Billy wasn’t prepared for the dreams he experienced that night while he slept. In all of them, he was Erica.
In one particularly erotic dream, she was in bed with her husband or boyfriend. A grown man. He was thrusting inside of her.
She moaned as he filled her, the sensation deep and shivering, her legs wrapping around him, pulling him in. He kept himself steady with one hand on the headboard. The other hand cupped her breast, squeezing.
Billy woke up. It was still dark.
He was still wearing the nightgown. The dampness of his sweat made it stick to him. It was a strange, feminine feeling, different from the boyish sweat he was used to. He sat up in bed, the nightgown slipping off his shoulders. The panties still hugged him tight.
He ran his hands over the silk, over his skin, remembering the dreams. They lingered in his mind, vivid and intense.
“Did you like them?” the voice asked, creeping back into his thoughts.
“Who was that man?” Billy whispered, knowing the answer but afraid to hear it.
“Our husband,” Erica said, her voice lush and lingering, “Our lover...”
He didn’t know how to respond. He was just a boy. Just Billy. He was not a woman, not Erica. The dreams, the pleasure, they were too much, too overwhelming. A grown man, her husband, inside her. The thought made him tremble.
“But I’m not—” he whispered, the words catching in his throat.
“You don’t want to leave me,” the voice said, “You want to stay this way.”
He reached for the seam, almost tearing it away from his neck. This time he didn’t stop.
When it was off, he lay in bed, panting, the morning light filtering through the curtains. His hands were still shaking as he stuffed the mask deep into the backpack, pulling his blanket over himself.
He stuffed his mother’s night gown under the bed.
Billy knew he had to tell Fred. He couldn’t keep this to himself.
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