NOTE: I especially want to thank takemeawaymylove for all her hard work and due diligence in helping this short story come to fruition. Writing is hard work, editing doubly so. I know first hand what it feels like to work under pressure in that environment. "C" deserves every bit of credit for midwifing this tale through the past few weeks. Any writer worth their salt would do well to consult this wonderful human being.
Azure eyes glaze over the center aisle of the convenience store, whispered voices carrying along with the footsteps of their owners. They navigate around the waifish teen blocking their way, angsty words muttered under coffee-stained breaths. Phrases like 'bitch' and 'idiot' drop casually out of the patrons' mouths as they glance over their shoulders, taking stock of the latest exhibit of the Millennial generation.
A noise snaps Charlotte out of her reverie as she slings the tote over her shoulder. She blushes profusely, kicking herself for daydreaming yet again in the University Place mini mart. The young woman behind the counter laughs it off, as if that makes the embarrassment any less painful. Charlotte huffs as she walks towards her car, wondering if the August heat had turned her brain into mush.
The transition to college should have been exhilarating. But ever since she stepped foot on the quad, her above average IQ seems to have evaporated. It isn't just the cute boys walking along the promenade, or the stress of trying to fit in on a campus three thousand miles from home. Something else seems to be pulling Charlotte along. It lurks in the corners of her mind, a puppet master making her go through the motions day to day, as if she were performing a play that someone else wrote.
The door slams behind her as she steps into the apartment. As soon as Charlotte is able, she collapses onto her bed, the hemp tote thumping inelegantly on the ground. She closes her eyes, hoping there would be no further distractions, at least until the girls, come home. Wisps of chestnut hair caress her face as she clutches the vial around her neck, thinking of the beautiful flower she lost way too soon.
Cameron Lee Strong was a sun-kissed angel, a blond haired, blue eyed good ol' boy who loved Jesus, NASCAR and canoodling, though not in that particular order. They'd only gone out a few times when he drowned in a lake in Smithfield after a party with friends. Even though they only made it to second base, she still thought of him as The One. She fantasized about marrying him sometime after college, though Charlotte was unclear when that was.
He was 19 years old. She reacted to the news with the same legendary stoicism that carried her military family through the years. She hauled herself through the receiving line as guests from all over piled to pay their respects. With the same detached look her grandparents and great-grandparents bore, she greeted the greeters with a matter of fact glance that made her seem strong.
She kept the ashes as a reminder of his existence. Even as the necklace dangled around her neck, it made her feel close to Cameron, as if there were a physical connection between them that transcended time and space. At times, she thought she could feel his presence--a hand on her shoulder, a kiss on the neck--but she always chalked it up to her overactive imagination.
The moment she stepped on board the 757 bound for Seattle a few weeks later, she didn't even question throwing herself headlong into college so soon. She welcomed the challenge of juggling a part-time barista and college student. Her grades slipped as she struggled to make ends meet. It's only nerves, Charlotte thought, but a part of her wasn't so sure.
At least there were roommates. Living with three other women in an apartment near Gilman Park wasn't easy. Britt, Tegan, and Tali could be a handful, but every so often Charlotte would crack up whenever one of them said something funny and forget about her own baggage for a while, but the levity was always short lived. Charlotte wondered what it was that was holding her back, that made her so benumbed and aestheticized that she couldn't enjoy a sliver of gaiety without feeling guilty about it...
The front door slams as feminine voices echo throughout the residence. Charlotte,rolls on her side and pretends not to notice, fading into a world of her own imagination...
###
She could feel him on top of her. The fingers squeezing and squashing, elongated digits grasping at her supple skin as she lay prone on the bed.
But she was unafraid. A jolt of electricity shot through Charlotte as calloused fingers twisted her nipples. She gasped.
"Oh Cameron," Charlotte moaned, "I'm glad you're alive. It's been so long since you've been gone."
She couldn't see his face, of course. His body remained swaddled in darkness, but she she could just make out the taut outlines of his frame. A thin halo of white shimmered in the gloom as she pulled him towards her. There was something gauzy about the texture of his skin. It reminded her of satin or silk, a thin, almost velveteen sensation that contrasted with everything she knew about human anatomy.
She continued to tell herself that it was Cameron. But he didn't feel like him at all--he was different, more airy, ephemeral perhaps. Even as the figure loomed over her, his presence was more disarming than anything else. She could tell he meant no harm, but who he was--and what he wanted from her-- remained elusive.
He wasn't even human, for crying out loud.
She cradled his torso, running her fingers over the indentation on his right side. It had to be him, she reassured herself. It had to be Cameron. The scar told her as much. She took him in as he suckled her breasts, cradling his head as she considered the stranger in her midst.
It was strange how he looked like Cameron, smelled like him, but otherwise resembled him not at all. There was something familiar in his touch, but none of it made sense. She entertained the idea of a being more powerful than herself at work, but that seemed ludicrous.
Her boyfriend was dead, and he was never coming back.
The figure lowered himself, kissing her stomach and belly button. Charlotte giggled as his tongue flicked over her midriff. She laughed nervously as he lingered, wondering where this was going. Secretly, she was aroused--more than she would ever let on.
He spread her legs.
"My roommates are sleeping next door," she protested, "What if they hear us?"
The figure didn't seem to mind. Charlotte gasped as he probed her, his lengthy digits tracing the folds of her sex. A ripple of pleasure shot through her. Her lover's ministrations only heightened her desire to have him inside her.
She jolted as he thumbed her clit, eliciting yet another wave of pleasure. She could get used to this. But what she really wanted was his seed--filling her, sating her, the come running down her thighs in a giant stream of sticky filth. The fingerfucking felt like a poor substitute. Beautiful, ecstatic, but a substitute all the same.
When he finally mounted her it was like a rocket engorged in her own body. He pounded her, each thrust going deeper, deeper, deeper as she cupped his ass. Yet her hymen remained unbroken. The blood should've trickled down her legs, but there was nothing. Just the warmth of his body against hers.
The thought was quickly banished from her mind as a new sensation grew inside her. It built up gradually. Her breathing became heavier, more pronounced. Her voice was a high pitched whine as she begged for him to let her come. Each second without release felt like a cruel form of torture.
When the dam finally broke, it was as though a tsunami rushed through her in a giant wave of repressed longing.
"Oh God!" she cried.
She reached out for him. But the figure was gone. Charlotte whimpered--a quivering, hot mess. The breeze comforted her as she fell asleep, yearning for her lover to come back to her.
###
Golden rays bathe Charlotte as she lay tangled underneath rumpled sheets. Her lidded eyes pry open as she groans, lying prone as amber rays illuminate the contours of her body. A contented smile creeps along her face as she stares at the ceiling, thinking of the night before.
A panorama of images march through her head. She sees her lover mounting her, his firm shadow pounding her and pounding her as she submitted to him. She half-remembers her own screams--sensual, joyous, unashamed. She smiles dreamily at the thought...
A blast of cold air caresses her body as her consciousness stirs. She becomes vaguely aware of the digits resting between her legs. They are long, slender, feminine--Charlotte's own. The scent of sex is heavy as she sniffs them.
Did she imagine it all? Has her subconscious been so warped by her boyfriend's death that she conjured up this...thing as a substitute? More importantly, did her roommates hear her?
She blushes in embarrassment. She climbs out of her soiled panties and strips the similarly soaked sheets from her bed, hoping to make a run to the local laundromat before
anyone finds out.
She steps into the shower and cleans herself off, examining herself with the thoroughness of a physician. The membrane guarding her vagina is still there. Charlotte frowns as her hands fall to her sides.
She remains a virgin.
