P riya couldn't sleep.
She sat, quiet and a touch nauseous, in front of her computer, pinching the bridge of her nose. A cup of coffee—her third in as many hours—grew cold and stale on the desk. She didn't think she could stomach any more of it. She'd been surviving on the stuff for days.
It wasn't exactly that Priya couldn't sleep. When she slept, she didn't get any rest. She tossed and turned, somewhere between sleeping and waking, for hours at a time. Always unable to make the final, full descent into good, deep, REM-cycle sleep. Instead her mind hovered, awake and aware of the dark bedroom around her. Eerie. Priya could even see the room, as though her eyes were wide open. Her whole body, though, lay heavy and motionless as a log.
She could hear, see, and feel her husband beside her, snoring, but she couldn't move or speak herself. She desperately wanted to wake him, because it terrified her. Priya lay stuck in some surreal dream, panicking...and in the morning, when she finally pulled herself up from a sinking tar-pit of non-sleep, it left her completely drained.
This had been happening for more than two weeks. The doctor called it 'sleep paralysis': a state in which the brain failed to enter or complete its REM cycle.
"Stress, probably," he'd told her, and prescribed sleeping pills.
The pills don't work though. She rubbed harder at her nose, trying to ease the thundering headache beginning behind her eyes. No...they don't help at all.
If anything, they made the condition worse, because now she was hallucinating on top of everything else. She heard voices whispering her name, or sometimes a startling rush of noise, like the roar of an oncoming train. She smelled spoiled things and sweet things mingling, the vaporous stench of rotten eggs and pungent scent of red wine.
She also saw things. A figure looming in the corner. Then, hovering over the bed. A tall silhouette of a creature— mostly human—crouching on top of her.
And... she felt things. Odd, greedy, sneaky things. Dark and disturbingly arousing things. Sometimes she found herself so full of lust, she thought if she couldn't satisfy the prowling, slinking need inside of her, she would die.
"All normal effects of sleep paralysis," her doctor assured her when Priya called to explain about the delirium. She left out the last part, though. The part where she woke up with her hands halfway down to her pussy.
"Try sleeping on your side."
She rolled over in the night, though, and then came the sensation of big, hot hands running down her naked back. They caressed her to her thighs, and then back up again. Each touch evoked a burning desire to groan, and she yearned to push the experience further—but she still couldn't move. Like a cold lump of stone, she lay face-down in the sheets while some strange being touched her, stroked her, frightened her. She wanted to tremble with panic, and she wanted beg for more. While her body floated in strange, drunken pleasure, she fought to move, to cry out. She wanted Ron, sleeping undisturbed beside her, to hear her and wake up to shake her out of it.
The hallucination—the dark presence, the shadowy stranger with the hematite eyes—grew worse night after night. One morning, Priya found herself recalling the scent of wine mingling with the faint, almost pleasant hint of smoke lingering on his flesh.
Now, she groaned and pushed the coffee cup away. The thought of that scent made her ill.
Last night in her dream, the dark creature stooped over her and pressed a hungry, demanding mouth down on hers. She might not have been able to move, but in some distant part of her mind she tried to squirm under his touch—not resisting, but eager. She imagined opening up to his devilish presence and asking to be taken. Shameful and licentious desires bled from her, as if from terrible, beautiful wounds. She'd wanted to raise her arms and pull him down on her, to lift her hips in urgent plea for him. He would gratify the sweet,
She sat, quiet and a touch nauseous, in front of her computer, pinching the bridge of her nose. A cup of coffee—her third in as many hours—grew cold and stale on the desk. She didn't think she could stomach any more of it. She'd been surviving on the stuff for days.
It wasn't exactly that Priya couldn't sleep. When she slept, she didn't get any rest. She tossed and turned, somewhere between sleeping and waking, for hours at a time. Always unable to make the final, full descent into good, deep, REM-cycle sleep. Instead her mind hovered, awake and aware of the dark bedroom around her. Eerie. Priya could even see the room, as though her eyes were wide open. Her whole body, though, lay heavy and motionless as a log.
She could hear, see, and feel her husband beside her, snoring, but she couldn't move or speak herself. She desperately wanted to wake him, because it terrified her. Priya lay stuck in some surreal dream, panicking...and in the morning, when she finally pulled herself up from a sinking tar-pit of non-sleep, it left her completely drained.
This had been happening for more than two weeks. The doctor called it 'sleep paralysis': a state in which the brain failed to enter or complete its REM cycle.
"Stress, probably," he'd told her, and prescribed sleeping pills.
The pills don't work though. She rubbed harder at her nose, trying to ease the thundering headache beginning behind her eyes. No...they don't help at all.
If anything, they made the condition worse, because now she was hallucinating on top of everything else. She heard voices whispering her name, or sometimes a startling rush of noise, like the roar of an oncoming train. She smelled spoiled things and sweet things mingling, the vaporous stench of rotten eggs and pungent scent of red wine.
She also saw things. A figure looming in the corner. Then, hovering over the bed. A tall silhouette of a creature— mostly human—crouching on top of her.
And... she felt things. Odd, greedy, sneaky things. Dark and disturbingly arousing things. Sometimes she found herself so full of lust, she thought if she couldn't satisfy the prowling, slinking need inside of her, she would die.
"All normal effects of sleep paralysis," her doctor assured her when Priya called to explain about the delirium. She left out the last part, though. The part where she woke up with her hands halfway down to her pussy.
"Try sleeping on your side."
She rolled over in the night, though, and then came the sensation of big, hot hands running down her naked back. They caressed her to her thighs, and then back up again. Each touch evoked a burning desire to groan, and she yearned to push the experience further—but she still couldn't move. Like a cold lump of stone, she lay face-down in the sheets while some strange being touched her, stroked her, frightened her. She wanted to tremble with panic, and she wanted beg for more. While her body floated in strange, drunken pleasure, she fought to move, to cry out. She wanted Ron, sleeping undisturbed beside her, to hear her and wake up to shake her out of it.
The hallucination—the dark presence, the shadowy stranger with the hematite eyes—grew worse night after night. One morning, Priya found herself recalling the scent of wine mingling with the faint, almost pleasant hint of smoke lingering on his flesh.
Now, she groaned and pushed the coffee cup away. The thought of that scent made her ill.
Last night in her dream, the dark creature stooped over her and pressed a hungry, demanding mouth down on hers. She might not have been able to move, but in some distant part of her mind she tried to squirm under his touch—not resisting, but eager. She imagined opening up to his devilish presence and asking to be taken. Shameful and licentious desires bled from her, as if from terrible, beautiful wounds. She'd wanted to raise her arms and pull him down on her, to lift her hips in urgent plea for him. He would gratify the sweet,
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