“To sleep, perchance to dream…” William Shakespeare
I drift through my days, invisible to all I pass. I am your average, non-descript feminine blob who is rarely, if ever, noticed. Do not pity me for it’s as it should be, as I’ve designed it to be. My choice, cherubs, an illusion that I’ve spent years perfecting. Those whose glance rests on me momentarily see only a pleasant smile, a vacant look, a slight nod of the head before eyes are dropped coyly, nothing memorable. Nothing to be concerned with. Nothing to dwell upon.
Ah but looks deceive and smiles hide so much. Dearlings, beware of what you think you know. Late at night, when you’re tucked all cozy and warm beneath the covers, snug as you sleep, I will visit your dreams. You see, once I’ve touched you with my gaze you are marked and I can find you any time I wish.
And find you I will, my pets, of that you can be sure. Some will be spared, my presence the soft, fleeting touch of gossamer wings, there but not. Those lucky few will wake with a sigh, a feeling of great relief settling over their souls as if they’ve been spared from some huge life-altering event.
Others I will trap, thrashing about in their beds as I blast their minds full of the unmentionable horrors already hidden deep within their psyches just waiting for me to come along and draw them up, out to the forefront of their paralyzed minds. The things that they never dare whisper even a hint of once they wake for fear of jinxing themselves and having all they’ve witnessed come true. With them as the victims. Ah yes, those are such fun to toy with, so much so that I often return for repeat performances until they are left too frightened to turn off the light, let alone close their eyes.
And then, then there are my favorites. The ones I appear to, rousing them from their innocent slumber to slake my desires. I am the incubus, the succubus whose need is unquenchable. Gender matters not in my choosing. My perverted little lovelies, you may think you hunger for the passion I possess, the pleasures I provide but oh how wrong you are. When I am through, and I am never truly through, I leave a trail of slack-jawed, drooling raw harshness, the likes of which you do not want to imagine. No, banish all thoughts of attempting to cross my path from your minds for you would never survive my particular brand of lustfulness.
Oops, it’s dark and I see that my old friend, Sandman, is already hard at work so I must be off. What’s that you ask? How do I decide who falls into which category? Ah, sorry. That secret I won’t divulge. I’ve told you more than enough already, warning you to think twice before dismissing anyone as inconsequential.
Dormez bien, mes enfants.