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My forehead is damp with sweat, and my crotch is wet for other reasons. She holds the gravy boat over my plate, waiting for my answer.
“Did you want more gravy?” she asks again, annoyed.
You don’t want to go in dry. I think to myself. That makes me chuckle. I try to refocus. Everyone stares at me like I’m an alien. I quickly check under the table to make sure my pants are still on and let out a sigh.
“May I be excused?” I ask, getting up from the table anyway and heading upstairs without waiting for an answer. I grab at my wet underwear. Did that happen? I wonder as I close my bedroom door behind me and dive onto my unmade bed.
I try to settle my mind, but it’s a complex task – even at the best of times. I check my leggings. They are ripped. More ripped than they are supposed to be, anyway. There are cuts on my leg. It might have been some daydream, but something did do this, or I did this to myself and have no memory of it. I grab my little first aid kit – self-harmers go-to bag of tricks and take off my leggings to clean the cuts.
As I slide them down, they rub against the scratches, and a jolt of stinging pain rides up and down my body with a bit of pleasure. I run my fingers roughly over the cuts, which are superficial and not as deep as I thought they were. A feeling of warmth runs through me, hitting my pussy and rushing through it. Reminding me of the creature under the table and what it did to me.
I’m shaking. I look at the door, making sure it is closed. I curl up into the duvet and pull my underwear down to my ankles. I spread my legs wide. I’m so wet.
Did I come earlier? Or was that all in my head? My middle finger gently caresses my pussy, the juices cling to my fingertip, and I look down beneath the duvet, watching the trail of cum stretch out, glistening in the light.
The sight reminds me of the shining eyes from under the dining room table in the unnatural dark shadow of that thing. I don’t even know what it was. A shadow? Smoke? A ghost?
The thought of his mouth and tongue on my skin makes my pussy clench in arousal. I gently touch myself, applying pressure,, and pleasure courses through me. I close my eyes and lie back, slowly moving my finger back and forth across my clit, imagining it is the creature’s tongue from before.
My pace quickens, and my breathing shallows as my orgasm starts to rise. I imagine the figure pinching my nipples as I squeeze my own, sending tingles of pleasure through my body. One last flick of my finger, and my body tenses in pleasure as my orgasm takes hold, and I let out a soft whimper into the air.
As my body calms down, I roll onto my side and think. The figure’s eyes run through my mind, and I think of the pleasure it brought me. Instead of fear, I feel wanted. I feel cherished, maybe even loved. Is that possible?
I’ve never had this happen to me before. Nobody has ever been interested in me, and I feel like a burden to everyone around me. I have tried to make friends in the past while I was at school, but everyone saw me as a loner—the nerd who sits and reads all day by herself in the corner of the room. I was lucky enough to make friends with two people, though, and they are still my friends.
Harlow is my best friend of the two. She has been there for me through it all. She knows about my parents, my foster family, and how they treat me. It’s been thirteen years since I lost my parents, but I only told Harlow about it a couple of years ago.
My other friend is Locklyn, or Lockie for short. I met him just after meeting Harlow. He was a bad boy then. He didn’t care about anything or anyone other than himself. He used to always get into trouble and blame it on other people. We met through Harlow as they had the same science class and hit it off immediately.
It was like all three of us were pulled together by a strong force, but we didn’t know why or how. We just went along with it and enjoyed each other’s company. We still hang out now, even eight years later, but rarely. My foster family doesn’t like it when I try to hang out with them. God forbid I have a life of my own.
I look at my clock as I’m lying in bed, about to drift off to sleep: 7 p.m. Well, that went fast.
I start to drift off due to my lack of sleep the previous night. I don’t mind, though. Anything is better than dealing with Shaun and Amy again tonight.
I’m back in the forest again. It’s the same as before—cold and chilly. There is a slight change this time, though, and you would only notice it if you’d had the same recurring dream for thirteen years. It’s slightly windy. The wind is warm, though, even though it’s cold outside. That’s weird, I think to myself.
As I go to step forwards, the shadow appears again, just like it did at dinner. I can never see it well in this dream - mostly, I just sense it.
I’m now terrified, shaking, breathing heavily. I don’t know whether to run or stand here. So, I freeze. I don’t move, I can’t. No matter how hard I try, I can’t move. This is my dream, though, so why can’t I move?
Suddenly, the shadow is directly in front of me. It has never gotten this close before in my dreams. It doesn’t take form or any sort of shape. It’s just black smoke. I watch it carefully. It doesn’t move fast; it’s just floating directly in front of me, maybe about one foot away.
I could touch it if I reached out, but I won’t. As I watch, it starts glowing red, and everything around me distorts and goes eerily silent. I can no longer hear the wind or the rustling of the trees, even though I can still see them moving in the wind. All I can hear is my racing heartbeat and a whispering voice.
“Hello, Calliope.”
Calliope
“How do you know my name?” I take a step back.
The figure’s mouth comes into view, and he smirks at me, “Because I made you.” He moves closer to me.
I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
The shadow takes form in front of me.
A man with black hair, blue highlights that cover his right eye, and piercings on his face, looks at me through a one-eyed gaze with specks of blue in it. His chest is bare, and I swallow down the lump in my throat.
