I dream and I dream and I dream. Right now I ride in the car, and I dream of someone behind me, before me, to either side, a soft hiss of laughter in my ear because he is not really there, but intangible. He holds me and caresses me with mind alone, but it is enough that I feel what is not seen. It is not, does not need to be, foreplay: it is only the comfort and touch that I am forever craving and never receiving: a soft brush of fingers across my face, a firm hand stroking my neck and back, playing with my hair, an arm about my shoulders pulling me into his side and holding me securely, protectively, so that I can relax and do not have to sit up on my own, or two arms tugging me backwards (or forwards) to rest against his chest or back, and I lean into him. I am safe. He is already inside my mind, my thoughts, but then he always is, so that he knows me as well as I do him. He is not particularly hungry at the time, but he nibbles about my neck, and the soft pinpricks of pain feel good, too, and his claws when he traces them up my arms... And I rest, because there is not a need to do anything else right now, he is content as I am, and perhaps I sleep, but if I do he is still there, still holding me, and I do not feel alone.