Page 17 of Below the Shadow of the City

He chuckles and the vibrations go straight to my core, “The better to pleasure you with, my dear.” ‘My dear?’ Goodness gracious.

“Is that what you’d do if you were here?” My voice trembles, my hips twitch up into the air, begging for a warm body to be above me.

“Oh,” he laughs and his voice grows low, “I can talk you through exactly what I’d do.”

“Yes, please.”

“First, you need to get naked for me, Sigrid. I want you to walk through each step you take so I can be sure you don’t miss a thing.”

I slide my sweatpants off in a clumsy shimmy and rest my thighs back on top of my comforter, “I just took off my pants.”

He clicks his tongue. “Better take off the underwear too. Can you do that for me?” I whine out “mmhmm” in a voice that sounds nothing like mine and follow his instructions. “While you’re at it, let's take that shirt off too.” I prop myself up and pull the ratty fabric up over my head.

“I’m a very, very thorough man. I’d take my time pleasuring every last inch of you. For starters, I would make sure those breasts of yours aren’t overlooked, I’d give them a gentle caress, feeling the soft skin that turns into gooseflesh at my very touch. And like a rabid animal, I’d devour your perky nipples. Savoring the taste of each one, rolling around those tight little pebbles in my mouth.” I reach down and circle them with a finger, picturing a hot tongue dragging alongside them. I clench at the thought of feeling his hot breath over my skin.

“Then,” he continues, “I’d work my way down. Draw a line up your stomach with my tongue, and part those creamy little thighs. Tell me, Sigrid, when I'd spread your legs, would you be wet?”

“Soaking,” my voice trembles, I’m following along, trailing my fingers along the outside of my thighs, heat already radiating out, my muscles twitching thinking of him.

“Good girl,” he says slowly, nearly a growl, “My tongue would part your folds, and I’d lick up every last drop of you. Your clit would be the cherry on top of the sundae, and I’d suck on it till it pops off the stem.” His enunciation of “pops” makes me nearly come right there. My fingers are circling my clit in a steady motion, giving it the attention that this stranger says I need. I envision him looming above me, in my head he's a combination of shadows and vague descriptors. I can nearly see his blue eyes, glowing at me through narrow eyelids, looking at my body like it’s art.

“I’d then slip a finger in, only one to start, since my hands are very big and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you, not yet. I want to take things slow for you to be ready for me, nice and stretched out and practically begging for me to stuff you to the brim.” A whimper slips out, I’ve already lost some control here. I slide a finger inside myself, one of my own isn’t nearly as big as his probably is, so I add a second and sharply inhale as I begin steadily pumping my fingers.

“How would it feel, Sigrid?” He asks slowly, like he’s prying out the words from himself.

“Like I’m gonna die if I don’t get the real thing from you soon,” I release a breathy laugh that turns into a slight moan.

“Hmmph, we’ll have to make sure you make yourself come so you can momentarily forget about missing me,” he’s growing breathless on his end, and I imagine he’s stroking his cock to the same rhythm I’m pumping into myself. “I’d slide in a second finger, and push deeper and deeper and caress your inner walls, all while making sure your clit isn’t totally overlooked. It would get special, precious treatment from me. I’d circle my thumb around it, treat it like a button that if I maneuver it correctly, it’ll make you completely fall apart for me.” I stroke myself steadier now, my breaths grow ragged as he speaks. I feel myself nearly on the precipice and try to dig deeper, like he said he would do for me.

“Sigrid?” He moans out my name.

“Yes?” I eke out, barely able to form real words.

“I’m going to need you to come for me, can you do that?”

“Y-yes,” I answer.

“Good girl,” he growls low. Almost on cue, I release a sound that doesn’t even seem human as my walls clench and my thighs tremble around me in a crashing orgasm. My breathing slows and I look over at the still-on vibrator lying beside me. I didn’t even need to use it.

CHAPTER 7

SATURDAY, LATE SEPTEMBER

Istand in a used bookstore holding a copy of The Bell Jar on sale for $3.99. It’s one that I’ve never read but I’ve always felt like I’m supposed to have. If it’s sitting on my bookshelf, maybe some intellectual person will lean against it and make some flirty quip about tortured poets and whatnot. Maybe I can conform and sculpt myself into a better version of myself that actually is dateable. Even if that version of myself doesn’t exist.

I snap a photo of the weathered cover and send it to Maybe: “Adam.”

Thoughts?

I tried it years ago when I was trying to impress a girl.

I couldn’t get into it.

I shelve the book and continue wandering as a jealousy forms for the aforementioned moody girl. Him mentioning interest in anyone at all makes me ill with a catty envy I haven’t felt since high school. Another message pops up.

You trying to impress someone? ;)

I find it almost frightening how he could call me out from such a distance. It’s like he can see me as the faux intellectual fraud I tend to be. Of course when I imagine someone leaning against my bookshelf commenting on Sylvia Plath it’s him, or at least the weird fuzzy outline I picture when I think of him. My head whips around in the middle of an aisle to see if he’s standing nearby. Not that I would recognize him if he was.