You aren't sure where you are or how you got here. It's as if your life suddenly began, fully-formed, in this place with this identity.

It's a living room, that much is obvious. You sit on the couch, with the distinct impression that you're waiting for something. You smooth out your skirt and check your reflection in the TV, off, opposite you; your blouse is perfectly tailored. You look fine. You don't know what you're fretting about.

There was a hand on your shoulder.

You can feel it, the after-sensation of someone touching you, but the room is empty. This confuses you, but you eventually dismiss it, and go back to what you were doing; the kettle boils, and you take it off the burners to pour it into the mug in front of you, a sachet already waiting to infuse.

The moment you put the kettle back down, there it was again, this time the sensation of someone haivng tickled your side, between the blouse and the apron. You feel like you've been laughing for quite a while. You don't understand how you're able to feel like you have been experiencing something without experiencing it, like the history of your life is being rewritten.

You step towards the pantry and put your back against it, like it's possible you can defend yourself just by preventing anyone from sneaking up on you.

"That won't work, you know," you hear behind you in your ear, and you do a quick 180, backing up against the pantry as you look for the interloper.

Nothing. The mug is still sitting on the counter, untouched.

You aren't sure who said that or where they are, but you decide not to investigate, and turn to head up the stairs behind you.

You miscount in your head and take one step too high, leg raising awkwardly, and stumble against the chair. You look back at the den's faded carpet to see what you might have tripped over; you see your skirt lying there, and chastise yourself mentally for leaving it just lying around. You pick it up and look around for a hamper or something to put it in, and the apron brushes against your bare chest as you bend down and pick it up. 

You don't see one, and give up, sinking back into the suds and letting the heat of the water soak into your bones. This is nice, you think, just what you want, and you don't even mind this time when you feel the retroactive tingle of your scalp having been thoroughly lathered and massaged by dextrous fingers. Whoever's doing that doesn't seem to want to harm you, just play with you, and while you're still a bit wary about interacting with someone you can't see, you find the purity of the interaction refreshing, communicating only in the ghosts of touches that never were.

You reach for the soap and pick up the towel, wrapping it around you as you inspect your dripping body in the mirror. You aren't sure why you stayed in the bath so long, you're a prune, and the tub went cold long before you left it. --Wait, is that movement in the mirror? You glance to the side. No, you can't see anything now, and turn back.

"Hi," you hear, seeing a figure with a mug of tea in her hand, and flinch, and look back. The figure is gone, and you're significantly unsettled. Who was that? You walk out from the bathroom, unmodestly nude and dry, going out of the bathroom and into the bathroom to check the other rooms in the house. No, nothing there, maybe the bedroom? You turn and fall onto the bed as your limbs refuse to work properly, as a feeling of extreme comfort and safety starts to fill your mind, as strong but gentle hands pull you onto the bed, as you close them and open them and you have always been blindfolded and helplessly tied there, experiencing frustrating loss after agonizing loss as you feel the withdrawal of hands, mouths, and other body parts at the moment before orgasm, pulling you back from an edge you never reached and never reached again and never reached again and never reached again and you moan and writhe and pull at the straps.

You say my name, a reflex, and in that moment, you remember all the gaps. The way I touched you and made you forget me, the way I made you enter different rooms, walk, turn around, drop or pick up items, all without your knowledge. The way I controlled you, my puppet, and the way, in those lucid moments, you thanked me for every moment you got to be nothing more than Mine to manipulate as I saw fit.

And I say your name, and you groan, and you sigh, and you roll over, having always existed in the afterglow of release. Anonymous hands stroke your hair, a soft ghost voice whispers how proud she is in your ear, and you aren't sure where you are or how you got here, but you are sure that this is where you belong.