Restless sleep

The three mind-blowing orgasms I experienced today have finally caught up to me. I only have the energy to slip on a pair of panties and an oversized T-shirt before falling into bed, snuggling under the covers, and drifting off to sleep.

Most nights, I don't dream--or at least, I can't recall whatever dreams I might've had. Mid-afternoon naps, however, are different. They always involve vivid dreams, and this time is no exception. I can't see, but I can feel--hands of steel grabbing my arms and legs, spreading them apart, leaving me trapped. Something soft--yet solid--covers my face, suffocating me. I struggle and squirm, attempting to escape, but the hands hold me even tighter. By their unyielding grip, they feel capable of tearing my limbs from their sockets if desired. I open my mouth to scream, and liquid flows in, a steady bitter stream pouring down my throat. I still can't breathe. No matter what I try, I can't breathe...

I wake with a panicked yell. Somehow, one of my heavy pillows had slipped over my face, causing the sensation of suffocation. I throw it across the room and take in several heaving breaths.

A tentative knock comes at my bedroom door. "Lilah?" says Amber. "You okay? I heard you scream."

"Yeah," I gulp. Checking my phone, I see several hours have passed. It's now evening, and the sunshine coming through the window is much fainter than before. Struggling to my feet, I open the door to see Amber standing there, phone in her hand.

"Is this the news you were talking about?" she asks. She holds up her phone for me. It's playing a video. The sound is turned low, but I can make out snatches of reporting from a newsreader: "...small-caliber arms...no effect...National Guard...restore order...residents advised...until all-clear..." I see streets jam-packed with abandoned cars, windows broken. Naked and half-dressed figures run about in a panic. The news report blurs a number of the scenes they are showing, but it isn't hard to deduce that they are censoring images of people fucking--or being fucked--in the middle of all the chaos.

"They said a bunch of experimental pleasure models escaped from the Bureau of Sexual Services and have spread out across the city, attacking everyone they see," says Amber.

"Fuck me," I say. "Yeah, this is it. I thought it would all be sorted by now, though." I walk into the living room, where Tracey, Robbie, Derek, Cassidy, and the other girl and boy are still hanging out, talking to each other worriedly.

"They said we should shelter in place," says Derek, "but I can't stay here forever. Martin isn't picking up. If I can't get through to him...well, I have to go home and see if he's alright."

"I mean, we're pretty far away from the epicenter," says the girl whose name I don't know. "Maybe it's fine to leave, regardless?"

As if in mockery of her words, the sound of splintering wood and a shrill scream can be heard through the closed apartment door, from somewhere down the hall.

"Fuck!" Tracey swears. Her eyes swivel to me. "Is it them? You saw them, right? What should we do?"