She dreamt of chocolate; she dreamt she was chocolate, wrapped in alternating layers of silver and gold foil till she could no longer move a muscle. The man wrapping her pierced each successive layer at her mouth with his finger so that she could breathe, but otherwise she was entirely contained. All she felt was a twitching inside of herself. But that was a physical tic; her mind was at peace, wrapped tight as she was – she had been absolved of all responsibility. The only thing to do was to wait, drifting on currents of aimless thought and a growing ache. She was waiting for the man to break her, to snap the brittle parts of her body with the foil still on; slowly to unwrap the pieces of her, putting each in his mouth, feeling her dissolve upon his tongue. From being tightly wrapped, rigid, she would be made molten, and hers would be a liquidity that he might mould in any way he chose. She wanted only to be the shape he desired her to be. While wrapped in silver and gold, while melting about him, she gave up her right to self-determination. And yet in those endless moments, he was the more subservient – not so much to the greediness of his own desire, but to the fulfilment over and over again of this urgent need of hers, which could only be sated by the cyclical sequence of stilling, breaking, eating, and remoulding. She was couverture, she was Callebaut. She was ganache, she was fondant. She was salted caramel.
Lucky then that the man of her dreams was a chocoholic.