I chuckle as he leads her down the hall where I know he'll tuck her into bed with her sister. I turn away and walk out the door.
*****
I visit Rochelle at school; she is dreaming of a time when we were younger, in our final year of high school. We'd known of each other then, of course, our school wasn't very big, both in physical size and population. It wasn't until university though, that we really hit it off and of course, by then we'd lamented the fact that we were both too stuck up our own asses to really take notice of how well we would have gotten along back then. Oh well, I'd told her, better late than never.
Rochelle is someone who is so absolutely decent that I was actually suspicious of her as I got to know her. From my experiences, I'd discovered that people were rarely who they seemed to be. Naturally, with this somewhat bleak assessment of human beings colouring my attitude towards them, I kept my distance from Roch at first, reluctant to share any vulnerable part of myself with someone who seemed too perfect to actually exist. Months passed into our budding friendship and Rochelle's charm chipped away at my reservations until I couldn't help but trust her completely. Virtuous without being preachy, hard-working but fun, and intelligent but quirky, Rochelle has been one of my best friends for two years now and I love her like a sister.
It doesn't take much to convince her to attend my wedding. We sit together on a bench, wearing the maroon jumpers, powder blue shirts and navy skirts of our school uniform. We lean into each other and tears stream down her face.
"I miss you," she says quietly, linking my arm in hers.
"Me too, sweetheart," I reply, "Don't cry; you'll see me tomorrow."
She nods her head, okay, and I envelop her tiny body in a deep hug, face buried in her long, wavy black tresses, before rising and stepping forward. I visualise Bailey next and am faced with large, white double doors, which I recognise as the entrance to her parents' house. Taking a deep breath, I open a door and walk through.
Bailey is sitting cross-legged on the family room floor, bucket of kettle corn in her lap, re-watching Ocean's Eleven. A younger version of me sits on the couch she leans against, looking content to be in the company of her oldest friend.
I met Bailey when we were ten. I'd just arrived from South Africa and was attending middle school in an unfamiliar country. Fresh off the plane, my skin was very dark and my accent very pronounced. I stuck out like a sore thumb, unfamiliar with the local culture and unpopular due to my lack of confidence. Having come from a community back home where you got mercilessly teased for being overweight, I had developed somewhat of a low self-esteem. I was afraid to talk to people, feeling unworthy of them because of my size and colour. The other brown skinned girl in my class was of course, Bailey.
Upon finding out that she was also born in South Africa, I latched onto the one thing we both had in common with the hope that we would become fast friends. I was soon to find out though, that unlike Rochelle, Bailey wasn't all that perfect. Petty at times, she held grudges and was far too opinionated for her own good. She thought she was better than me at first, incensed that I'd even suggested we were anything alike. The more I tried to cling to her, the more she grew to dislike me until finally, by some miracle I realised that I deserved better than an unwilling companion.
As I withdrew, Bailey was able to see me for who I was and I was able to construct my own identity, fragile though it was. Before, in South Africa, I had been held up on the social ladder by my siblings, who were always far more popular than I was. I'd been convinced that my size was the reason; and how could I not be? Children were cruel and adults unintentionally harsh about my weight. I'd grown up believing that I was too fat to be desirable in any way and was pleasantly surprised when popularity found me in my first year at high school. Bailey and I had been friends ever since.
She definitely wasn't perfect and I loved her for it. And while we'd had a rocky start to our friendship, I now had no doubt that she would do anything for me and I, her.
"Bee," I call, trying to snap her attention away from her dream television.
"Hmm?" She answers, still totally absorbed by a movie that she's seen at least half a dozen times before.
"Bee, it's me."
She turns to look at me and I watch her face crack with pain. Wordlessly, she hugs me and I feel sobs rack her body.
"Shh," I soothe, stroking her beautiful, wavy hair.
"It's not fair," she whimpers, "How could you be gone? How could anyone hurt
you
. You don't deserve that; you're the loveliest person I know."
"It's okay," I whisper, "I'm still here."
And I tell her exactly when she'll have a chance to see me again.
******
With my job done, Bailey's house melts away and is replaced with a forest. I'm surrounded by vegetation; colossal trees with sprawling roots and wide canopies. I'm in the gardens again; its tranquillity cradling me even in this dreamscape. Asmodeus appears here as he did in the waking world, cloaked in Ash's pale skin, golden hair and icy eyes.
I find myself emotionally drained after my interactions with my friends and my father. I want only to be held by my husband-to-be; to be comforted in my decision to stay with him and to borrow some of his boundless energy. His touch does exactly this, sending a spark through me so fast that I twitch violently. I exhale slowly, releasing the sudden tension that has built in my shoulders.
He looks at me, glacial eyes glinting, and tilts his head slightly. I launch at him, flinging my arms around his neck and using his unshakable frame to pull myself up. Our mouths collide hungrily, teeth bumping behind lips as we meld together. The kiss softens slightly as I part my lips, letting his tongue slip past them and massage mine. The sound of our lips gently smacking and our panting breaths has me aching for more.
Our lips stay locked so completely and for so long that when we finally part, I am delirious from the heat of it. I pull myself close to him and run my fingers along the hard line of his jaw. The feel of him, the sound of his breathing and the smell of his musk is so absolutely arousing that I want to feast on the taste of him too, just so that I can experience him through every sense. I bury my nose within the crook of his neck and inhale his intoxicating scent before grazing my teeth against it, gently nipping at his skin.
He begins ripping off my imaginary clothing and even in his dreamscape, the resistance of the material feels deliciously rough against my skin. He is bare before me already and the heat of his skin scalds mine. His length rises up between us and I grab it without thinking. It's as if it is an organism all on its own, growing longer and harder than I thought possible. I squeeze it hard and shudder at the thought of such resistance pushing into me.
I reach lower still, gently cupping the unbelievably soft skin of his loins and stroking the wiry blond hair with my fingertips. They move within my hand, shifting and contracting as the attached appendage grows greater still. Imagining him buried deep within me has me writhing with pleasure. My irrepressible desire compels me to behave like a wild woman. I squeeze him again and graze his chest with my teeth.
I'm moaning softly now, grinding my body against his. My mouth still works at his chest, capturing a rock hard nipple between my lips and running my tongue over it. My hands rake down his back until one reaches his ass. I slap it hard, the force of it stinging my hand. Asmodeus growls his assent and explores my body with his own hands. He reaches up and grabs a fistful of my ample left breast and massages it forcefully before pinching at my nipple.
I hiss at the pain which turns to shuddering pleasure a second later, and grab his balls. I want him to feel what I feel; the exquisite balance between euphoria and suffering. To me, pleasure can only truly be felt immediately following pain. The release from it feels like a miniature orgasm and I test this paradox on my lover. He grunts when I squeeze him harder still and I feel a rush from the knowledge that even my powerful demon King is as vulnerable with his Crown Jewels as any other man. I hold tight a second longer before I release him and use my other hand to massage his magnificent member. He groans, releasing the tension which had held his frame rigid and rocking his hips in time with my hand movements.
I sink to my knees and lick his belly while I stroke him; my own tightening with pleasure at his response to my touch. He groans a sound so beautiful that I never want it to end. I work him harder and faster, feeling his skin slide smoothly over the hot and unbelievably stiff meat of his tool. Suddenly, I want to do something I've never even considered doing before. I trail my kisses lower still, past his navel and into the hard plains of his pubic bone. Course, curly hair tickles my lips as my mouth ventures further south. The fingers of my right hand alternate between tickling his balls and massaging a hard lump just below them, while my left hand remains wrapped around his shaft.
Soon, my mouth is hovering against the swollen pink head of his dick, my warm breath washing over it. I dart my tongue out and lick the tip, marvelling at the incredibly smooth and slick surface. His member twitches in response but Ash reaches down and starts to pull me back up.
"No," I gasp, "Let me please you, my love. I want to taste you."
He is quick to oblige, no doubt more willing to experiment in this dream word rather than the real one. Excited, I take his length into my grasp, kneading it firmly as I work myself up to putting him in my mouth. Feeling his skin slide over his hardness is arousing beyond measure as I pump him with one fist and tickle him a little lower with the fingers of my other hand. I loom over the mushroom shaped head of his tool, massaging a milky droplet out of the tip. As soon as I do so, I have the irrepressible urge to taste this drop.
I lean over and dip my head lower still, sliding my tongue over the smooth head. He feels even silkier in my mouth than he did in my hands and I moan over a mouthful of him. He shudders in response, his fingers clenching in the tangles of my hair. My mouth is stretched to its limit as I continue to lick him, circling him with my tongue while sucking him passionately. He twitches in my mouth and the thought that I am providing him with such pleasure has me ecstatic.