrashed. I kicked, screamed, and wailed.
But it all happened in my head.
The scene repeats in tiny bursts of black.
Black.
Black.
And more damnblack.
I try to regulate my breathing, but I have no control over that either. My inhales and exhales erupt in a mixture of choppy sounds.
This isn’t the first time sleep paralysis has found refuge inside me. This out-of-body experience is even more frequent after those gruesome nightmares.
The more I fight the heavy weight on my chest, the black hands squeezing the life out of me, the more I’ll drive myself into panic mode, so I force myself to remain still.
To let it pass.
It will eventually. No matter how scary it is or how much I want to cry, it’ll eventually disappear.
Little by little, a dull ache explodes all over my skin, falling in sync with my irregular intake of air. Then, something warm and soothing snakes over the pillowy skin between my legs.
A cloth, a towel, or a mouth.
A moan slips from my lips as I attempt to stimulate my muscles but fail miserably.
My fingers are slack on the soft surface beneath me. My chest heaves due to the demon that’s perching over me, scraping at the sensitive flesh of my heart, and my head is a jumbled mess.
But my pussy? That doesn’t feel like part of my physical being. Or more like, the sensations running through it are separate.
It bursts with comforting energy. I focus on it, and my heart chases away the ghost of the black hands as it thunders back to life. My limbs gradually loosen and so does my brain capacity.
Just like that, events slam back in. The mask. The chase. The haunted property. Being taken on the deck. The blood. The knife.
Everything.
My chest quakes and I moan softly as the pleasure washes over me, slowly but surely untying the knot in my muscles.