Night after night, the dream, or perhaps the nightmare, is always the same for Donna.
I find myself in this terrifying firelit place, scattered human bones littering the stone floor. There’s the faint smell of blood and spilled entrails in the air. I’m wearing a scandalously revealing outfit I’d never wear outside the bedroom, a white bodysuit with matching white high heels. And most disturbing of all, I’m holding an authentic, thousand-year-old razor-sharp Norman broadsword.
A moment later, a man wearing a medieval executioner’s uniform steps out of the darkness. Without saying a word, I hand him the sword. As he pauses to inspect its blade, I shift my stance, spreading my feet slightly apart, and bring my hands together behind my neck. Satisfied with the sharpness of the blade, he lowers the sword, its razor-sharp tip now poised mere inches from the smooth white skin of my belly.
As he stands there, holding that sword, I can see the firelight reflecting in his eyes as a smile slowly spreads across my face. I know he can see the look of eager masochistic anticipation on my face as I finally whisper, “Do me.”
The words barely passed my lips before he ran me through. The agonizing sensation of cold, sharp steel sliding effortlessly through my guts until the sword’s hilt pressed firmly against my belly. I could feel the blade twisting painfully with every slight shift of my body. Struggling to avoid falling forward over the sword, I pressed my hands against the executioner’s chest and looked up into his eyes.
The executioner smiled beneath his face concealing hood at the look of agony in Donna’s tear-filled eyes. And yet, the look on her face reveals a far different story. One of erotic masochistic bliss that even with three feet of cold steel buried within her guts, she’s deriving darkly perverted sexual enjoyment from her unbearable suffering.
Staring into the executioner’s eyes, I noticed a sudden hardening and realized my suffering was about to be taken to the next level.
Tightening his grip on the sword, the executioner brutally twisted it within Donna’s guts, her body convulsing around the blade as a delightful cry of agony escaped her lips. Over the coming minutes, every savage twist of that blade gradually ripped Donna’s insides apart, slowly changing the initial slow trickle of blood into a heart-pumped torrent as she quickly started to bleed out.
With every passing second, each shallow breath became harder than the last, my desperate cries of overwhelming agony fading to faint gasps as I steadily grew weaker. Realizing that I was close to the end, the executioner helped me onto the floor, leaving me lying on my side, the sword still buried deep within my guts, in a growing pool of blood. Lying there, I desperately wanted to thank him but found myself unable to draw my next breath, then nothing but darkness.
Every night this is the moment I always awake, with my heart racing and the sheets soaked in sweat. The fleeting moment when the slightest touch of my fingertips across my clitoris will instantly trigger an unimaginably powerful orgasm and the dozen or so that quickly follow until I finally faint.
While you can die in your dreams or nightmares nightly, sadly, it can happen only once in real life...