A Secret

My name is _________________.

You can find me in Building *, in Room *4*. I'm the girl you have to please before you meet the big boss. I smile without reservation, give directions when someone stumbles into my office by mistake, rarely yell at people, and have no qualms about saying 'yes' to lunch or a get-together after work hours. I like coffee in the mornings but prefer it iced and laced with Hazelnut.
I have tons of paperwork on my desk and in my drawers. I always dress decently when in the office and I always carry a matching bag.

I like to read when I've checked all the tasks on my MS Outlook list. Over time, I've accumulated several books which cluttered one of my many desk drawers. Amongst all the spread sheets and hidden in plain sight in the company of King, Bradley, Greggory, Herbert, Stewart, Joyce and Woolfe is a book with an innocent flower painted on its cardboard cover. It looks like any other paperback literature and, without turning the first page, no one could know that within its pages laid a cheaply tactless, strangely loud, only-in-the-closet-should-you-read-me story.

I have yet to read past the first chapter. All the mention of trembling thighs, shuddering sighs, helpless moans, nylon ropes, panties for gags, wet pussy, hard cock, vigorous-- you get the picture. Each word tells me to look around, to make sure that I am not being watched, to check one last time that no one knows of the filthy things that make me bite my lip and color my cheeks a guilty red. I shouldn't ever be allowed to think these thoughts outside the safety of my bedroom.

And, oh god, it doesn't help that the prologue of my secret literature talks about masturbating to the office's surveillance camera.

Terror

I'm easy to panic, easy to scare. I guess it's expected. Inevitable, even.

Let's face it. Sometimes, my fantasies skim the borders of illegal acts. Rape, coercion.. Fear is part of the aphrodisiac, sure. That admission is easy when all I am really referring to is imagined fear and nothing more tangible than that. In fact, anything more corporeal, touchable, will probably trigger a complete shut down. Panic-stricken, I will most likely cry or run or.. I don't know. Who knows? Maybe even roleplaying will prove to be too much.

I am terrified of the countless moments when my dreams suddenly turn from erotic to nightmarish. Then I condemn my dark desires and resolve to never think of them again. To never write of them or speak of them to anyone, lest I wander into situations I will one day regret.

Tonight, I had one of those nightmares again, and I am scared. Afraid to close my eyes, to fall asleep. Appalled that, this time, I dreamt of someone I care deeply for. I'm ashamed of the dream-memory of that beloved face twisted with sadistic insanity. I feel disturbed. I said his name aloud. The sound woke me. Nothing but a whisper, though in my dream, I was screaming it at the top of my lungs, trying to stop something that, even now, I realize could not have been real.

God dammit, I can't rationalize it enough that it would feel less threatening. It was just a dream. Just a silly dream.