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5
Faith
Idon’t know how or why, but last night, I had that weird feeling again. Like somebody was watching me. It was just like when I was in the kitchen; there I was, lost in my thoughts when suddenly, I could feel someone’s eyes on my back. It was like my whole spine was on pins and needles. What made it worse was that I had left my curtains open.
When I went to shut them, I noticed that all the windows in Vincent’s house were dark. He wasn’t there. My window faces partway into his backyard and the backyard of the house behind us. Maybe the guy behind us had been watching me? Or maybe…
No, no way. I am just being paranoid. Even though Vincent had seemed so kind at the beginning of his visit, when he ran away, it hurt. He didn’t want to be around me. So why would he be peeping on me? Please.
I told myself as I took off the black lace bra and slipped on an old camp T-shirt. The simplest explanation is most likely the right one. I’m just on-edge and paranoid. No one’s watching me.
Before falling asleep, I read more of the novel I’d been working on earlier today.
I’s a fantasy romance about an Elf King who whisks a peasant fairy girl away to his castle and treats her to splendors she never could have imagined. All she has to do is agree to be, in essence, his sex slave. It’s a filthy read, but books like that are my guilty pleasure. I can experience all sorts of things—things that I would never have the courage to ask for in real life—from the comfort of my bed.
After I read about the way the Elf King dressed the peasant girl in nothing but solid gold chains and paraded her around the town square, I tuck my bookmark back between the pages and put myself to bed. Part of me wants to touch myself before falling asleep, but I nod off before making a decision. After all, it has been a long, exhausting day.
I dream of Vincent all night. Most of the dreams are fuzzy and incomprehensible: shots of his face, his smile, his intense stare. Memories of the way I lit up when we brushed against each other. Fantasies of his strong arms lifting me, pinning me against a wall, dressing me in nothing but gold chains while looking at me as if I were a meal…
When I wake up, I can feel the throbbing between my legs before I even open my eyes. Fantasies of Vincent still dance behind my closed lids, and I want to hold on to them as long as possible. Without rolling over or opening my eyes, I use one hand to slide my white cotton panties all the way off. I’m lying on my side, so I kick both feet over the side of the bed to drop my panties onto the floor. Then I swing my legs wide open, feeling the cool morning air on my already-wet slit.
My room has always been the coldest in the house, and when I look down, I can see my nipples poking through the fabric of my T-shirt. Something about it makes me even hornier, knowing that my body is just as obsessed with the thought of Vincent touching me as my brain is. Every nerve in my body is on edge as I sit up, tossing my T-shirt over my head.
Slowly, I slide my hand down from my neck and over each breast. Bringing both hands to my breasts, I gently pinch my nipples, rolling the tips between my fingers.
I close my eyes and imagine Vincent’s strong hands on me, touching me where I touch myself. In my mind, he takes my breasts into his mouth, pursing his soft lips around me, still gazing at my face while he sucks my hard nipple into his mouth. He nips and bites at them, leaving me panting, gyrating my hips.
I can feel my pussy growing warmer and wetter and can no longer resist the urge to rub my throbbing slit. But, still imagining Vincent, I run my hands down my stomach. I nearly torture myself with the slowness, but the image of Vincent, naked and breathless, taking in every inch of me is exquisite. Even hotter than the idea of sleeping with him is the idea of making him obsess over me. To know that I enchant him as much as he intrigues me.
Once my hands finally reach the wetness between my legs, I lose control. My clit is swollen and overly sensitive, ready to make me come at a moment’s notice. I want to go slow, truly I do, but my fingers move in fast circles. Pressing back into the mattress, I raise my hips to meet my fingers, slowly moving back and forth. The sounds of my wet sex fill the room, and it only heightens my pleasure.
In my mind, Vincent is gripping my hips, pulling me closer and closer to him, burying his cock deep inside me, taking my virginity. I gasp for air, furiously rubbing at my clit as my back arches and my toes curl. I wish the moment would last forever, that I could hold off my orgasm, but I can’t. Racing toward the cliff’s edge, I fly over it. Between heaving gasps, I whisper-yell out into the cold morning air.
“Vincent!”
The crest of my orgasm crashes and washes away, and I feel the muscles of my core clench and tense to their own rhythm. My fingertips move in a few more lazy circles, feeling the wetness being pushed out of me.
My mound is smooth against the palm of my hand; I shaved just yesterday morning. I open my eyes and can see the pink labia just barely peeking out from between my lips. Impulsively, I stick both fingers in my mouth. I’ve never tasted myself before, but my wet fingers against my tongue are sweet and sticky at the same time. It’s not an unpleasant taste, almost like lemons and cream, with a little bit of salt.
Embarrassment washes over me when I sit up and notice the small wet mark I’ve left on the bedsheets. Slut, I think to myself. That’s what my mother would say if she knew I was lusting after the neighbor. What a way to begin my Christmas Day.
I’m sure my mother is still downstairs; I never heard her come up to her room last night. She is probably passed out drunk on the couch, again.
Shaking my head, I strip the sheets from my bed before getting dressed, tugging at each corner in turn. I have to bend over my mattress to free the far half of the sheet and can feel my breasts bounce slightly when I jerk my arms back and forth.
After putting my sheet in the hamper, I gather up the black lace bra and a pair of plain black comfortable underwear and place them on the bare mattress. I head into the bathroom attached to my room and take a hot shower, wanting to wash the shame and confusion off of me. The hot water scalds my skin, and I sing quietly to myself as I wash up.
Once I’m done, I dry off and wrap my hair in a towel and plop it on top of my head. When I go back into my bedroom, I step into the black pair of underwear and fasten the black bra over myself. From my closet, I pick out a red plaid flannel shirt and a pair of fleece-lined yoga pants. Mom probably won’t be lucid for another few hours, so I may as well get cozy. Another Christmas alone with my mother.
I can’t wait to move out.
Once I have my degree, I’ll move far away from here. I’ll write and draw in my spare time and have my own apartment all to myself. I could decorate it and make it my own little space, instead of feeling like I live in a soulless magazine spread.
All dressed, I unleash my wet hair from the towel and quickly arrange it into two French braids on either side of my scalp. The plaits hang to just below my shoulder blades. Taking a breath to prepare for the mess Mom has likely left me downstairs, I open my door and go down the hallway.
I pause when I reach the living room. It seems Mom kicked off her heels at some point last night; they’re laying haphazardly by the tree. She’s snoring on the couch, a mess of hair covering her face. Two empty bottles of wine lay at the bottom of the couch. Scratch that—one empty bottle of wine and one half-empty bottle of wine. I roll my eyes and go into the kitchen.
“Merry Christmas to me,” I mutter as I pour myself a bowl of cereal.
