Dark room, (movies?) Warm, drowsing. He is not supposed to touch me and never has before but now he does, arm chest belly. I am trying to tell him to stop. He is not supposed to be doing this. Sluggish alarm seeps through me but I cannot leap up and I cannot shout, at most I manage to murmur Stop.

If he would be asked for testimony later, he could truthfully say that I did not protest. Still this does not spur me into motion. Slip under the waistband of my skirt, wander to my hips. I am thinking I could fall asleep. Fingers are light, nimble mere tapping, like he has been waiting to catch me off guard for months.

This weakness, you understand, is not half-hearted horror. It is something else. Fatalistic. Like I knew it was coming and I encouraged it and now I get what I deserve. I don't even have to hear the words as he'd say them, I know them myself. Indeed, he could even be proud of his slow steady seduction, encouraged by my misleading tolerance.

From inside dream I finally push his hand away feebly and discover it to be my own, (woken), splayed across my midsection.