Her disappointment in the nightie was easy to quell. She counted herself lucky if even a third of her purchases were keepers. She put away the insistent memory of how badly she had wanted her ass filled…and she picked up the second nightie…
…one last bow and it was tied in place and Look at you, aren't you the pretty, pretty girl! The diaphanous white cloth clung to rounded curves and the full-length mirror faithfully reflected every one. Balding head, bright eyes, straggly mustache over an unshaven face, skinny pale shoulders, whorls of chest hair disappearing into the delicate neckline, a middle-aged pot belly pushing the cloth…
Martha threw the nightie all the way into the hall, where it snagged on a picture frame.
The gift had its drawbacks, for sure. It had taken quite a bit of trial and error before Martha settled on her routine.
At first, when she finally convinced herself to sample other peoples' sex lives, she had reasoned that panties would provide the strongest charge. She quickly discovered that while they were often filled with memories of toe- curling foreplay, they would almost always go cold right at the hottest point, when the owner (or owner's lover) yanked them off and left Martha shuddering with interrupted passion. Enough agonizing frustration, along with two or three traumatic menstrual memories, and she decided to avoid other people's underwear forever.
When she heard about porn stars and Web girls selling used panties, she wondered for a moment whether or not there were others like her out there, buying them for the memories inside, but it wasn't enough for her to consider buying any herself. Besides, second-hand lingerie was cheaper, and people were more likely to leave nighties on during sex.
The third one was a long nightgown with little lace roses at the neck. It looked like something Martha might even have chosen for herself, should she ever wear anything to bed that wasn't for warmth. She had been intending to save it for last but after the first two she badly needed one to work. Casting caution to the winds she rapidly pulled it over her head and wrapped her hands around her breasts, crushing the thin cloth between them…
…and she was Anne and was holding the nightgown up, gazing at it, while a handsome man sat next to her on the bed. He was in his forties, with a salt and pepper beard and streaks of gray and silver in his hair that made Anne/Martha want to run her fingers through it, again and again. Right now he looked absurdly pleased with himself at having chosen correctly.
Anne/Martha held the nightgown to her chest and leaned over to kiss him soundly on the mouth before shooing him out the door. She stood up and let her robe fall to the ground, then applied powder and lipstick before putting the nightgown on. It felt incredible, exciting her nerve endings and tugging her nipples erect to form thick points in the cloth. She could hear John brushing his teeth in the next room; she smiled at his thoughtfulness.
John came back to a darkened room. He didn't pause for an instant, but made his way to the bed to find a double-armful of scented delight, soft and lush. His hands roamed over the familiar wonders made new by a satiny wrap that slid like oil over blood-hot skin. Never once did he fail to find a sensitive spot or a fiery nerve ending, and within seconds Anne/Martha was panting and mindless with want. She gasped as he ran his hand along her side, over her hip, to squeeze at a ripe buttock before slipping between her legs. His knowing fingers pushed the slick cloth against her, tugging at her, setting her folds aflame. The sensations threatened to overwhelm her and push her too close, too fast, so she grabbed the hem of the gown and wrapped it around his cock, drawing it back and forth and causing him to cry out in surprise and desire. A loving race began, the fever cascading over itself until both combatants surrendered and merged. The nightgown slipped up over her thighs as he entered her, and it slid between their bodies as they moved, adding an intoxicating sensation that drove them harder and harder until they roared into each other's mouth and…
…Martha bucked and came, and came, feeling John spurting deep inside her, tasting his mouth, bearing his weight, drumming her heels on his broad back. She let herself drop flat to the mattress, her arms and legs starfished, and rode out the afterglow. It was always an odd experience — the rapture of the climax, the joy of togetherness, the feeling of loss as the memory faded, and the relief at being just Martha again. This one had been more exciting and more painful than usual. A happy, loving relationship was Martha's own secret fantasy; this pale version was like watching through a locked window.
She wrapped her hand in the sheet so she could safely move the nightgown aside. Painful though it was, that one would get saved for later. Psychometric memories never lasted long — her own experiences quickly overrode the traces of former owners. But they were usually good for two or three times before they became too faint to read — and she already had a crush on John. She often got crushes on the men she experienced. They never lasted. Abruptly knowing everything about a strange new man was heady, but another one could always replace him in the next touch.
It was a source of amusement to Martha that she had become such a psychic slut. Whatever would Mother think? One more sip of wine and she touched the next pile…
…tug it down over hippo hips and butt. Dunno why I wear stuff like this, no one else will ever see it, and God knows it's not as comfortable as a t-shirt. But, oh, it feels so nice on my skin, and with the lights off I can pretend I'm a beautiful model. These hands aren't mine, they're the photographer's, because I'm so beautiful. He's seen a thousand women but he can't resist me…
…Off came the gown, and Martha resisted the impulse to throw this one even farther. She hated, hated hearing the thoughts of single, unloved women. They were too close to her own inner anguish. Fantasies were supposed to be better than life; that was the whole point. More depressing still was that in those few seconds while she hated herself, she remembered seeing a perfectly good body that was probably more attractive than Martha's own. She felt a moment of pity and sadness for Jill. At least Martha had a reason to avoid people. Jill's isolation was self-inflicted.
She looked back longingly at the nightgown John had bought for Anne, but steeled herself to move on. Not good to obsess on a perfect lover who's never met you, she thought, and reached for the last one. It was the color of peaches and cream; it eased over her head like smoke…
…and John, her John, was over her again, thrusting and grunting, the old fool. Anne/Martha tilted her hips to speed things up so he'd pop and she could go to sleep. Faking arousal did begin to wear on you after awhile. John was a good man, a decent husband, but oh Lord, Rick was incredible and young and the things he did drove her wild. Anne/Martha let herself remember what Rick had done with his tongue in the motel and for the first time tonight she felt her juices flow. There we go, she thought and closed her eyes. That isn't John on me, it's Rick, and he's sucking my cunt 'til I see spots, and he's jumping up to ram it into me and it hurts and it feels so good and I'll be damned I think I'm going to come…
…A tiny Martha voice cried out in betrayal and pain. How could she?…
…The phone rang. John lunged to pick it up with a movement that nearly sent Anne/Martha over the edge, but his words sent a torrent of ice water down her spine.
'Yeah?' he gasped.
'Jimmy, look, I can't talk right now…what? They were where? The Motel 6?' Terror captured Anne/Martha's mind as John looked down at her, pain blossoming across his face. 'No, I — No, thank you for telling me, Jim.' He hung up, looked at her for a long, questioning moment, then got up and left without a word. Emptied and alone, Anne/Martha shook quietly for a long time before the wracking sobs broke free and consumed her…
…Martha tore the gown in half, ripping it off her body with a strength that would have surprised her if she'd been capable of noticing. How could Anne have done that? How could she have hurt such a good man? For Martha knew John now, knew both him and Anne intimately and completely. John was the most handsome, responsible, loving man she had ever encountered. She could hardly conceive why any woman would stray from him, even having just been inside the mind of one who did. What fool would throw that away? John was perfect. The memory of his tortured face looking down on her, pleading for explanation, tore her heart.
Riding Anne's mind, she had learned all there was to know about him, his tastes, his loves, his life, their wedding day, his favorite Chinese restaurant, everything that Anne knew. She had felt their thundering passion — and Anne had cut out his heart. Living through both events in a matter of moments was enough to tear her soul in two.
Anne's lover seemed a poor replacement. Young and rough and…Martha realized with a shock that the first nightie she had touched in the store, the one with the brutal penetration, had been Anne's as well. She had worn it in the motel.
Numb, Martha realized something else. This had happened recently. The feelings were too fresh, too intense. John finding out about Anne's infidelity somehow led directly to Anne's lingerie ending up in a thrift shop, and the
