by Rose Caraway
A shattered cry broke from Monica’s lips, the delicate muscles of her pussy beginning to flutter and clench around his dick.
That’s it. Harder now. Faster. She’s going to come.
Orgasm convulsed Monica’s body. Her cunt spasmed, squeezing Shaun tight. He yelled out as her greedy body milked his orgasm from him, his cock pulsing in heavy throbs of pleasure as his cum shot from him in knee-weakening bursts.
Ecstasy ripped Shaun apart, the intensity so great it felt like every nerve lit up in glowing radiance. Even his neural implants hummed, resonating with a bright-edged harmony.
Tension seeped from him as he exhaled a groan. His hands loosened on Monica’s hips, and his cock, still semihard despite his spine-cracking orgasm, slipped from her pussy. In an instant, she was standing in front of him, her breasts mashed against his chest as she twined her arms around his neck. Her ruby-red lips caught at his, her tongue sliding deep into his mouth.
Drawing back with a little lick at his lips, Monica purred. “I like the way you fuck, Shaun.” Reaching down between their bodies, she gripped his cock, still wet with their juices. It helped her jack him back to hardness. “Let’s do it again.”
Breathing hard, he smiled even as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. “You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?”
Monica smirked. Keeping her eyes locked on his, she went to her knees in front of him. “And you’re going to be more than a mouthful.”
Shaun’s spine bowed as Monica sucked him into her mouth. Her red lips stretched wide around the thick girth of his dick, and her agile tongue lashed at him. Fuck, she felt good. His hands tangled in her hair, guiding her head as she bobbed up and down on his length.
He groaned, his head lolling back on his shoulders, and froze.
There, reflected in the window.
Clara looked back at him and smiled.
“What the fuck is happening?”
It was morning and Monica was gone. She had left, a smile on her face and her hair still damp from the shower they’d shared half an hour ago. She’d kissed him sweetly, teasingly fondling his cock as she told him to call her. Now, he was alone. Sort of.
Do you think she enjoyed herself? The question that whispered through his mind was archly amused.
Running his hands through his hair, Shaun said distractedly, “Yes, I think she did.” They’d barely slept last night, their energy and lust seemingly boundless. Monica, he thought, was simply insatiable. His own hunger was more complex. It had been more the soft voice whispering in his ear, the glimpses of his dead wife he kept catching in reflective surfaces that had spurred his lust to such gargantuan proportions. No sooner had he come than he was hard again. It had delighted Monica.
“How can I see you?” Shaun knew it had to do with the download, but the why didn’t answer the how. What he had taken from Clara’s mind were just her memories, remembrances that he could weave into his own whenever he wished. Shaun usually chose his dreams to access them because then his subconscious could fill in the blanks, create something new flavored with the old. Interaction like this should be impossible outside of sleep. She shouldn’t have been able to talk to him, not as if she were actually alive.
Why not? Clara’s voice whispered through his mind as he collapsed onto the sofa. Our memories are what make us who we are. When you downloaded my memories, you took everything that made me, me.
“So, what? You’re alive in me?” His mind struggled to understand the enormity of that. If what Clara was saying was true and he wasn’t going mad, Shaun had a whole other consciousness living in his head.
You don’t sound happy about it. Shaun could feel her distress. You said you never wanted to let me go.
Contrition stabbed at his heart. “I do want you here. You know that. It’s just a lot to take in.” A thought struck him. “Why haven’t you spoken to me before?”
The silence in his head stretched until he wondered if his delusion had ended as suddenly as it had begun. When Clara finally answered, he released a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding.
I couldn’t before. I needed time to—develop.
Shaun frowned. Even as a disembodied voice in his head, he knew the differing tones of her voice and what they meant. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
The sigh moved through his mind, a cool breeze scattering the leaves of his thoughts. The hairs on his body lifted in a prickling rush.
Does it really matter Shaun? I’m here. With you. A husky laugh, so familiar it made his heart clench. It was good last night wasn’t it? You liked that I was here.
Just thinking of the past night, of Monica’s willing body and Clara’s sexy voice in his mind, made Shaun’s dick start to harden.
Do you want me to go Shaun? Do you want me to leave and never come back?
Clara’s words threaded through Shaun’s thoughts, her hurt a pain he felt himself, and he gave in to the sweet madness of her presence.
“No,” he said, a wild improbable joy beginning to bloom in his chest. “Don’t leave. Stay.” Undoing his jeans, he pulled out his erection. He couldn’t stop himself. God, he’d missed her so much. Fisting his cock, he slowly started to jack himself.
“Talk to me Clara. Talk to me.”
* * *
Shaun groaned as he struggled his way to consciousness. His head felt twice as big as it should be and throbbed with a rhythm that threatened to empty his stomach all over his bed. Clutching it in both hands, he lay on the crumpled sheets and tried to think.
“What the hell?” he croaked through a mouth that tasted like a brewery had died in it. “Clara?”
There was only silence in his head.
Rolling onto his side, Shaun sat up with a groan. His entire body hurt, phantom pains creating a patchwork of aches over his flesh. Christ, what had he been doing last night?
“Clara?”
She didn’t answer.
After nearly a month of living with Clara existing inside of him, it was disconcerting to be so alone now.
Shaun’s eyes snagged on the bedside clock. “Shit.” The hissed expletive was vicious and heartfelt. He was late for work. Again.
His stomach roiled violently as he lurched to his feet. Staggering to the nearest wall, Shaun braced himself, willing the nausea to subside. He was tempted to call in sick, but his boss had already spoken to him about his poor performance lately.
Half an hour later and Shaun was showered, shaved and as decent as he could make himself look. Painkillers had solved most of his problems, but something nagged at him, something hovering just on the edge of his memory.
He was going through his front door when he noticed a voice mail on his cell. Distractedly, he listened to it, wincing as Peter’s voice blasted into his ear.
“Shaun, what the hell is going on? I saw you last—”
He cut the message short, deleted it. He didn’t have time to deal with whatever was up with Peter.
Going to the garage beneath his building, Shaun got into his car. Inputting his destination into the car’s navi-array, he engaged the autopilot. Usually he liked to drive manually, but today he needed the extra time to think.
He needed to cut back on the nights out. Lately, he had been spending more nights out than in, prowling through bars and clubs. Clara in his head and a lust that refused to be slaked. He tried though. A train of women had made their way through his bed.
Why had he woken up this morning alone then?
A flicker of memory darted through his mind. An impression of flesh and heat. A shadow of arousal that had his dick hardening. He hadn’t been alone last night. Maybe they had snuck out before he woke up? It bugged Shaun that he couldn’t remember her though.
And where was Clara?
The car stopped. Three beeps snapped Shaun back to awareness, an electronic voice telling him he had arrived at his destination.
Getting out of the car, he locked it and made his way inside his office buildin
g. He hadn’t taken more than ten steps beyond the revolving doors when a voice called him to a stop.
“Shaun? What the hell are you doing here?”
Only by a Herculean effort did Shaun stop the blistering swear word that wanted to fly past his lips. Turning, he pasted a smile on his face and hoped he didn’t look as sick as he felt. “Mr. Mortenson, good morning. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
The older man frowned. “Late?” he repeated and then louder, “Late? You call not showing up for work for four days, late?”
Around them, the few people walking through the lobby stopped and stared at Mortenson’s incredulous shriek. Shaun couldn’t blame them, not when he could only stare himself. A sick chill crept up his spine.
“What are you talking about?” He could barely keep his voice steady. “It’s Monday.”
“No. It’s Friday.” Mortenson’s frown deepened into heavy lines of disapproval. His face scoured him. Shaun knew what he would see. The rumpled suit. The dark circles under his eyes. His pale skin and hair still damp from his hurried shower. “Are you on drugs?”
Shaun heard the question, but didn’t bother to answer it. A glance at his cell and the truth that he had missed was there: Friday 24th.
Ignoring Mortenson and his indignant cries, Shaun staggered back toward the entrance.
“Clara, what have you done?”
Nothing but an echoing silence answered him.
Chills swept up his spine as he stumbled back to his car. His hands shook so much he could barely unlock the door. When he finally managed to open it, he collapsed inside, breathing hard and on the edge of passing out. He programmed the car to take him back home.
Four days. Four fucking days when he had no idea what had happened to him. What he had done.
Shaun changed his destination.
It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet, but he had to go back to the bar where he had met Monica, the last place he remembered being before this morning. Hopefully going there would spark his sluggish memory to life because Clara was still dormant.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” he whispered to himself.
Was he really going crazy? Had her voice ever been real?
Finding a parking spot a little way down the street from the bar, Shaun got out and hurried toward it.
“Shaun. Hey Shaun.”
The unfamiliar voice rocked him to a stop. Confusion swirled through his mind because he didn’t know that voice and yet he did. Clammy sweat dampened his skin and chilled him to the bone.
Shaun turned around and found himself enveloped in a clinging embrace.
“I was so hoping to see you again.” The man loosened his hold a little and grinned at him. “Naughty boy. You told me you’d leave me your digits.”
With a wrench, Shaun broke free. He clenched his fists to hide the sick shaking.
The man, a handsome Asian guy in his twenties, frowned in concern. “Hey, you all right?” He reached out a hand to touch Shaun’s cheek and Shaun flinched away.
“I don’t know you.” The words were choked out of Shaun’s throat because even as he said it, he knew he did. He knew this man down to the taste of his cock and the noises he made when he came. The knowledge burst through his mind, the memory followed by another and another.
The other man frowned, hurt in his eyes and the shadow of angry suspicion. “You don’t remember me? Come on, you weren’t drinking that much.”
Shaun knew it had nothing to do with alcohol.
Clara, what have you done?
Without saying a word, Shaun spun round and rushed for his car, ignoring the man shouting his name behind him.
Owen. His name was Owen.
He made it back to his apartment in a daze. Bursting through the door, Shaun slammed it shut behind him and screamed. The ragged cry echoed through his apartment. It hadn’t faded before he collapsed on the floor, the strength gone from his limbs as he tried to understand.
He could remember, he could remember all of it. The lost hours, the lost days. All the things that Clara had tried to hide from him. Peter’s message suddenly made sense.
“You stole my body.” A pained whisper.
For the first time since he’d woken up, Shaun felt Clara move in his mind. She felt sluggish, like she was tired. Shaun guessed she had reason to be.
Only for a little while.
Fury rushed through Shaun, chasing away the chill of shock. “Four days,” he hissed. “That’s not a ‘little while’ and it’s not the point. You took me over! You used my body!”
And she’d let others use it too. A barrage of images battered him, ghostly sensations sweeping over his body. Pleasure that even now made his cock surge to life between his legs. Fuck, no wonder he was sore. The things he had done, that he had begged those men to do to him. Shaun’s cheeks burned.
I just wanted to have a little fun, Shaun.
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“You’re not Clara. My Clara would never do something like this to me.”
Oh, but I am. I am everything Clara was and all the parts that you never saw, never knew. Not just her memories, but her dreams, her desires, all the things she kept secret. Even from you.
“Clara didn’t hide anything from me.”
That velveteen laugh as familiar as it was strange. A glimpse of a face from the corner of his eye. Gone when he turned to look. Shows how much you know. A pause. There was so much I didn’t get to do, Shaun, so many experiences I didn’t get to have.
Sensation rippled through his mind, a caress. Despite his anger, his horror, Shaun’s eyes slid shut, his head falling back on his shoulders.
I got carried away. I’m sorry. I promise I won’t do it again.
A tear squeezed out the corner of Shaun’s eye.
“You’re lying.”
Another pause. How can you tell?
Shaun laughed and it was as bitter as his tears. “Because you’re my wife and there are still some things I know about you.”
You wanted me to live, Shaun. I want to live.
Peter had been right. All his friends had been right.
Closing his eyes, Shaun moved his hand in a small, complicated gesture. It felt stiff, unwilling. Was it his reluctance or Clara’s? He didn’t even know.
Shaun, stop it.
“I love you Clara, I’ll always love you, but I’m doing what I should have done a year ago.” His hands fisted as he accessed his neural implants, selected his commands. “I’m letting you go.”
No, Shaun, don’t do—
“Good-bye.”
Notes on a Scandal
Kelly Maher
The first note appeared with the photocopy of an article from 1853 discussing the fallout of an affair between an aristocratic lady and a married minister in England’s exchequer office. Pale lavender pages scrawled across with dark purple ink were interfiled with the black-and-white pages.
It has been too long since I last saw you. You rarely notice me, but every time we meet, I find that I cannot tear my eyes away from your features. Each night after one of our timeless, and yet too short, encounters, I dream of you. I wonder what it would be like if our hands brushed. The electric feel of skin against skin, a physical connection not to be denied, the knowledge of what could be if more than a square centimeter of our individual bodies met together. Would it be glorious, this conjoining? Disappointing? Have I built you up too much in my own mind? To the point neither you nor another man could meet the high standards I have?
Friends tell me I’m too picky. They don’t know the true reason: I’m afraid. Afraid of my dreams being met and exceeded. Afraid of my dreams being too lofty. How would you counsel me? Your intelligence shines bright in your eyes every brief moment we have together. It is your quick mind and wit which first attracted me, I must admit. I’ve never understood the predilection of my friends for fine features without substance behind them.
My fondest dream is one where we meet, surrounded by other people,
and you see me, truly see me and wake as if from an enchanted sleep. You clasp my hand in yours and declare the need to whisk me away from the crowd to learn more about me. We leave everyone behind, ignoring the whispers building around us.
We find a secluded room and there, we begin to learn each other. The soft touch of lips, fingers. Exploring, discovering, uncovering. Soon, the crowd refuses to be rejected and comes to claim us once more. We are separated, but all I can feel are your hands upon me. Learning my curves, my secrets.
Gasps fill the air around me as I cannot resist remembering, recreating the way your hands moved across my skin. I need more of you. More time. More hands. More cock.
Brandon blinked. The abrupt end to the handwritten note had him scrabbling through the other papers in the envelope trying to find the rest of the letter. There had to be more. No woman would end an intimate letter to a lover on such a note. He paused. That was such a bad pun.
“Argh.”
He caught a few glares from the other students surrounding him and flushed. Wincing, he acknowledged their silent rebukes and returned to his search. Nothing. Not one more scrap of paper. He read the note again and realized there was no way the paper was contemporary to the subject of the article. This was not a missive from between the parties involved in the scandal he was studying, as he’d first assumed.
Who, then, was it from? Who was it for? The language didn’t strike him as particularly modern, but what did he know? It’s not like he’d ever been the recipient of a love letter of any kind.
He packed his bag up and headed back to the access services desk. Lauren sat to one side, typing away at the lone computer on the service desk. She smiled at him.
Her dark-blonde hair was twisted up behind her head with what looked like chopsticks anchoring it. The dark-brown plastic rims of her glasses seemed to emphasize the chocolate brown of her eyes.
For some reason, he’d never noticed the specifics of Lauren’s appearance. If pressed, he probably would have said her eyes were blue, because didn’t all blondes have blue eyes?
