devilsfool:

Send me “Zzz” and I’ll write a drabble about a dream my muse has had about yours!

Open doors are frightening, aren’t they? Open doors are equated with permission, often for things we did not want nor desire. 

He always asked that the door be left open. “Why do you close your door against me?” There was no answer—how does one respond to that? 

It would begin with the light caress of fingers, soft and deceptive on the back. Not even under the bedclothes at that point, no, merely something anyone might do to comfort a child. 

When he reached the thighs you knew it was too late. There was no deterring, no turning back. Up comes the nightdress, and the caress, still soft, moves forward to darker territory. 

How often before it became a habit? How often before one could close the eyes and pretend it wasn’t happening?

This is the nightmare, though, isn’t it. Not the moment of culmination, no, not the moment of union or even the little death. The beginning. The deception of soft hands, calming voice, all used to soothe. 

I still have it, some nights. 

Not often, thankfully, but it never really left. 

It starts with an open door.