A Country Love Story

Mr. Sandman

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Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream. Six words—a prayer that was sure to send me straight to hell.

The Mirage was Chicago’s most exclusive sex club. They had rooms for every preference. Every person. Every possible fantasy. But their most forbidden fruit was Mr. Sandman, a carnal concierge.

The process was simple. A request submitted to Mr. Sandman for your deepest desire, and then you waited for him to make your dream a reality.

I’d waited almost a month for this moment—this night. But I would’ve waited longer. By day, I was one of the most sought-after lawyers in the city. The youngest and only female partner at the firm. I wore Armani like it was armor and kept myself hardened to prove I was as powerful as the patriarchy. But for one night, I didn’t want to be in control; I wanted to be controlled. I wanted to be completely consumed.

So, I wrote to Mr. Sandman. I paid his price. And waited for this one night to be free.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream. Mr. Sandman, please bring me three.
Maybe burning with them was my kind of heaven.