Helen was in the drifting place again. She went there often at night, in her dreams. Sometimes, when she was awake, she thought how strange it was that she had the exact same dream so often. She wondered what it said about her—what it was trying to tell her.
But when she was asleep, when she was drifting, she couldn’t make herself worry about that kind of thing. It was so much easier just to drift.
When she dreamed, there was no end or beginning. The dream always started in the middle. There was never an explanation for why she was drifting, nor was there any sign that it would end. It was timeless, eternal. She would drift forever. She wondered if people who fell into comas spent the remainder of their lives drifting just like this. It didn’t seem like it would be so bad, to drift forever.
She could never remember her name, or her waking life. She was blank, faceless, with no identity. Empty and waiting to be filled or taken by... something. She just had to wait until it arrived, and she would know it when she saw it.
In her dream, she was always lying in her bed, her eyes open and starting at the shadowed ceiling, as if she were really awake. But she knew she couldn’t be awake, because her mind was so foggy. Awake meant clarity, awake meant focus, awareness. She had none of these things, in the dream. They were foreign concepts to her, things she couldn’t conceive of. Things that had never existed in her own life, as far as her dream self was concerned.
She lay very still, and she waited. She waited in perfect stillness, her chest barely even moving to accommodate breathing, her mind quiet, not a thought to be found. To the extent she was capable of thought, she thought in motions and sensations, not words or ideas. She felt a lifting, a lightness, as if she were cloth being carried away on the wind, with no destination. She could just let the wind carry her where it wanted her to go.
The wind always came in her window when she focused closely on the feeling of thoughtless. The wind always looked like someone she felt like she knew, or should remember from a past life. An old friend, or a distant relative. And when the wind came in her window, and was suddenly there in the room, it told her the same things: she was thoughtless, she was empty, her will was flowing out of her like a river running to the sea, and when it finally reached its destination, the ocean water would consume and overtake it, and it would cease to exist.
The wind was beautiful, like a woman. She had dark hair and darker eyes—she belonged to the darkness of the night, and she came to sit on Helen’s bed, one with the shadows, a shadow herself. She stroked Helen’s skin, taking her words and rubbing them into her, making them dissolve and sink in through her skin, bidding them to circulate through her in place of her blood. She was drifting, she was empty, she was thoughtless... she was obedient. She liked to be thoughtless and obedient, to just drift and be taken wherever someone more powerful wanted to take her. She couldn’t wait for her will to be washed away forever, to drift all the time.
She trusted the wind. The wind was wise—it knew the earth’s great secrets; it had been in the hidden crags and concealed depths. It spoke the truth to her.
The longer she spoke the more filled with words Helen became, and they started to spill out, overflowing, pouring from her inner channel like her will washing away. The words made her ache, made her desperate to be filled, to have the emptiness left behind by her dissolving and leaking will plugged by a stopper. She could not speak, but the wind always understood this intrinsically, filling her with her fingers and coaxing more of her will to spill out onto the bed. She was voiceless but the wind had enough voice for the both of them, rich and flowing, powerful and commanding like the ocean, always dragging her down deeper. A voice she wanted to drown herself in, even if the words became harder to understand the longer they went on.
The fingers stopped being enough. Too much of her will had been carved out of her, too much had been swept away by the sea; she needed something bigger to fill the emptiness. She bucked onto the hand fucking her, begging wordlessly, with tears in her eyes, to be delivered from this aching lack. She was a vessel, needing to be filled, and the emptiness was wrong... She could not, should not be able to fill herself. She was for others to fill, and to be denied the fulfillment of her purpose was cruel.
But the woman like the wind was kind—she understood what Helen was for, how she needed to be used. She fixed herself onto a girth, and used the other end to plug Helen as she needed to be plugged. The relief of being filled always made Helen cry, and she rocked desperately back onto the woman’s assumed member, her own will flowing more quickly than ever.
The words became more rapid fire—she was a slut, she was a whore, she loved to be used for fucking by anyone who wanted her, and she was a helpless little cunt for Mistress, and she would never be able to resist. The words always hit in perfect time with the thrusts, setting her on fire and making her soul sing. They were all unbearable true, and yet they just made the fucking feel better, they made her feel more satisfied. They made her happy, so happy that she found her voice, that she chanted them in time with the wind in a stream with no end, like ocean waves coaxing against a sand shore.
Her obedience, her surrender was inevitable, but what it really was was a gift. She could never achieve perfect satisfaction until she remembered this, until she gave her Mistress some part of herself personally. She had to slowly strip more and more of herself away, had to trade more and more of it for the pleasure she so craved. The emptier she became, the more perfectly Mistress could fill her. The more perfectly Mistress filled her, the more perfectly obedient she became. And the more obedient she became, the greater pleasure she would experience. She gladly gave herself away every time.
When her dream self was ready to give in, she always remembered the trigger phrase that would let Mistress know she was ready, the phrase that could take her there, and it was the only coherent thought she could form in the dream, apart from the regurgitated phrases that spilled out of her mouth in time with the wind’s dronings. It was the only coherent thought she was capable of, because Mistress had placed it in her head, for her to remember at the right time. She was such a mindless slutdoll, such an empty vessel that she would never be able to come up with her own thoughts on her own. She could only parrot back the gifts Mistress had left her at the right time.
And everything in her told her it was the right time—her entire body was burning with pleasure that seared hotter and hotter with every new phrase her open and receptive mind took in. “Take me deeper than you’ve ever taken me before,” she said, and then the wind whispered other words to her that her mind couldn’t hold, and she achieved satisfaction, bucking and screaming in her bed like a mad woman, even as the mental haze in her mind increased, until the room was only indistinct shapes, until her mind was so wiped out and erased that she couldn’t process visual images, words, or anything else, and she herself became the warm, succulent darkness in her room, just feeling that burning warmth that went on forever and forever. Timeless. Eternal.
And then after being there for eons, it seemed, nameless, shapeless, no language, no thought, no time, and no images, then at last, she would wake to the sun shining on her face.
Each night she dreamed this dream, she sweated through the sheets. Each night she dreamed this dream, she found the bed coated in her spendings. She never lubricated so much in her waking sex life as she did when she dreamt she was becoming one with that shapeless darkness. Her first step was always to dress herself, strip her bed, and take it upstairs to her apartment building’s laundromat.
And if sometimes on the way, she happened to run into a certain dark haired neighbor in the hall who looked something like she thought the wind might if her dream became real—she ignored it.
Because it was all just a dream. And each morning when she woke up, it was a dream she hoped she could return to soon. If there was some way she could stay in the dream forever, she would gladly do it.
But such things weren’t possible. Dreams couldn’t ever become real.
And as each day wore on, her dream became a more and more distant memory. Until finally she could sleep, and return to the drifting place again.* * *