9781618859617TheSecretLifeofanInvisibleGirlDeVere

by Amie DeVere

  In my dream a woman, who looked like me, stood naked in front of a full-length mirror brushing her golden hair. I could only see what was reflected in the mirror. The room was dark and warm—the windows open with the sound of night creatures and crickets filtering through. The moonlight shone against the mirror, lighting the woman in an eerie glow. A man, who looked like John Hawkins, appeared behind her dressed in a shirt and pants. Gliding his hand down the length of her back, he watched her in the mirror. He swept her hair aside and leaned over to nuzzle her neck, trailing kisses on her smooth shoulders and cupped one hand over her breast. His other hand skimmed down over her stomach through the hair on her mound, lingering there until he pushed a finger into her slit. She moaned and swayed back against him.

  “You’re so wet,” he whispered.

  She turned to face him, their profiles reflected in the mirror. “I want you,” she said and brought her mouth to his. He licked the edge of her parted lips with the tip of his tongue, before the kiss deepened, and his tongue thrust into her mouth. Dropping the hairbrush, she unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off him. She ran her hands over his taut chest, licking and sucking his nipples while he stroked her hair, back, and buttocks, his hands roaming, exploring her. Yanking him closer to her by his belt, she unbuckled it, undid his pants and brought them down to his feet, kneeling in front of him. His underwear followed, her fingers tearing them down from his hips, releasing a long thick cock jutting out from a ring of dark curls.

  Staring into his eyes, she lightly churned the base of his cock, and he placed an encouraging hand on her head. With her other hand, she fondled his balls before licking up the shaft to the head. Taking the tip of his cock into her mouth, she swirled her tongue around the swollen head and rim until he moaned. She nibbled back to his balls, then gliding her mouth over the length, licked her way again to the head, pushing her tongue into the small opening to reach the salty-sweet portent of his discharge. Swallowing the head, she drenched it with her saliva before taking his cock deep into her throat. Back along the length of it she sucked, clasping her lips firmly around his shaft, and he pumped gently into her mouth. Continuing her ministrations, she licked, nibbled, and sucked until he groaned. Pulling back she let her teeth graze lightly against the shaft and head, stopping to lift her eyes to his.

  “Do you want to come in my mouth or in my cunt?” she asked.

  “I want to fuck you.”

  Caressing his cock, she rose and lay back on the edge of the bed, spreading her legs, her moistened cunt reflecting in the mirror. In place between her legs, he rubbed his cock over her slit, catching the head against her clit until she gasped and clutched the bed coverings. Directing his cock to her swollen opening, he eased into her like the tide pushing against the shore. Penetrating through the folds until he was buried deep within and their hairs met. She sighed, and he lifted her legs over his elbows, driving into her with slow deep strokes. Arching her back from the bed, she rose to meet him with sighs and moans. He slammed into her, in and out, faster and faster. Reaching down between her legs, he rubbed her clit with his thumb. His pumping increased, and he spent his seed within her with sharp deep thrusts. As her orgasm overcame her, she screamed. Her scream combined with the screeching wheels of the train at the end of the line, and I woke.

  * * * *

  For the next week I was useless, worse than useless, and destructive. Wanting a man in general was by far easier to deal with than wanting a man in particular. I was stuck in that torture of self-inflicted elation and despair, shifting from fantasy to reality and back again. I was giddy with incompetence. I tried to convince myself I had not lost my mind, and it would take an apocalypse to drag me back to that den of demons and now temptation that comprised the DA’s office.

  Even in my useless state, my boss wanted me to attend the hearing. We walked into the courtroom and over to the defense table in front of the judge’s bench. John Hawkins was still assigned to the case. He stood behind the prosecutor’s table, turned when we came in, and smiled. My heart beat faster, a presto tempo pulsing in my ears. My palms got sweaty, I blushed, my nipples hardened, and I felt a pulling in my groin. My body deserted me utterly, running off in wild excitement while I tried to maintain composure. I had not seen him for a week and thought the separation would make seeing him again easier. It only made it worse, much worse.

  My boss looked through our file. “Could you get copies of the drug certificates from the DA?” He may as well have asked me to get a handful of fire from hell. I walked over to the prosecutor’s table and steeled myself for battle. DAs were notorious for getting drug certificates in late. It wasn’t their fault. The crime lab was always backed up and with recent budget cuts, the delays were worse than they had ever been. The DAs took the blame anyway. They were responsible for the Commonwealth’s case.

  “Do you have the copies of the drug certificates?” I asked, stern and serious, all business.

  “I think I saw them in here.” He smiled and started leafing through his files.

  I watched him handle the papers, long slender fingers pinching the corners of the pages. The lips of my cunt swelled, and I had to look away.

  “How have you been?” he asked, concentrating on his task.

  “I’ve been better.”

  He stopped and looked at me in a way that made me suspect he could read my mind. I smiled in self-defense and in the next moment surrender.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, his own smile lighting up his face.

  “Drug…certificates.” I pointed to the file.

  “Right.” He returned to his search, but could not find them. The result was a one-month continuance of the case. The world was conspiring against me.

  The next day he called me at the office. The secretary had identified the caller only as someone from the DA’s office, and I thought it was a routine scheduling issue. When I heard his voice, I nearly dropped the phone.

  “Don’t mean to bother you at work,” he said, “but I want to see you, and this is the only way I can reach you.” I gave him my phone number and told him to call me at home.

  That night I changed into my pajamas and stared at the phone, willing it to ring. I was alone with no one to witness or criticize my pathetic display of hope and desire. While I tried to concentrate on The Reminiscences of Rufus Choate, a dry but entertaining memoir of the 19th-Century lawyer and orator, he called just after nine.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I should have been prepared for the question, but I wasn’t. I had to either admit I was reading and sound like the nerd I was or that I was waiting for him to call. I was not going to tell him the latter and sound needy and desperate. A girl has to keep some illusion of self-respect.

  “I’m reading.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Nothing as interesting as you.”

  “What are you wearing?” he asked, the finest four words in the English language, the precursor of pleasure.

  His voice, an invitation and a challenge, made me wet. I nearly came right then and there sitting on the couch. His question didn’t shock me, but his ease and accuracy in reading my desire did. My cunt throbbed, my nipples hardened, and I gasped.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Ye-yeah…wearing?” I stammered. “Silky pajamas and no underwear.” I slid my hand down my stomach under the loose waistband of my bottoms to my slit and burned my fingers in the hot lava flowing from my core.

  “Wish I was there. Will you do what I tell you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered. I wanted to resist, but my will was weak, and his voice was soft and sultry.

  “Are you wet?”

  “I got wet the moment I heard your voice.”

  “God, you are hot. Do you have ice cubes?”

  “What?” I asked startled, but tried to maintain the mood. I have to admit he lost me a bit there. “Ice cubes? Yeah.”

  “I want you to take two ice cubes, roll t
hem around your nipples, and let them melt. Let the water run down over your stomach and between your legs.”

  “Hold on.” I put down the phone. I was skeptical. This did not seem like an entirely good idea, but I walked over to the refrigerator. At least it would cool me down. After removing my pajama top, I took out two ice cubes from the tray and put them against my hard nipples. The ice started to melt on contact. The shock of numbing cold sent a shiver coursing through me followed by deep intense arousal and heightened sensory awareness. In other words—“Holy fucking shit, why haven’t I ever done this before?”

  Trembling, I picked up the phone. “Oh my god, that’s incredible.”

  “Now, put an ice cube inside you.”

  I thought, no, he did not just say that. I will die. I will fucking die.

  Taking the phone with me, I picked up another ice cube, slippery, cold, and wet in my hand and worked it inside my pajama bottoms. The ice melted from my heat, tracking gelid drops to my mound. When I touched the cube to my cunt, it dissolved in layers with a sharp chill that softened and slowly permeated the hot swollen lips and numbed them. Pushed in farther, the melting ice replaced the heat and filled my cunt with coolness, the folds pressing against the diminishing cube, thawing and flowing down my legs. This, I decided, is why there is no ice in hell. The only thing more amazing would have been to have his hard cock follow the melting ice.

  “Did you like that?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I whimpered in an exhale, my breathing heavy.

  “Now lay down. I want to taste you.”

  I started to protest. “I don’t think …”

  “It’s just a phone call,” he said, and I could hear the need in his voice. “Are you lying down?”

  “I’m on the couch.”

  “Close your eyes and feel me there with you.”

  I felt the weight of his body on mine. His hands fondled my breasts and his lips found mine. Taking in his tongue, I tasted him, and he gently bit my lower lip. He kissed and licked across my chin and neck, trailing down to my breasts, his hands spreading heat along my body. He sucked at my breasts, taking the hard nipple in his mouth and tapping it with his tongue. Sliding farther down over my stomach, his hands parted my thighs, his breath tickling as his fingers spread the lips of my cunt, and he slowly licked.

  “Mmm, you taste good.” He swirled over my clit and pushed his tongue deep within me.

  “Are you touching yourself? Do you feel my tongue?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah, keep going,” I breathed.

  “I want to make you come. I want to hear you come.”

  He kissed and gently sucked between licks of my cunt, breezing over my clit. Gliding his hands over my thighs to my center, he took my clit in his mouth and flicked his tongue.

  “Put your fingers in me,” I gasped.

  He pushed two fingers into my wetness, and the folds gripped his fingers pumping in and out. He sucked and licked my clit faster and fucked me with his fingers.

  “Oh, John, I’m coming!” I cried into the phone. My body convulsed with waves of pleasure, and my cunt squeezed the fingers I imagined were his. I nearly cried with the overwhelming release. Beaded with sweat my skin tingled and cooled, and all too soon the absence of him filled me, and my eyes filled with tears. “Damn, I want you.” I knew he couldn’t tell if my sobs were from pleasure or aching, and neither could I.

  “I know. I want you too.”

  A lull in the conversation choked me with dread. I hate being ditched. At times, I don’t mind ‘Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am’ but, online and on the phone some guys forget the thank you part or even goodbye and run when it’s over like they were paying by the minute instead of getting it for free. I needn’t have worried.

  “Do you think about me?” he asked.

  We talked, and I’ll spare you those details, but he was sweet and funny. We navigated through all potential deal breakers, including the natural state of my hair below, without incident. All would have been right with the world, except for the fact that we still could not be together.

  Chapter Two

  Around lunchtime the next day I was working in the law library at the courthouse, researching a multi-state issue beyond my firm’s limited subscription to an online legal database when he came in and sat at a computer in the corner with his white shirt rolled up on his forearms. I was curious. DAs do not ordinarily research and rarely submit a memorandum on a case. They just seem to assume the law is on their side and most of the time it is. In their defense though, they do have a lot of cases and not much time. I got up and walked over to him. Intent on his work he didn’t notice me until I bent over from behind him and whispered in his ear. His face lit up with a dazed smile, he shook his head, lifted his hands from the keyboard, leaned back in his chair, and bit his lower lip.

  “What are you working on?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “I have a frisk issue. Judge Brown wants some cases when we get back after lunch, and I got four hundred and twenty-three results.”

  “Have you checked Knowles? It’s a recent case that discusses the history of the protective frisk. Here.” I sat in the chair beside him, reached across to the keyboard, and brought up the case. While I scrolled down, he moved his hand beneath the table and placed it on my knee.

  “This better not be for one of my cases.”

  “It’s not.” He glided his hand up my thigh and under my skirt. His fingers found the top of my thigh-high stockings, and I heard an audible exhale and smiled. Advancing to my crotch, he teased my panties aside to reach my slit.

  I continued to scroll, trying to concentrate on the words and not wanting him to stop, until I reached the discussion I was looking for. “There,” I breathed as his finger pushed into my wet cunt. I emitted a barely perceptible moan and our eyes locked while time seemed to suspend. “On the screen,” I managed to say after a lingering moment.

  He slowly slid back his hand along my thigh, licked his finger, and then attended to the case.

  “Notable British Trials,” I blurted.

  “What?” He glanced away from the screen.

  “Third floor, take a left, six stacks down is where they keep the Notable British Trials series. No one goes there. That’s where I’m going for lunch.” I blushed and checked the wall clock. He did the same. It was a quarter past one. Court would resume at two.

  “Let me take a look at this,” he said.

  I left and went upstairs to my lair, the part of the library I had taken over as my refuge. I would go up and sit in the deserted row reading about long-ago trials and people who no longer mattered to anyone but me. When I first made my discovery I would lean against the stacks, gleaning the pages until discomfort inspired me to bring over a chair. One day I forgot to put the chair back, and it was still there when I returned. I realized then that no one, not even the library staff, went up there. I was reading in the chair, or rather staring at the words in the open book in front of me, with my feet propped on a shelf and my back to the aisle when I heard him behind me.

  “You come here often?” he quipped, walking past the chair in the narrow row and turning to face me. “That was a good case.”

  I closed the book, set it on the shelf and stood up. Pulling me toward him, he scooped me into his arms and kissed me in one fluid sweep. His tongue searched for mine as I fell into him, breathing in his scent of soap and musk and reveling in the crush of his body against mine. I tasted his lips and tongue with soft licks, his cock hardening against my stomach. He tugged at my blouse, moving his hands underneath to reach my bare skin. Pushing my bra aside, he caressed my breasts, pinched the nipples and rolled his palms against them, making me shudder. His hands pressed down my form to my knees, then hiked up my skirt and slowly slid my panties down my legs. Placing my hands on his shoulders, I stepped out of them. He gathered my panties and stood, sniffing them before putting them in his pocket with a wry smile.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  I
hesitated, and he kissed me again, skimming his hand over my ass. “I want to taste your cock, first,” I said unzipping his pants.

  “We don’t have time for that now. I want to fuck you.”

  Only an earthquake could have stopped me. Turning around I bent over and grabbed the arms of the chair, breathing heavily in anticipation of fulfillment. Resting a hand on my back, he reached with the other to let down my hair. I heard a tear and turned my head to look at him. He had opened a condom package.

  “Eagle scout,” he whispered.

  I watched him roll it onto his long thick cock hard against his stomach. Wrapping his left arm around my waist, he swept my hair aside with his right hand and kissed my neck.

  “I’ve been dreaming about you,” he whispered in my ear, licked it, and bit my lobe. I moaned and rolled my hips against him.

  Hitching up my skirt, he rubbed his cock against my wet slit and over my clit. His cock nudged at the entrance to my cunt and with a slow, slow push he drove the length of it into me stretching and filling me until I sensed him to the back of my throat. I hung my head, my hair falling in my face, and bit my lip, catching my breath.

  “You are so tight,” he moaned. Gripping my hips, he dug his fingers into me, and stroked in and out, at first slowly then harder and faster. “I can’t believe I’m fucking you. God, this feels so good,” he whispered.

  Joining his rhythm, I rocked against him letting out soft “ahs” at each deep thrust. He pulled back until he was almost out of me, then forced himself back in, through the folds of my throbbing cunt. Reaching around my waist and between my legs, he rubbed my clit, dancing circles with his fingers.