The Devil Of My Dreams

Sent... To Julian Ashford!

I twirled the pen between my fingers, chewing on my lower lip as I stared down at the half-finished write-up meant for Mr. Ashford. Peter had forwarded me the assignment, and though every instinct told me to avoid it, I forced myself to type. Sending it by email was the only option because I couldn't bring myself to face him in person. I wasn't going to pretend he didn't terrify me. The fact that Julian Ashford had appeared in my dreams long before I ever met him in reality was something I still couldn't wrap my head around. It sounded like the plot of some overdone novel, yet it was my life. He had existed in the shadows of my subconscious before stepping into the light of my waking world, and if that isn't enough to unsettle a sane person, I don't know what is.

I let out a heavy sigh and reread the words on my screen. Dissatisfaction knotted in my chest. The assignment seemed simple enough: in 250 words, connect one idea from the reading to your own experience, and then explain how it changes or challenges your understanding of the text. I had started with Wuthering Heights, one of the most famous novels, but now that I looked at what I had written, it felt hollow, as if I didn't truly mean it.

My eyes drifted toward the bookshelf. There, tucked neatly in its place, was a novel I had read years ago: The Awakening by Kate Chopin. I chewed on my lip, hesitated for a moment, then pushed myself up and crossed the room. Pulling the book free, I settled down and began to read.

The hours slipped away without me noticing. By the time I closed the back cover, it was nearly three in the morning. The assignment still sat unfinished, yet the story had pulled me in so completely that time ceased to exist.

Resolved, I deleted the half-hearted words I had written earlier. This time, I would start fresh, basing my response on Chopin's The Awakening. Instead of drafting in Word, I opened my email directly. The subject line was already filled in with the book's title, and Mr. Ashford's email address was typed in at the top.

Exhaustion tugged at me, my eyes burning with fatigue. I told myself I would only write the draft tonight, save it, and review it with a clearer mind before sending it tomorrow.

In The Awakening by Kate Chopin, what hit me was the way Edna starts feeling things she didn't even know were there. Like they sneak up on her, all at once, and she doesn't know what to do with them. It's not neat or calm. Sometimes it feels good, almost too good, and other times it's heavy and scary, like it's pressing down on her chest. She can't stop it, even if she wants to.

And I don't know, that feels real. Because desire doesn't wait for the right time, it doesn't ask if you're ready. It just shows up and runs through your whole body until you can't ignore it anymore. It can make you restless, like your skin is buzzing, like you're aching for something you can't even name. Part of you fights it, but another part doesn't want to fight at all. Sometimes you even want more of it, even when you know you shouldn't.

When I first read the book, I thought it was just about Edna wanting freedom from her marriage, from society, but now it feels different. It feels like Chopin was also writing about that rush, that hunger, that thing that makes you lose control. It changes how you see yourself. It makes you blush even when you're just sitting still.

That's why it stays with me. Because sometimes those feelings come, and they're not clean or safe, but they take over anyway. And sometimes… You don't really want them to stop.

I wrote it all in one go. I didn't even stop to think, didn't reread, didn't fix a word. My fingers just moved, spilling whatever was in my head, and the whole time, I couldn't stop thinking about my dreams. About him. About the devil I'd been seeing in my sleep and the fact that he's real. Julian Ashford.

I had to keep shaking my head, forcing the images away, but they kept coming back. I was tied to the bed, legs stretched open, helpless. I was strapped to a chair, ankles bound to the legs so I couldn't move. I bent over, gasping as his hand came down hard, punishing, making my skin burn. I bit down on my lip so hard I almost tasted blood, but it didn't stop the tingling low in my stomach. It was wrong, it was insane, but it was there, crawling through me while I typed.

By the time I stopped, my body felt like it had betrayed me. My assignment didn't even feel like an assignment anymore. It read like a confession. Like my own secret journal spilled out on the screen. Too raw, too messy, too s****l to ever send to anyone, let alone my professor.

I reread the words, heat rising in my cheeks. "What the f**k did you just write, Lily?" I muttered, laughing breathlessly at myself. Why did I even pick this book? Why did I let myself go there? I knew I had to delete it. Redo it tomorrow, clean and polished.

What the f**k is wrong with me? Why are my dreams doing this to me, twisting everything until I can't tell what's real anymore? This isn't normal. It's sick. It's too much. And yet… I can't stop. Even now, staring at the glowing screen, my chest feels tight because I know every word I typed had him hidden inside it. My professor. Julian Ashford.

I should feel disgusted, ashamed, and horrified. But instead, I'm hot all over, my skin prickling like the memory of his hands is still on me. The way he ties me down in my dreams, the sharp sting of his palm when he punishes me, the way his voice curls in my ear when he whispers things I'm too scared to admit I want… it all rushes back, so vivid that my thighs press together without me even realizing it.

And I wrote that. I actually wrote that into a f*****g class assignment, as if Chopin's words were just an excuse to confess my own fantasies. What kind of student does that? What kind of girl thinks about her professor bending her over instead of writing about literature?

My stomach twists as I bite down on my lip, the taste of blood sharp on my tongue, trying to ground myself. But it doesn't work. Because every time I close my eyes, I see him, his eyes on me, his hands on me. And the worst part? I don't want it to stop.

But I was exhausted. My brain... foggy, my body... still buzzing. I meant to hit delete. I swear I did. But instead, I watched in horror as the little bar slid across the screen, and the email was gone.

Sent.

"To: Julian Ashford."

I gasped, clutching my mouth. "No… no, no, no!"