The painter

Nightmares won't leave her alone—ripping her up day and night like a jealous ex. Every dream nails the same sick urge: slice those wrists open and use the blood like fresh oil. Now the nightmare drags its sick ass out of her skull. Shadows peel off the walls, solid as muscle, grabbing her hard, pinning her down, their cocks already hard and ready to remind her whose painting this is. Real or just her dirty mind breaking loose? Fuck if it matters when her demons shove her thighs apart and sink in like they own her soul.