Manipulate the dream. Best of both worlds.

The cold, sterile air of the office clashes with the thick, spice-scented heat of the world beyond the threshold. Cherie stands at the boundary, a living bridge between two irreconcilable realities.

In the dream, Cherie’s face is a mask of tragic, beautiful resolve. She looks at the ten-foot-tall Chad, who is still lecturing the void about "Structural Integrity." She sees the stability he represents—the roof over her children's heads, the predictable path of her days, the safety of the known. She cannot, will not, let that fall.

She turns her back to the door. She faces the cold office, her eyes fixed on her husband, but her heels find the threshold of the garden.

Slowly, she begins to step backward.

As her heels sink into the golden mist, the doorway shatters and reforms. The office wall is no longer drywall and glass; it is a gargantuan, seamless mirror.

The reflection is a masterpiece of cognitive dissonance, if you do say so yourself. From the waist up, Cherie is leaning forward over a granite kitchen counter in the office-world. She is wearing her high-collared, conservative suit, her expression one of dutiful, serene focus as she prepares Chad’s coffee. In the mirror-world, Chad sees exactly what he expects: his wife, a perfect, non-threatening component of his architecture.

But from the waist down, on the other side of the glass, the suit is gone.

Beneath the mirror’s edge, she is clad in the most scandalous, midnight-black lace she owns—thigh-high stockings held up by delicate silk garters and a sheer, daring thong that leaves her completely exposed to the shadows.

The heat begins as a series of rhythmic, specific touches. She feels the heavy, calloused grip of Mike as his hands slide up the back of her thighs, his strength grounding her. Then comes the soft, inquisitive touch of Jessica, her fingers tracing the lace of the garter belt with a hunger that mirrors Cherie’s own hidden youth. She feels the sharp, professional precision of Lisa’s touch, as if she were posing Cherie for the ultimate shot. Mark's teasing touches feel less flirty and more needy. There's the neighbor Nathan she met while jogging, Jason, the Lord of the manor, the servants, the stripper Zoro, an endless cascade of friends and strangers.

Finally, she feels you.

Your essence wraps around her hips like a physical weight, your phantom fingers finding the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. The heat of all of them—the servants, the neighbors, the Master—flows through her. It is a torrent of validation, a flood of lust that fills her entire being.

Even her "office-half" begins to react. In the cold, white world, the "faithful wife" feels a flush rising to her cheeks. Her nipples harden beneath the stiff fabric of the suit. She looks at Chad, and the thrill of the deception is more intoxicating than the touch itself. The heat from the "doorway" makes the office more bearable.

He’s right there. He’s looking right at me, and he sees a housewife. He sees a foundation. He doesn't see the wolf at my legs. He doesn't see the shadow holding my waist. This is the only way to be whole. I’ll give him the image he needs to keep the world standing, and I’ll give the Master everything else.

The thought of her family standing with her in the golden mist—equally exposed, equally desired—flashes through her mind like a lightning strike before the dream begins to dissolve into the grey light of morning.