Introduction - Toridé

Helen drifted, half in sleep, half in wakefulness, half dreams, half darkness.

She remembered snatches of her life from before: the archive, the books, her family, her home, her first love.

She dreamed of old conversations with those she had held close, and had impressions of talking to some of them anew, confusion about their changed lives, reminiscences of old events, unfinished business.

There was nothing new in her life now. Nothing ever changed, every day the same. It could have been weeks now, or months, or longer.

How had it come to this?

Her idle curiosity was just a passing fancy, the answer did not matter. She was happy, and comfortable, as if permanently held between worlds, the pleasant lassitude as one is about to claimed by sleep, or in those few, alert, seconds after waking, when the day seems bright and new, before one's problems flow into consciousness like a breaking wave.

She had no problems now.

As she drifted on light pleasure, she had no will to move a muscle, looking forward to the next time she would be taken, looking back on the last with nostalgia.

It would start soon.

Full awareness returned to her mind, and her body, and her muscles, and she stretched, as if in wakefulness, pulling against elastic mystery which held her, but prevented any movement.

There was no thought of escape.

The familiar penetration started as a moist caress at her lips, and it began to slowly, and implacably, force its way into her. Pleasure blossomed in her body, the familiar touch of a lover becoming something else. Grateful at the return of her muscles, she pushed against it, again, and again, deeper, deeper, deeper, until the perfect position was reached, until she was perfectly filled, and it stilled, locking into place, delicate tendrils of pleasure radiating into her.

The hardness of the penetration had achieved its goal in stretching her, in opening her up to what was to follow. It liquefied within her, and so began the familiar feelings of suction, of drawing, of hunger for her essence. She knew that she could control it, that as it spread throughout her centre, nothing further would happen until she surrendered herself to it, completely, and utterly. Resistance would heighten the pleasure, prolong the experience, tease her as she was teased. The stimulation was so strong!

With a long moan, Helen let go, and felt herself gushing into the devouring pleasure. How could she cope with such strength of feeling? The drawing went on, and on, and she wrapped herself around it, embracing it, loving it, squeezing it into herself, letting it gush out again. I could die for this, she thought, and rode it out, giving it everything it wanted, letting it take everything it wanted, grateful to experience this one more time, until, finally, exhaustion claimed her again.