afterimage: roughly investigating her sex, kneading her breasts as if to squeeze out milk, fingers invading her rectum. Once she’d wakened to find herself masturbating so frantically, she’d rubbed her sex sore. Another time she’d alighted from her slumber to find herself sopped with a sheen of what she first thought was semen. But that was ridiculous. It must only be sweat. She’d been sweating a lot lately.
Upon each waking she sipped a shot of Grand Marnier, hoping the heavy alcohol content would soon drag her to full sleep. Twice she showered, to blast off the sticky sweat, but on both occasions she found that, as her hands coursed soap suds about her body, she’d wind up touching herself. She felt in a trance. Without even knowing it at first, her fingers teased her to paltry yet preposterously successive orgasms. Each climax felt like the next pearl on the string being extracted from her sex. The sensation seemed to never end, yet it never left her satisfied. It always left her longing for something more, something succulent and sating.
She felt so confused about everything in her life now she wanted to scream. The only love she’d ever had in her life was him. Was she being gullible and stupid, as Donna had implied? Or was there something to his
When she looked at the clock, she saw it was past midnight, which came as a sharp shock. Had she really slept the entire day away? Had she become so maladjusted that she’d forget her responsibilities? Not that she had many right now. The Inn was closed. She still felt infuriated that she’d never been able to find Feldspar. And why would he tell her that he was using the last suite in the hall when the last suite in the hall clearly had never been occupied? So many things seemed to be adding up to a false figure.
She took a bath, sipped more GM, and slept again. Snow pelted silently against the panes of her window; the heat in the room felt smothering, and the vents ticked. Half drifting off, she could swear she heard the now-familiar thunking of the room-service elevators, but that couldn’t be.
The Inn was closed.
That’s what she’d been told. That’s what Kyle had told her, and Dan B. too. She’d even, earlier, looked out on the front door and read the apologetic sign:
Still…her dream.
When she plummeted to full sleep, The Hands were on her at once. They flipped her onto her back in the dark, one hand pinching a nipple as the other plied her buttocks. Simultaneously, a tongue which felt huge attentively laved her from anus to navel, then plodded into her sex. Her fluids seemed to gush. As turned on as she was, she felt an accommodating shame: The Hands roused to abuse her, pinching her nipples till she yelped, slapping her face. Then the large, warm body slid atop her. The tongue licked her open eyes while The Hands alternately girded her throat and yanked her hair. Her dream-suitor’s genitals sunk so deeply into her sex that she stiffened as if gored; its sheer size stole her breath. But at least now her satisfaction was at hand—the veined shaft pummeled her, each stroke finishing to nudge the bulb of her cervix. The mouth sucked her lips as if to eat them as handfuls of hair were seized and pulled. Vera came in a series of detonations, and when she could come no more, The Hands rearranged her and coaxed the stiffened genitals to her lips. She chuckled in her throat, delighted at the flavor of her own musk as she intently sucked upon a penis that felt almost too large to admit into her mouth. One hand stroked the unseen buttocks while her other cradled testicles that seemed like twin tomatoes on a vine. When the saline gobs emptied into her throat, she swallowed them greedily and without a flinch…
And when she awoke…
Was that the door she heard clicking closed in the dark?
