I was jarred awake again. The night had been a series of fitful dreams and other agonies, that had kept me just on this side of consciousness and never allowing me to fully sleep. I sat up lazily, there were noises in my head and frighteningly erotic images swirling in my brain. My eyes stared blankly at the darkened walls and I had to wonder one more time, whether I was actually awake or if this was another of those haunting images that had tortured me since I laid my head on the pillow. Everything about this horrific evening had conspired to make my life a living hell. The night was muggy and swelteringly hot, my nearly naked body was damp with a greasy coating of slippery, glistening perspiration that soaked the sheets and felt as if I was trying to sleep in a large frying pan.
My brown eyes blinked, bleary with the underlying, dark circles signaling my sleep deprivation. At the office, we had worked practically non-stop for three straight days, struggling with a Friday afternoon deadline. Living on caffeine and pizza while trying to catch twenty minute-naps on a worn sofa or resting my eyes at my desk, while tallying numbers in a foot-long column of figures, we were giddy when the boss stuck his monkey-face in the door and sarcastically announced, that the project was canceled and that we could take the rest of the day off and come back on Monday.
I was still seeing five-digit numbers in my sleep, flashing in my face with my fingers frantically pushing keys on the computer to make the various pages of the multi-million-dollar proposal make sense. Other people in the office were reaching over me and hovering behind me, it wouldn't ever be like that and I didn't recognize most of them. I worked with all women and yet in my nightmares, it was wall-to-wall men. Some of them had their big cocks hanging out of their trousers and others pawed at my tits or slurped their flat tongues along the side of my face.
If I moved my hands to cover my chest, they grabbed for my pussy. When I leaned forward to type, they reached for my ass. Funny though, that I never swatted their hands or shouted for them to leave me alone.
I never finished college but I could add numbers in my head, that placed me well above the mathematical skills of most of my co-workers. But the lechers that surrounded me, were concerned only with stripping-off my clothing. I saw cocks in all states of readiness. Some were limp and wrinkled, and they lay on my shoulders so that wherever I turned, they were waiting for me to engorge them. More of them were already rigid and bloated, thumping against my cheeks or being pressed along the cleft of my ass cheeks. Most were in the hands of my future defilers, being stroked and showing me their abundant dimensions. The obvious arousal of my slutty body was apparent for all to see. My clothes appeared to shrink and gradually disappear and though I knew that was impossible, it was the nature of my dreams and I could do nothing about it.
I was attempting to concentrate on my work, but the pages turned into sex-filled photos and descriptions of illicit and perverted orgies of carnal debauchery. The men standing near me were whispering indecent and vile suggestions into my ears and rubbing their large hands against my moistened flesh. I couldn't stop my nipples from poking blatantly forward or for my pussy to begin leaking its aromatic scent. My "work" now was to simply stay away from corners and hold down the hem of my short skirt and prevent my practically see-through blouse from dissolving on my hot skin. I was being called back-alley names and being told to pose in the most whorish positions. I needed to be awake, but I couldn't be certain if this was indeed happening in my present life.
I was feeling upset and weary. My legs were shaking and I only wanted to lay down, but I knew that I needed to keep moving. If I stopped or laid down, they would pounce on me and fill every hole until I was flooded with their wicked cum.
Everything that I did was performed at a frantic pace. My stomach burned from antacids and the lingering flavor of stale coffee couldn't be rinsed from my dry throat. I seemed to slip in and out of consciousness. Being "awake" offered no relief from my fatigued and subconsciously-horny temperament.
I was too tired and agitated to sleep and too dizzy from exhaustion, to trust myself with sharp objects or open flames. In waking, my hands were still fighting-off the many faceless figures groping at my anatomy, and as my palms slithered across the warm, wet features of my curvy frame, I felt that the wetness and heat was more than mere perspiration. My nipples were erect and pouty from the constant abrasion of my struggling limbs. My pussy was on fire from the inside, and the familiar tingle of my frenzied clit clued me, that these erotic dreams were feeding my hyperactive sensuality. I looked again at the dark walls and checked the room for anything out of place. Then I struggled to close my tired eyes and catch some peaceful REM sleep. There was really nothing left to do but stew in my own sweat and hope that the night brings some peaceful slumber to my aching, limp frame.
My name is Lisa, I'm twenty-three. I have perky 34D breasts and long legs, dark brunette hair that falls to the middle of my back and deep brown eyes. I recently left New York, where I ran from an abusive relationship and settled into this jerk-water, rural community where I was over-qualified and under-sexed. My new boss "hit on me" right away and not wanting to stumble into that same scenario again, I just stopped dating and flirting for a while. I managed to rent an old farmhouse on a dirt road that provided tremendous privacy but very little luxury. It had tall windows but no air-conditioning, a wrap-around porch but no shower, a full kitchen that could seat twelve but that the power went out if you used a microwave. The birds sang all day and the winds whipped at night. Winters were brutal and the summer was worse. But the loneliness, is what was getting to me.
The sound that disturbed this particular night's rest, was one of many made by an old wood-framed house on a humid summer's eve. Creaking wooden slats or the rose bushes scraping against the window, squirrels that nested in the eaves or the shutters that banged on the sides when the wind blew, things that seemed normal during a country afternoon, could startle a city girl on a desolate evening. I would start suddenly and then barely attuned to my surroundings, slip back into the throes of hectic, disproportionate repose.
At these moments, I was never certain of when I was actually awake, or at which points I was still delusional. And for many of my recurring nightmares, at the most strenuous moments and when I was under the deepest pressures, I would find that I was naked and nervous, and that my sexual insecurities and phobias were on high alert. Disembodied arms and lecherous faces from my distant past, were always grabbing at my exposed cunt or squeezing the fleshy globes of my full chest. The work-dreams would always morph into sexual escapades of seduction, rape or sexual plunder. And my pussy was so wet, that I couldn't hide the inconvenient fact that I was terribly turned-on by all of it. In these dreams, I was forced to beg for sex or to offer my naked body in a gangbang. It seemed so real that I was afraid of discovering that I wasn't dreaming.
In more lucid moments, when I would contemplate my fever-dreams over black coffee, I would employ the rudimentary psychology that I've learned while watching daytime television, to analyze these pseudo-sexual themes that both excite and terrify me. These graphic scenes of depravity always ended with me being entirely naked and on my knees, having to suck the rampaging cock that had just filled my voracious mouth with its syrupy seed. My various rapes took place in the office, at the grocery store or while riding a crowded bus. And though I somehow knew that I would be attacked, it was always frightening and I felt helpless to fight it off. Sometimes, the assailant was someone who had been pleasantly speaking with me over a quiet lunch. Other times it would be six men that I had been watching play basketball at the park, then suddenly as a group, they would hold me down and take turns fucking me.
In the mornings, I would have no clear recollection of their names or even of their faces, but I would have listened as they all whispered, (or screamed,) into my ear that I was about to be raped. They would have their way with me and convince me that I wanted it, and even worse than that, that I would thank them for the experience and wish that they would come back for more. And then I would notice that I could never recall their features. I wouldn't know them from any other man. We could be sitting face to face in an empty room, and I couldn't identify anyone as the person who just forced me to suck and fuck them. I began to realize that part of the fantasy, even part of the allure, was to have a faceless fuck.
Maybe the seductive thrill to these debased fantasies was the erotic idea that any man could be the next night's attacker and that after sating myself on being a submissive slut to an anonymous rapist, I would be fair game for another evening, to have any multiple of men use and dominate me for their perverted pleasures. Am I so deep into my fantasy life that I would allow and almost applaud the ravagement of my hungry body? Do I actually wish to invite a man to rape me? Would it even be rape, if I am so horny and willing? I act like such a prude around town, but my brain knows better. I need to be fucked with no strings attached. Are these the mere harmless fantasies of a grown woman who isn't satisfied in her sexual life but understands that these depraved dreams must be kept hidden deep in the recesses of her maddened mind?
