Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he was psychotic. It had happened before. Esmeralda. She had a beautiful name. A beautiful soul. His fingers tingled...with the memory of touching her face. Soft skin on her cheeks, the slight ridge of a scar on her forehead, pliant lips, heat from her neck. "I shouldn't have said anything," he had told her. "No, you shouldn't have," she had agreed. But he had. How could he not? Eleven years would pass before he woke again. She would be in her late forties. The. She had made up her false eyelashes well, too, though they were as foreign to her as being a real woman. she had on a good layer of foundation highlighted by blush (again, for her, items from a foreign world) and had on the shiny dark red ?Cock-suck lubricant? that My submissive bitches always wore. The perfume (a ?no no? for Marie in the past) was thick and expensive. The expensive, elaborate diamond necklace that I had stored away for this occasion (or for the 24/7 slave I’d take on after. More

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