by S. E. Hall
Me: Maybe… Not sure how to feel if we’re being honest here, (Not saying I believe you so easily btw) but at least you’re not my original suspect, Reid, a class of hair-raising all his own.
80%: Reid from the bookstore? Absolutely nothing to be afraid of there, he’s harmless. The garish talk and GI JOE façade is to compensate for being terrified of his own inadequate shadow. Is that who you meant was reading Jack the Ripper?
Me: Yes
80%: No reason for concern. If asked a single fact, which I’d have to research by the way, he’d stutter in ignorance. All a show.
Me: More theory?
80%: A few reasons. 1. If you’re actually a psychopath and reading up on serial killers with plans to ever use what you’ve learned, why announce it? 2. In 11th grade he pissed himself on dissect a sheep’s heart day.
Me: Careful, Mr. Shadow, you just informed me you went to school around here.
80%: So I did. I assumed you’d focus more on the pissing himself @ 17 portion of the message.
Me: U know what they say about assuming…
75%: Ah yes, speaking of ass. Yours is divine. Protruding just enough. Firm. Pert.
Me: Well my ass is tired but I have to ask. How did u do that day in class?
80% Made the teacher proud as always. Blood has never been a problem for me.
One step forward two steps back. I shift under the blankets.
Me: Right, well I believe I’ll go read a book I know and call it a night. Mr. Grey sounds like a perfect bedfellow. Hey, that’s who u should put in your thesis—E.L. James! She awoke a nation without appalling it. I’ve read articles crediting her books for a whole new baby boom!
70%: I’ll look into it. Sweet dreams
Poor Lucy. I was so out of sorts last night that she went unacknowledged or fed, so she’s particularly relentless in her waking me this morning by swatting at my face. Coincidentally, she gets me to stir at the exact same time a sharp, solitary knock on the front door startles me.
I tiptoe to the kitchen, quietly spooning Lucy’s dry food her into the bowl a little at a time rather than just dumping it in one noisy clang. With my signature defense knife in hand, I creep stealthily up to the side of the front door, barely leaning in to peek out the peephole.
No one’s there except Mr. Abbott from across the hall, bent over, his sixty-year-old ass in only loosey whiteys. Thank you for that.
Unappealing but safe, I open my door to grab the newspaper.
“Good morning, Amelia.” He stands up now, facing me and scarring my retinas. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine, Mr. Abbott, and you?” I stare at the top of his doorframe, then the ceiling, anywhere but the full frontal.
“Oh, the sciatica’s been acting up and Mother’s had a cough, but enough about me. What’d you get there?” He smiles, pointing at my feet.
I follow it and realize on my welcome mat sits a beautiful bouquet of all white lilies, orchids, and baby’s breath wrapped in twine. Underneath them, a note and what looks like a book encased in brown paper. I can’t help but smile as I scoop up my bounty, pausing to smell the flowers, and step back inside, saying goodbye to Mr. Abbott.
First thing after pouring a glass of juice, I open the book, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, with which I am vaguely familiar, then bravely unfold the classic white folded letter.
Amelia,
This book also heavily influenced my thesis, and is said to be a “significant event in the sexual revolution of its time.” Lawrence’s work is erotic, but every bit as romantic, calling into question the balance or imbalance of sensuality and seduction, the body versus the mind and political influence. This one I have read, cover to cover, and highlighted some of my favorite quotes in hopes you’ll understand.
Discovery, not deviancy, Beauty.
-Yours
Interesting. Is it wrong that I’m looking forward to investing my day in a book left for me by my so-called stalker? Probably, but then again, nothing better to do on a Sunday.
Once I’ve put the flowers in water and indulged in their succulent fragrance over my breakfast, I settle onto the couch with my new book. Lucy sprawls herself across my legs, her full belly ready to nap.
I’m not usually one for classics. Although riveting at times, they tend to bore me. This story, however, is everything he’d said it’d be. The morning sun rises higher through the windows unappreciated, and when my stomach complains for lunch after a few hours wrapped in a new world, I snatch only a container of hummus and a bowl of veggies from the fridge before hurrying back to the sofa.
I’m hooked, needing to read more.
My favorite part isn’t a single scene but the moments when I land upon a passage he’s highlighted, showing me a true study, and one I can respect.
“Obscenity only comes in when the mind despises and fears the body, and the body hates and resists the mind.”
He’d obviously highlighted this to show its direct relation to his thesis, and the reality behind it resonates within me. At the party, for example, my body wanted and greedily took what my mind chastised me for minutes later.
I read forward, another bright yellow passage jumping out at me.
“What the eye doesn’t see and the mind doesn’t know, doesn’t exist.”
I lower the book, contemplating the meaning. My Phantom is not just some random deviant pervert, but an open-minded, albeit somewhat twisted, intellectual. He wants to show me that which I haven’t seen, what I don’t know. All the splendor of what it could be.
When I reach the end, I gasp through my tears. Talk about a cliffhanger…that will never have a sequel, seeing as how Lawrence, the author, died in 1930.
That’s it, over. Connie’s pregnant with Mellor’s baby, refused divorce by her aristocratic bastard of a husband, and moving to her sister’s to wait…as does Mellor, working on a farm, also awaiting a divorce. Both of them left to wonder (like this poor, sobbing reader) if they’ll ever be together.
Rising slowly from the couch, my whole body stiff, I realize it’s turned to dusk outside and I haven’t moved. No bathroom break, no drink, and only two bites stolen from the veggies. So ensconced in the beautiful story, I’d read the day away in statuesque entrancement.
Lucy rouses with me, pinning me with her tiger eyes, and once again I trudge across the room and feed her. I drag my tingling limbs to the bathroom where I force myself through a quick shower and teeth brushing, pulling back my wet hair and slipping on a silky pajama set; after all, it’s almost time for bed. The thought makes me chuckle, an inner tranquil glow about me that has me searching out my phone.
Quick review as I do so: he’s hot, and the book was completely normal (lovely, in fact) and pertinent to his thesis. I can admit at least that much to him, right?
Me: I no longer fear dismemberment. I loved the flowers, but adored the book. Thank you for both.
Him: (no more tacky and judgmental ranging scale titles) You’re welcome for both. I had a feeling you might enjoy the novel. It’s one of my favorites, even outside of my studies. It’s late, did you read the entire day?
Me: I did, lol, can u believe that? And although I literally morphed as one with the couch, I’m sleepy and ready for bed. Chat tomorrow?
Him: Definitely. Sweet dreams, Beauty.
Him: P.S. I like to think they do end up together in the end. -Yours.
The next morning begins with a ding.
Him: Start your week with the idealized wonderment of remembrance.
His text is accompanied by a video. I press play, my car filling with the hauntingly intoxicating and applicable “Music of the Night” from Phantom of the Opera. It was always my favorite song from the play, often bringing tears to my transfixed eyes.
As I park and get out, I scan the lot, secretly hoping he delivers flowers in person to accompany the unusual yet intriguing start to my morning he’s provided.
But he doesn’t, choosing to stay a mystery.
Me: I’ve always lov
ed that song. Good morning to u too.
Him: It is now, nice skirt. Even nicer knowing firsthand what lies beneath, how divine it tastes.
Me: So once again, you can see me. When do I get to see you?
Him: What’s the rush? Let’s enjoy the slow simmer of anticipation, the sweet allure of torment.
Me: Says the one who knows who I am. Your name in my phone is “him,” for goodness sake! Pretty one-sided…so now you take and don’t give?
I wouldn’t know him if he fell from a tree plummeting atop me, but I know enough to feel smug. That will get him.
Him: Well played, Beauty. Call me Elliott.
Knew it. Perhaps he’s provided me more insight into himself than either of us realize.
Me: Is that your name?
Elliott?: Part of it, yes.
Me: Middle name or last? My guess middle. Okay Elliott, I’m late. HAGD
I bolt up the stairs, the elevator already gone and no time to spare. I have never been late for work, ever. Luckily, I’m quick up the stairs and in my chair, seemingly engaged in work and no longer out of breath, by the time Ashley strolls by.
“Morning.” She raps on my doorframe. “Did you have fun at the party?”
“Yes,” I say honestly, leaving out the also honest “and no” I could add that would cause her beam to fade.
“Yay! Well, now that you’re broken in, my bachelorette party is the Friday after next. You,” she smirks and points, “are coming. The Sawmill, eight o’clock, and slutty attire is required. It’s my party before my big day, so you’ve no choice but to comply. Meeting in thirty.” She winks and disappears before I can even start to formulate a protest.
These outings she’s forcing me to attend seemed annoying at first, but this one (aside from the slutty attire rule the bratty Bridezilla concocted just because she can) I’m excited about. I don’t have to show up or leave a jittery, skittish mess because it’s a party for girls. And Elliott is decent. And by decent, I mean built like a God with the fingers of a magician, well-spoken and justified in certain studies I once found sinister and…he thrills me like no other.
Our texting continues throughout the entire day and at some point definitely began heading down a new path. A hint here and there, now more intriguing than creepy, and I’d played along, delighted in the exhilaration, if I’m being honest. So when this enthralling one arrives, I blush but feel my naughty heartbeat accelerate.
Elliott: I’ve wondered more times that I can count, what do you sleep in, Beauty? Is it dainty shreds of lace, a satin top with little shorts, or is your magnificent body bare, merely flesh beneath your sheets?
Me: Guess. If you’re right…perhaps you’ll win a prize.
With the fear subsided, only the seductress in me seems to remain.
Elliott: All right, I say a cotton thong and a tiny, cool top of some sort.
Me: And on what did you base that deduction?
Elliott: You never have a panty line at work, so thong. I imagine cotton to be the most comfortable material to have riding up that perfect ass, and we all sleep in comfort. The top has to be cool. Your office has an extra fan because you’re always hot. Do I win my prize?
Dare I? Where’s the harm? His fingers have been inside me, his tongue has ravaged my mouth. Before I can chicken out, I slip my phone under the sheet and snap a pic. Of course I scrutinize it first to make sure it’s flattering, even cropping a little, just a glimpse of the white cotton triangle at the apex of my thighs. With one huge breath in, I hit send and then loudly exhale as my head falls back on my pillow.
Butterflies dance about my stomach as I await his response. My eyes squeeze tight, as if he can see my crimson blush, only opening them when his reply sounds.
Elliott: My fingers twitch in memory of being right there, my mouth waters in anticipation of its turn. Next time, it will be my tongue that journeys into your center and draws out your delicious creamy desire.
Sweet heaven, how I want to hear him say those words aloud with that thick, robust timbre I remember so vividly. My pussy lips swell, my core growing wet at the thought. With trembling hands, I reply.
Me: Will you call me? Speak those words in my ear?
Elliott: Not tonight, Beauty. I won’t race through what I’ve waited so long for. Sweet dreams.
All week, the provocative, carnal messages that leave me wound tight, utterly aroused and desperate, continue. I’m tempted to come every time I sit down, squirming in the chair, maneuvering just right to tease my clit.
Nothing.
And for some unfathomable reason, I refuse to pleasure myself at night, when the timing is far more appropriate. Knowing, remembering, what it feels like to be at the mercy of his fingers, mine would pale disappointingly in comparison, only leaving me more frustrated in the end, so I deny myself.
Despite the throb I endure and the ache that drives me to the brink of insanity, I fall asleep every night with drenched panties and restless thoughts, awaiting the Phantom who pleasures me in my dreams.
To my delight, on Wednesday evening, he takes the choice from me. As I sit on my balcony with a glass of wine and a book, I hear my phone chime, eagerly snatching it up.
Elliott: If I wanted you right this instant, how would I find you?
Me: GPS?
Elliott: Cheeky temptress. Surely you’ve concluded I know precisely where you reside. I meant, what are you doing? Wearing? Thinking about?
Me: I’m reading out on my balcony, lounge pants and a tee, under a throw, thinking of… you. I suppose, lately, in either the forefront or foreshadow, my thoughts are constantly of you.
Elliott: I want to make you come, right where you are.
Me: Outside? On my balcony?
Elliott: Yes. Right there, right fucking now. Will you please me this way, Beauty?
I glance around. There’s no unit to my right, the one on my left pitch black as though no one’s home, and above me…well, they’d really have to be trying in order to see below. And if he’s directing me, it’s like doing it with him, for him, rather than the solo mission I’ve been forbidding myself. Who am I kidding? My panties are already soaked.
Me: Yes, I will.
Elliott: Ah, my Beauty, you delight me so. Are you wearing a bra?
Me: No.
Elliott: Perfect. Place your hand under your shirt, over your stomach. Skim it up nice and slow to those full, pert breasts I long to suck. No rush tonight.
I do as he says, closing my eyes, my gasps deep and rapid, imaging a man in a white mask touching my tingling skin.
Elliott: Softly at first. Trace their shape, test their weight, then grope them with needy, demanding hands. Imagine they’re my hands, what I could do. How rough I’d be. Pinching those delectable nipples, tugging until they burn with a bittersweet bite of pain. Tell me how it feels.
Performing his bidding to the letter, I fail to stifle the groan that echoes into the dark night, a gush of fluid bursting from my weeping core.
Me: It feels amazing. I need this. Want more.
Elliott: I know your sounds, can almost hear them ringing in my ears. I neglected your remarkable breasts the last time, and I apologize. It won’t happen again, you have my word. Remove your shirt, Beauty, and feel the cool night breeze upon your heated flesh.
Lost in the cloud of my arousal, I waste no time slipping out of my top and toss it aside, my blanket pulled up to cover me enough to feel comfortable while my hands continue their relentless kneading.
Me: It’s off. Tell me more. Please
Elliott: Sneak that little hand down past the waistband and into your panties. Tell me what you find.
My fingers instantly obey, moving fast and greedy, finding hot, wet neediness.
Elliott: Tell me.
I, well, I wipe my hand on the blanket so I can type.
Me: I’m so wet, swollen and ready.
Elliott: Is that my sweet pussy?
It was for one night, and isn’t anyone else’s, except my own. A
nd with the mood, the exotic game…
Me: Yes.
Elliott: Pull off your blanket, exposed and unrestrained, damn the rules and the shy screaming voices in your head, Amelia.
I debate this, a tad out of my comfort zone. He won’t know if I say I did, but don’t.
Elliott: Do it.
Like he’s right there controlling my hands, I pitch the blanket to the side and let my knees fall open. I shove my hand, unabashed, under the lace, seeking my arousal. There’s nothing that could keep me from it now, in a mind space of inflamed wantonness, I shove two fingers high inside me and brutalize my clit with my thumb, undulating my hips up, around, and down as I breathlessly chant his name.
At some point my pants are kicked free, leaving me in only my panties. I don’t have a care in the world other than my impending release.
The sound of my phone clashes with only the sounds of nighttime and my reactions, but I ignore it, so close, servant to erotic exhibitionism. I explode, a spiky tingle starting in my pelvis, burning its way down and out, over my fingers, across my hand as I toss my head side to side, my shriek a loud, salacious escape.
In whimpering gasps, I steadily retreat back from animal on fire to Amelia, rapidly blinking to reacquaint myself with my outdoor surroundings. Alarmed at how little regard I had for propriety in the throes of orgasm, I snatch the blanket, hauling it up over my body, not stopping till my head is fully covered beneath it. With the mystic fog gone, reality crashes back, complete with phone alert. I sneak out a hand, pulling it under the covers with me.
Elliott: Did you come hard for me, Beauty?
Me: Yes.
Elliott: Go inside now. I don’t like you outside alone at night. Sweet Dreams. -Yours.
Elliott: I can’t wait another minute to touch you, taste you, to indulge in the body that belongs to me. Rest tonight, it’s been a long week, but tomorrow night—you’re mine.
That’s the message he sends as I walk through my door Friday after work. I am tired, from the long day and the full-body pleasure he’s directed me through the last two nights, but a slight streak of disappointment still flashes through me, tomorrow seeming forever away.
