You don’t arrive. You emerge— from smoke, from shadow, from the ache I buried beneath my ribs.

I’m not asleep. I’m somewhere else. A place where time drips slowly from the ceiling, and the walls pulse with the rhythm of your breath.

You don’t speak. You consume. Your eyes find me first— naked, kneeling, not because I was told, but because I was made for this moment.

You circle me like a storm deciding where to strike. Your fingers trail the air, and my skin flinches as if touched— because in this dream, your will is law.

I open. Not just my thighs, but my soul. The locked doors, the hidden rooms, the places I swore no one would ever enter.

You enter.

Not gently. Not cruelly. But with purpose— like you’ve been here before and you’ve come to claim what’s always been yours.

Your mouth finds my neck, my shoulder, the hollow where breath hides. You taste me like a secret, like a sin, like a story you intend to rewrite with your tongue.

I moan, but it’s not sound. It’s surrender. It’s the unraveling of everything I built to keep you out.

You press me down, and I rise to meet you. You grip my pearls, twist them, mark me with rhythm that makes the stars blink.

You slide inside, and the dream shatters— not from violence, but from truth. Because this is where I belong: beneath you, around you, within you.

We move like gods in exile, trying to remember what it felt like to be worshipped.

I cry out your name, and it echoes through the dreamscape like thunder chasing lightning.

You don’t stop. You don’t slow. You take me until I forget what waking feels like.

And when I break— when I come undone in a flood of heat and breath— you hold me with eyes that say, You’ll dream of me again.