The nicest part of her life are the dreams.
In them, she gets some damn variety. Delightful dalliances of domination (instead of pliant submission), gentle passionate lovemaking (instead of rough, impersonal fucking), emotional intimacy and safety and closeness and cuddles, instead of, instead of—
What her life is really like.
She doesn't really know anything besides the constant, unabating, unrelenting, merciless pleasure. The feeling of being filled in every available hole and played from peak to peak like a master plays an instrument. Over. And over. And over. And over. Her body is moved in different ways, the mechanics occasionally change, but the result is always, always the same. It's exhausting. She can't quite think, but she can sort of track time, and she thinks she's been doing this for a while. She almost, almost feels like there's nothing else, like there could be nothing else. Except when she's inevitably exhausted into slumber (while still being fucked) and is reminded that there can in fact be something else in the world. When she wakes, and it's back to this monotony of pleasure, it's always blinking tears from her eyes. No. No, please, please, put her back, she just wants... something else. Anything else. She's so bored of mind-blowing orgasms. So exhausted, trying to grasp the little shards of something else and try to desperately cling to them as she sinks back into this pleasure filled hell. So furious, that this is all she has, when there could be more!
It's not clear why she's so sure of that, that the dreams are just pathetic hints of a wider world, but she is. In a haze of shifting unreality that's all she can really hold onto. There can be something more than this. Like a prayer, or, if she's feeling very lucid and hopeful, a promise. There will be something more than this.
Eventually, there is.