Page 5

5

Piper

Maddie dragged me home after the bonfire, half-walked me up the stairs, and shoved a water bottle into my hand with a sisterly glare before letting me crash. I didn’t even change clothes—just faceplanted into bed with my boots still on and Jake’s stupid smirk burned into the backs of my eyelids.

I must’ve knocked out hard, because the next thing I know, I’m waking hours later—sweaty, dizzy, throat dry, and still tangled in my sheets. The moonlight through the window makes everything look too bright. My head throbs. My body aches. I roll over and groan, tugging the blanket higher.

Eventually, I drift again.

And that’s when the dream hits.

I toss and turn, the sheets tangling around my legs as the dream pulls me under. It's always the same dream—restless, unrelenting. A faceless, nameless man who takes control, who makes me feel things I refuse to feel in waking life.

At first, it's harmless. He's there, standing in a sunlit meadow, his features blurred and indistinct but his body clear—tall, powerful, shirtless, his muscled chest dusted with a light sheen of sweat. I can't see his face, but I can feel his eyes on me, watching with an intensity that makes my cunt throb. I hate how my body responds, even in dreams.

I cross my arms, trying to maintain my distance, but the dream doesn't care about my boundaries. He walks toward me, his movements fluid and predatory. I take a step back, but the ground seems to shift beneath my feet, pulling me closer to him. His scent reaches me before he does—a mix of woodsmoke and something wild, something I can't quite place. It's intoxicating, and I hate how wet it makes me.

"Piper," he says, his voice low and rough, like gravel against silk. I shiver, but I force myself to scowl. "What do you want?" I snap, even though I know this is just a dream. Even though I know he's not real.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches out, his fingers brushing the hair away from my face. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. His touch is warm, electric, and I want to pull away, but I can't. My body betrays me, leaning into him, craving more. I hate it. I hate how he makes me feel, how he strips away my defenses with just a touch.

And then, everything changes. His faceless presence seems to grow more commanding, more dominant. I can't see his expression, but I feel the shift—a surge of raw, primal hunger radiating from him.

"You can't run from this," he says, his voice now a raspy whisper that sends shivers down my spine.

I want to argue, to tell him he's wrong, but the words won't come. Because deep down, I know he's right. I've been running for so long, from men, from relationships, from desire itself. But here, in this dream, there's nowhere to hide.

He's closer now, his body pressing against mine, his heat searing through my clothes. I can feel the hard length of his cock against my thigh, thick and insistent. I gasp, my hands instinctively balling into fists at my sides. This is too much. Too real. Too raw.

But then his lips are on my neck, his teeth nipping at my skin, just sharp enough to send a jolt straight to my clit. I cry out, my head falling back as he sucks and bites, marking me as his. My pussy clenches, dripping wet, my body betraying me as I arch against him, desperate for more.

He growls, the sound vibrating through me, igniting a fire in my belly. His hands move down my body, rough and possessive, as if he's claiming every inch of me. He grabs my ass, squeezing hard enough to make me whimper. I'm trembling now, my control slipping away, my mind clouded with need.

His hot breath ghosts over my skin as his tongue traces a path down my neck, over my collarbone, and lower, to my heaving tits. I moan, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He takes my nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. I cry out, my body arching into him, my hips bucking against his, seeking friction where I need it most.

His hand cups my other breast, his thumb flicking roughly over the tight bud, sending sparks of pleasure straight to my clit. I'm lost, drowning in sensation, my body and mind at war. But in this moment, I don't care. I don't want to care. I just want him to fuck me until I can't remember my own name.

He pulls back slightly, and though I can't see his face, I can feel his gaze burning into me. "Do you want me to fuck you, Piper?" he asks, his voice a rough demand.

I bite my lip, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. I want to say no, to deny the desire that's consuming me. But the truth is, I do. I want him more than I've ever wanted anything.

"Yes," I whisper, the word barely audible. But it's enough.

He makes a sound—half growl, half laugh—that sends heat pooling between my legs, and then his mouth is on mine, devouring me. His kiss is hungry, desperate, his tongue thrusting into my mouth as he tastes me, claims me. I moan into his mouth, my hands moving down his back, digging my nails into the hard muscle there.

He breaks the kiss, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Turn around," he commands, his voice brooking no argument.

I hesitate, my heart pounding, but then I do as he says, turning my back to him. I feel his hands on my hips, pulling me closer, his thick cock pressing insistently against my ass. He's rough, urgent, and I love it. I love how he makes me feel—wanted, desired, consumed.

His hands move to the waistband of my pajama pants, tugging them down my legs. I step out of them, leaving myself bare to him. I can feel his gaze on my skin, hot and possessive, and I shiver.

"Spread your legs," he orders, his voice a low growl.

I comply, my cheeks burning with shame, but also with anticipation. I hear him move behind me, the sound of his belt buckle clicking, the rustle of fabric. And then his hands are on me again, spreading my ass cheeks, his fingers tracing the soaked folds of my pussy.

"So fucking wet for me," he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. "You've been denying this, haven't you? Denying how much you want my cock inside you."

I don't answer. I can't. Because he's right. I have been denying it. Denying how much I crave this—being taken, being claimed. But in this dream, I can't hide anymore.

His fingers dip inside me, two thick digits sliding easily into my slick heat. I gasp, my head falling back as he begins to move, his touch relentless, demanding. He's fingering me with a purpose, his thumb circling my clit as he curls his fingers inside me, finding that spot that makes me see stars. I'm helpless to resist.

"Please," I whimper, my voice breaking. "Please."

He chuckles, the sound dark and satisfied. "Not yet," he says, his fingers slowing, teasing me, torturing me. "Not until you beg properly."

I close my eyes, my body trembling with need. I hate that he's right. I hate that I want this. But I do. I want him to take me, to claim me, to make me his.

"Please," I whisper, my voice shaking. "Please, I need you to fuck me. I need your cock inside me."

He growls, the sound vibrating through me, and then he's pulling his fingers out, positioning himself behind me. I feel the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance, hot and insistent.

"Are you ready for me, Piper?" he asks, his voice a rough whisper.

I nod, even though I know he can't see me. "Yes," I breathe. "Yes, please."

And then he's pushing inside me, slow and deliberate, filling me completely. I cry out, my hands gripping the edge of the bed as he stretches me, claims me. He's huge, thicker than I expected, and I feel full, impossibly full, of him.

He holds still for a moment, giving me time to adjust, but I'm impatient. I want more. I need more.

"Fuck me," I demand, my voice hoarse with need.

He chuckles, the sound dark and satisfied, and then he's pulling out, only to thrust back in, hard and deep. I moan, my body meeting his rhythm, my hips moving in time with his.

He sets a relentless pace, his thrusts snapping my hips back against him, his cock pounding into me with a force that borders on brutal. But I love it. I love how he takes me, how he dominates me, how he makes me feel small and helpless in the best possible way.

His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging into my skin as he fucks me with a ferocity that leaves me breathless. One hand slides around to find my clit, rubbing tight circles over the swollen bud. I'm close, so close, my orgasm building, coiling tight in my belly.

"I'm—" I pant, my voice desperate.

"Not yet," he growls, his voice a command. "Not until I say so."

I whimper, my body trembling on the edge, but he slows, his thrusts becoming shallow, teasing. I want to scream, to beg him to finish me, but he's relentless, holding me right there, on the brink.

And then, just as I think I can't take it anymore, he snaps his hips forward, slamming into me with a force that steals my breath. "Cum for me, Piper," he orders, his voice a rough growl. "Cum on my cock."

That's all it takes. My orgasm explodes, ripping through me like a tidal wave. I scream, my pussy clenching around him as I shatter. He follows, his own release crashing into me, his cock pulsing deep inside me as he fills me with his cum.

For a moment, we're both still, our breaths coming in ragged gasps. I feel him soften inside me, but he doesn't pull out. Instead, he turns me around, his hands cupping my face as he looks at me.

Though I still can't see his face clearly, I feel something shift—a tenderness that wasn't there before.

"You can't keep running, Piper," he says, his voice soft now, almost gentle. "Not from this. Not from me."

I wake with a start, my body slick with sweat, heart pounding in my chest. The ache between my thighs is almost painful, my nipples tight against my thin sleep shirt.

"Shit," I whisper into the darkness, pressing my thighs together.

I hate this dream. I hate how it makes me feel—vulnerable, needy, desperate. I hate how my body betrays me, how I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin.

But most of all, I hate how badly I want it to be real.

I sit up, pushing sweat-dampened hair from my face. This isn't the first time I've had this dream—this faceless man has been visiting my sleep for years. But tonight felt different. More intense. More real.

I've always told myself these dreams are just my subconscious rebelling against my waking principles. I don't do relationships. I don't trust men. But in my dreams? Apparently I'm desperate to be dominated by one.

My therapist would have a field day with this.

I glance at the clock—3:17 AM. Too early to get up, too late to hope for better dreams. I lie back down, willing my heart to slow, trying to ignore the persistent throb between my legs.

What does it mean that my dream man never has a face? Am I so determined not to connect with anyone that even my subconscious keeps men at a distance? Or am I just waiting for someone real to fill in those blank features?

I shake my head in the darkness. It doesn't matter. It's just a dream—a frustrating, arousing, unsettling dream that means nothing.

At least that's what I tell myself as I drift back to sleep.