The Devil Of My Dreams

Wild Imaginations

I didn't hear back from Mr. Ashford until the day of his lecture. Every hour leading up to it felt like torture. A dozen times, I almost wrote to him again, desperate to explain, to apologize, to take back the email I never meant to send. God, what had I been thinking? Or not thinking. The words I'd typed still burned in my memory, every raw line, every shameful detail. It wasn't an assignment. It was a confession, one he was never supposed to read.

Nights had been the worst. Sleep came with dreams that only tangled me deeper in the mess, but staying awake meant staring at the ceiling, replaying the mortifying moment I hit "send." Sometimes I'd jolt up in the dark and check my inbox, my stomach lurching with both hope and dread. Nothing. No reply. Not even a single word.

Even on campus, I couldn't escape it. Walking the halls, I caught myself glancing over my shoulder, bracing for his figure to appear. I'd scan the lecture building from a distance just to make sure he wasn't around before I stepped inside. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, I never saw him.

But his silence was worse than any confrontation. If he had yelled at me, scolded me, or even mocked me, it would have been easier. Instead, I was left to imagine what he thought of me every second of the day. And with every dream that pulled me back into his hands, into his voice, my shame twisted with something else I couldn't bear to name.

Finally, the day I had been dreading came. Peter messaged me, asking if I had submitted the assignment to Mr. Ashford, and with a heavy heart, I replied, "Yes." He said he would see me in class. I didn't reply. The thought of showing up had been tearing me apart since last night. I almost decided not to go at all. I had already missed his first lecture, and if I skipped again, I was sure he would throw me out of his class for good.

And maybe, I told myself, it was better this way. Better to face him in person than let his silence keep haunting me through screens and dreams. One way or another, I would have to stand in front of him outside of my dreams. So today, it had to be.

I arrived almost half an hour early, slipping into the empty lecture hall. The silence pressed down on me, heavy, echoing. Every creak of the floor made me think of him walking in. My hands shook as I held my bag close, trying not to imagine what it would feel like when his eyes finally found mine.

I chose a seat in the middle of the lecture hall, hoping to blend in with the rest of the students and escape notice. As the room slowly filled, I kept my head down and my eyes closed, replaying the dream I had last night. The chatter and movement around me blurred, drowned out by the sharp clarity of those images.

His hands were there again, unyielding, locking my wrists above my head like I belonged beneath him. His grip bit into my skin, not cruel, but claiming, reminding me I wasn't going anywhere. His breath dragged hot and heavy over the curve of my neck, each exhale a tease that made my pulse race faster, harder, until I swore my body wasn't even mine anymore.

The low rasp of his voice slid into my ear, dark and rough, a sound that sank straight down my spine. His chest pressed against mine, solid and immovable, the weight of him pinning me open, helpless. I could almost feel the heat of his mouth ghosting over my throat, the phantom scrape of teeth he hadn't yet used but that I craved all the same.

My heartbeat hammered wildly, betraying me, thrashing like it was trying to break free from my ribcage. Every nerve burned with anticipation, every breath caught between fear and hunger. I wasn't just pinned. I was undone, spread bare beneath a body that felt too real, too close, too much... and I wanted more.

The dreams were starting to scare me. They felt too real, too consuming, and no matter how much I tried to shake them off, they clung to me. Maybe it was because I had been thinking too much about Mr. Ashford ever since I sent him that humiliating assignment, but each night they grew stronger, darker, harder to ignore.

I was yanked out of the dream by a sharp, echoing thud. I gasped, the sound slipping out too loudly, and suddenly every head turned toward me. My pulse hammered as I blinked, trying to orient myself, but the silence in the room told me enough. I had fallen asleep in class.

At the front of the room stood Mr. Ashford. His tall frame towered behind the podium, shoulders squared, his books still trembling from the force with which he had slammed them down. He wasn't smirking. He wasn't amused. His brown eyes locked on me, hard and unflinching, carved into a scowl so sharp it rooted me to my seat.

The weight of that gaze was suffocating. It pressed down on me until I felt small, pinned, as though the entire lecture hall had disappeared and there was only him and me. His stare didn't just catch me, it held me, stripped me bare, left me raw. I couldn't breathe right. I couldn't look away.

My thighs pressed together beneath the desk, almost instinctively, as if my body were reacting on its own. Heat crawled across my skin, a slow, traitorous burn that made my chest rise and fall too fast. The memory of his hands from my dream, the way he tied me down, the way he claimed every inch of me, flooded back with dangerous clarity. And now those same eyes were here in reality, scowling at me like he knew. Like he had been there.

I dropped my gaze, but it didn't matter. His presence filled every corner of me, like he had already decided I was his prey.

I waited for him to call me out, but he never did. He moved through the lecture with the same precise, controlled voice, as if I had vanished from the room. For the rest of the hour, he ignored me like I was air.

Strangely, that bothered me more than being singled out would have. I had been trying to avoid him ever since I realized that the devil of my dreams had a face, so his silence should have felt like a relief. Instead, it left a hollow ache... something between disappointment and a guilty, aching want. I realized that the dreams were bleeding into my days, shaping how I felt about things I used to take for granted. I did not want that to happen. I did not want my nights to steal my life.

It was impossible to focus on anything he said when the man who invaded my dreams was right there in front of me, commanding the room with every word. Mr. Ashford looked sinfully good, grey trousers that clung to his thighs, a black button-up that strained faintly across his chest, sleeves rolled to reveal strong, veined forearms. He didn't belong at a podium. He belonged to me.

I shifted in my seat, restless, the pressure between my legs unbearable. My thighs pressed tight together, but it wasn't enough. Every time I let myself glance at him, my body betrayed me, pulsing, wet, aching for something I shouldn't even be thinking about. I imagined his hands dragging me up from my chair, pinning me against the desk. His mouth crushing mine. His hips were grinding into me until I begged for more. The thought made me clench around nothing, my breath shallow and uneven.

I tried to shake it, but the more I resisted, the filthier it got. I pictured him pushing me down to my knees, undoing his belt. His eyes locked on me as he shoved himself into my mouth, daring me to gag, to take him deeper. He pulled me to my feet again, spun me around, pushed me down until I was bending over the desk, and then I imagined him f*****g me, so hard... so raw, almost mercilessly. The image sent a violent shiver down my spine, and I nearly whimpered out loud.

And then, his eyes cut to mine. Dark, sharp, lingering. Not a casual glance, but deliberate, as if he knew exactly what I was doing in my head. Heat flooded me, crawling up my neck, making me squirm in my seat. I prayed he couldn't see the flush in my cheeks or the slick between my thighs. If he knew what I was imagining, what I wanted him to do to me, I'd never survive the weight of that shame.

And just like that, the lecture was over. I didn't know where the time had gone. My notebook was practically empty, my pen useless in my hand. I hadn't been listening... I couldn't. My mind had been drowning in filth, every thought about him. By the end, I was in a sheen of cold sweat, my breath shallow, my n*****s stiff under my shirt, and the heat between my legs unbearable.

It was too much. This wasn't normal. I couldn't go on like this. Maybe it was time to start dating again, to let someone touch me, f**k me, take the edge off before I lost my mind. If I didn't, I was terrified I'd end up doing something reckless, something that would bury me in shame. I swore to myself I'd make a dating profile tonight. Maybe if I gave in to someone else, I could exorcise these thoughts of him. Maybe then the dreams would stop.

"…We will continue with the critical element of reading in the next class," his deep voice cut through my spiral, yanking me back to reality. "Bring an excerpt from your favorite novel. We will evaluate it together." A few scattered voices muttered agreement as students packed up their things. I shoved my laptop and journal into my bag, eager to escape, when I froze at the sound of my name.

"Miss Rowe."

The air left my lungs. My head snapped up. He was staring straight at me, his expression carved in stone. "See me in my office after your classes end." He said, firm, final, before gathering his books and striding out of the lecture hall.