My eyes had turned blue.

I came round on the kitchen floor, cold and cramped. My trousers were back on so perhaps they had never really come off. They were pale blue but with a dark patch at my crotch. I lay there, reluctant to move, reluctant to face the now obvious fact I needed psychiatric help.

I checked the clock on the oven and realised I must have been there for an hour or so. Heaving myself up to my feet, I stood shakily where I had stood during that utterly incredible assault and tried to breathe myself back to normality. The card that had accompanied the flowers was lying, face down, on the counter. I turned it over.

‘From Patience and Tina.’ No, no, that isn’t right. It had definitely said, ‘From Clemency.’ I know it did because I read it. I looked in the mirror and my eyes were back to their normal dark brown.

I walked through to my sitting room and poured myself a large brandy and swallowed it one hit, then poured another. I sat in my deep, soft armchair and relished its embrace. It was calming. I leant my head back against the soft fabric. What was happening to me? No, what HAD happened to me?

I am a normal, rational woman. I have no faith in supernatural or super-natural anything. I believe everything is explicable, it’s just that sometimes the explanation is out of reach. I looked down at the dark patch between my thighs. I’d had an orgasm, that much was clear. And what an orgasm. It had been as intense, as mind-bending as the one in my second dream. This time, however, it hadn’t been Clemency’s tongue, or tongues, it had been her strapon. She’d fucked me. I’d felt her hands, her breath. I’d heard her voice. I’d felt her dildo push into me. But, and this was the big but, she hadn’t been there.

Mentally shaking myself I stood up and hastily stripped off my trousers. Had I simply pissed myself? I lifted the crotch of the trousers to my nose, slightly ashamed of myself and sniffed but it wasn’t piss, it was me, my erotic emissions. I went through to my bedroom, put the trousers in my laundry basket, slipped off the camisole and went into the shower. I washed myself again, everywhere; my hair, my body, my hands and feet and my cunt and arse as if I could wash away the mystery, the different, the fear.

I pulled on a long, red nighty and slipped between the sheets of my bed and lay there. The darkness gathered around me, like a cloak. Heavy-eyed, I resisted sleep. Every time I thought I was drifting I’d say something out loud.

“Sleep, Maggie. Sleep and embrace the mystery, the different, the fear.” Clemency’s voice, seductive, calming, hypnotic.

She stood at the end of my bed, wearing the white dress or, if not THE white dress, A white dress. I could see the shadows of her nipples and her pubic hair. Her long, black hair was draped over one shoulder but parted as it flowed over her breast. Her eyes were jet, shining. She opened the curtain of her dress and a deep purple phallus, oily looking, seemed to bounce in her hand.

“Did you feel it, Maggie? Did you feel it inside you? Did you want it? Of course you did.” I was on my front but had no recollection of turning. I felt her weight on me, her nipples, the soft fabric of the dress, her hair. The tip of her dildo touched my arse. Her hair was on my shoulders, my nightdress pulled up to my waist. Her breath was warm on my ear.

“I will be inside you soon. Deep inside you.” The phallus pushed into my arse. One simple thrust and then all her weight was on me, pressing me into the bed and I was full. She bit my neck, and thrust into me, in and out, making me groan with the exquisite eroticism of it. She fucked me like that for eternity. My body was floating, as if I were on some glutinous liquid that held me, like a moist, silk balloon. I felt her orgasm. I felt it like a powerful wind.

My own followed, silent. It was as if I had cum in my mind, rather than my body.

I had fallen asleep. When I woke up I thought about that dream. I resolved to find a therapist. I wasn’t mad enough to think this was normal. I got out of bed and took off my nightdress, wet like the others, and threw it, disgusted with myself, into the laundry basket. I reached behind myself and, oh God, there was a hint of lubricant between my buttocks. I showered, vigorously washing my arse and, once dried, dressed in my dull librarian’s uniform. Making myself tea, my eye was drawn once again to the card that had accompanied the flowers. I picked it up and opened it. No Clemency. So, I decided, hallucinations. I sat with my tea and a note pad and wrote down everything. Writing things down had been therapeutic all through my confused adolescence. I used to write about being different from other girls at school; about the way a woman made me feel when I looked at her; how Miss Burnett had actually made me wet when, innocently, she had stood beside me as I read an essay out loud and her hand had rested on my shoulder. I still have those notebooks and reading them often makes me shudder at the naivety of the scribbled musings.

I started with the conjuring tricks, the silk hankie, the full glass, the locket. Then the dreams. I didn’t, couldn’t write the detail. If anyone saw that, they’d be seeing deep into my depravity. I just wrote, ‘the dreams, the white dress.’ But I wrote, pages of notes that I would read again and again until I knew what was happening to me.

I went to work, determined to search for a therapist, maybe a hypnotherapist, anyone who could help me. But then, during my coffee break, a thought struck me like a hammer blow. Why had I not thought it before? Hypnosis! Clemency had said, that first time I met her, that she did hypnosis. That could explain everything. It must be the explanation. I felt huge relief, as if I had uncovered the big secret, the truth. She’d hypnotised me. Was it, perhaps, the mantra, ‘the mystery, the different, the fear,’ that was her route into my head? When had she done that? How would I ever know? Who cares? Now I know, I can resist it, fight it, beat it.

Who needs a therapist? A simple, rational explanation and I’m free.

The following morning, Thursday, I woke up following a dream-free night. I thought about the councillor, Eleanor Torven. The one who had visited me at the library after my campaign of letters and posters. I remembered how her hand had touched mine. I got out of bed, wrapped my dark blue robe around me and made my way to the kitchen for a much-needed cup of tea or three.

While it brewed, I put the radio on, and half listened as I tidied a few things away. I poured the tea and sipped at it. Finally ready to face the day, I dressed and left the flat. I always enjoyed the walk to the library. The route took me through the old, Georgian part of town to the new, more modern part and I stopped at my favourite coffee shop to grab a latte before entering the library. I nattered to a couple of colleagues, re-shelved a pile of books and went into the office to do some admin.

My desk was, invariably, untidy and a new sense of purpose made me clear it up, throwing the unwanted into the bin, filing the necessary. I even polished my desk. I went to the toilet and, on my return, found a piece of paper where, before, there had been nothing. It was blank. For some reason, it disturbed me. I left it there and went into the main body of the library and took over at the desk that people came to to register the books they were taking away. It was busy and I didn’t really notice the faces, just got on with the work and being polite.

The last in the line came. I looked up to see Eleanor Torven with three books.

“Hello again, Ms Mason.”

“Ms Torven. Good to see you again.”

“You too. I decided to become a patron of your library so I can see more of what goes on.”

There being nobody else waiting, I suggested a cup of coffee. She accepted and we went into the staff room where I made, and apologised for, the coffee. “I buy it from a coffee shop before work but rarely get the chance to slip out and buy a decent one during the day.”

Torven was wearing clean white trainers, well-cut, dark grey trousers and a white shirt with the same classy, grey, woollen jacket. Her grey hair was slightly unruly, as if it was determined not to be tamed. “I want you to speak to an informal group of councillors.” I asked what about. “Your library, of course.”

“You should ask the Chief Librarian.”

“I have and he’s happy, enthusiastic in fact.” Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed. We stood to say goodbye and as we shook hands, she pushed a strand of my hair behind my ear. “That looks better, Maggie.” We stood, silently for a moment, my hand still in hers. “Is there anyone in your life?” I thought, mind your own fucking business but I shook my head and, sadly, realised it was true. “Tomorrow evening, then?” I nodded. At least it got me out of the late evening shift. “We could have supper after? If you’d like?”

Conflict comes in many guises. “Is there anyone in your life?” Was I right to say that there wasn’t?

I went back to my desk. The piece of paper was still there, but when I turned it over, I saw it. C xxx. Violently, I tore it to shreds and threw it in the bin.

That Friday, rather than dressing to go to Denise’s bar, I changed into a knee length, dark blue dress that was my ‘professional casual’ outfit. I untied my hair, deciding that I wanted to give a relaxed impression which, to be honest, belied my true feelings.

Eleanor Torven introduced me to about twelve of her fellow councillors in a meeting room. It was an imposing room, portraits of long-dead worthies lining the walls and a monstrous long-case clock in one corner, chiming portentously as I stood.

When I was a young girl, I used Grange Road library. My school had a library but nothing matched the atmosphere and freedom of Grange Road. Through its books I travelled, not like in Geography text books but as if I were really travelling: meeting people from exotic countries, tasting their culture. I learned about ordinary people, not politicians and monarchs. I met, vicariously, explorers, adventurers, villains and heroes.

Now, we offer those same experiences to everyone but especially to those who need them most. Elderly people with no internet access can come in and, often with our help, sort out things like their fuel suppliers, their pensions. We can provide access to advice, counselling and a host of other things that people need, all in the familiar and welcoming environment of the library.

People without books are people without words; words they could use to improve their employment prospects, the way they communicate with loved ones, the way they think.

I could, in a week, read books with conflicting views of world events and, with guidance, define my own orthodoxy. More importantly, I learned to recognise the difference between propaganda and truth, manipulation and truth.

Also, and importantly, whilst the internet provides easy access to information, nothing beats going through a reference book and following not just the thread you started to research, but also the by-ways of snippets that spark your interest, the things you see and which lead to far more interesting discoveries.

I know every service your council provides begs, pleads for more money. I’m not doing that. What I am asking, with all my heart, is that you don’t cut our funding more, that you allow us to continue to feed the curious, inform those hungry for knowledge, protect developing and developed minds.

That’s an excerpt from my presentation which I delivered without notes because I didn’t need any. I just told them my truth.

After, we, Eleanor and I, walked across town to a restaurant she liked and wanted me to discover. Rounding a corner, we came to a place where the street lighting was poor, sparse. Eleanor stopped and kissed me. I felt her tongue, tentative against my lips; her hand sliding on my waist under my coat. My lips opened but her tongue merely caressed them and her hand stayed on my hip. The kiss lingered like a promise long after we had moved on. Just before we entered the restaurant, Eleanor stopped again and pushed another wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “Sometimes, the council’s failure to maintain the lighting has benefits, don’t you think?”

“Some underfunding has merit, yes.” She kissed me again, briefly and we went in to eat.

After we had eaten, Eleanor asked me where I lived. I told her and she said that her home wasn’t far from mine so we could walk together. We did, arm in arm.

“Your speech was perfect. You didn’t berate them or accuse them. You showed honesty and passion. Passion is so persuasive, isn’t it?” She stopped walking, so I had to too. She pointed to a turning. “I go that way. Will you be ok from here?” I assured her I would. “Well, goodnight and thank you. Could we see each other again?” I told her I’d like that very much and, I confess, I almost asked her to my home but something, I don’t know what, made me restrain myself. We kissed again, a little firmer perhaps but still pretty chastely and said goodnight.

I was as horny as hell when I got home. I pulled my knickers off in my hallway and hurled them aside. I almost ran to my bedroom, undoing my dress as I did so. Still in my stockings I threw myself on the bed, reached for my favourite dildo and found myself wet, ready for her and I fucked myself, the scent and taste of her on me. I lifted my knees and thrust into myself, but it was Eleanor’s hand that held it and Eleanor’s mouth that closed over mine as I came with a long, heavenly sigh.

An orgasm always helps me to sleep. Is there a better sedative?

“I’m with you, Maggie.” Oh, no, please. Even in my sleep I wanted to fight her hypnotic influence. The white dress again, but this time it glowed and there were gaps in it that revealed her nipples so, so clearly. She was standing beside the bed and I found myself lying across the bed, my head hanging off one side and she straddled me and I felt her cunt on my lips just as I had felt Eleanor’s mouth on them. I could feel her clit, like Eleanor’s tongue, barely touching my lips. A long finger stroked over my cunt lips, a second and gently, so gently, opened me and entered me. “Don’t resist me, let me in.”

I sat up sharply and, for a moment, felt dizzy, as if the blood had drained from my brain. The bedroom was dark, no sign of Clemency. My heart was pounding and my nipples hurt as if someone had bitten them. I checked the time. It was four in the morning and I knew that, were I to go back to sleep, Clemency would come to me and I’d have to fight for my sanity. Better to be awake and alert.

The weekend was purgatory. I worked the Saturday morning in the library although it was, officially, my weekend off. I was afraid to go to sleep. I painted my spare room’s walls, weeded the garden frantically as if only occupation would prevent her coming to me. “Leave me alone. I don’t want you, leave me be.”

That Saturday evening, I went to Denise’s bar. Despite it being where I had first encountered Clemency, it felt safe, welcoming. I had a few glasses of wine. I was approached by a tall, elegant butch and, in normal circumstances, I’d have flirted with her, maybe even gone home with her, because she was in many ways the kind of woman I liked. My lack of enthusiasm eventually pissed her off and she left me, obviously eager to find someone she could fuck.

Denise came over. “You’ve got it bad, sweetheart.”

“I’ve definitely got something, Den.”

She took my hand in her friendly, sisterly way. “Whatever it is, you’ll sort it out.”

And then I blurted, “She’s done something to me, Den, to my mind. I feel like I am going crazy.”

Denise came out from behind the bar and put her arms around me and held me to her. Her girlfriend, Glen, took her place to serve the customers and Denise just held me. I heard her say to Glen, “She’s got a bit of woman trouble, poor cow. She’ll be fine. She just needs a hug.” If only that were all I needed. It helped though, as hugs always do.

Monday came. I looked in my bathroom mirror and saw the black rings under my eyes. They gave the impression I’d been punched. I did what I could with moisturiser and eyeshadow and got ready to face the week ahead.

I was checking my emails when I saw that Eleanor had written to me.

Thank you again for talking to my colleagues. You made a great impression, not least on me. I enjoyed your company. How would you feel about meeting me for a drink one evening this week? I could do Wednesday if you could?

I wrote back, accepting and she suggested a wine bar in the centre.

Monday and Tuesday nights were uneventful. I was grateful. My eyes returned to a semblance of normality and I began to hope that my resistance was working. If I was right and Clemency had somehow hypnotised me, maybe that awareness was my protection. However attractive, no, beautiful she was, the mind fucking mystery was too much too bear.

Wednesday evening, I left the library and went home. Getting ready to see Eleanor was exciting. I fancied her of course, that much was obvious. She was my type, gently androgynous, attractive and inclined, I sensed, to take the lead.

I went to my wardrobe and selected the same dress I’d been wearing when I first met Clemency, the wraparound tied at my hip. Maybe I wanted to lay the ghost and, for me, clothes often become associated with someone. I wanted to disconnect. I was disappointed to find a stain on it and, no matter how I tried to sponge it away, it wouldn’t come off. Fuck it. I put it in the laundry and chose again. A soft, deep blue leather skirt with a pale blue silk blouse. Black stockings, suspenders and silk knickers completed the outfit and, looking in the mirror, I decided I looked ok. Three-inch heels gave me some confidence.

The bar wasn’t far, so I walked, the cold evening air clearing my head. I was glad of my long, black coat. The wine bar was warm, noisy and I saw Eleanor stand as I approached her table. She looked good. High waisted trousers, dark green, with a pale blue, button down shirt. Her breasts were larger than I had remembered and I wondered if they were naked under her shirt. If so, then they were firm and proud. We kissed, the sort of kiss that friends do, the sort as an ex used to say, ‘didn’t frighten the horses.’ I sat and she poured me a glass from the bottle she’d already bought. I barely noticed what it was. We talked, and talked. I barely touched the wine.

It was late when Eleanor put her hand on mine. It was cool and her fingers closed around me. I looked up and she smiled. “Come home with me, Maggie?”

Her house was nearby. It was a modern, plain building with an oak front door that led into a bright, welcoming hallway. She closed the door and took my coat. “Come on through to the kitchen.” That was a large, well-appointed room that showed all the signs of someone, like me, who actually cooked. Cluttered work surfaces, equipment such as a mixer, processor, tools and utensils hanging clean from racks. A few jars of spices stood ready for use beside the hob. She poured more wine and, before I could drink it, she took me in her arms and kissed me. As before, her tongue touched my lips as we kissed. I wanted more, and opened my mouth, inviting her into me. Her hands slid down my arms as her tongue accepted my invitation. Our heads shifted position to allow the kiss to intensify, deepen, harden and she held both my hands.

We held that kiss for a long time before breaking. With a smile, she indicated I should sit, and I did, facing her where she sat across the table. Eleanor took my hand, turned it palm up and let her thumb stroke the palm. “I’m inclined to take the lead, Maggie, but I don’t want to go too fast for you.”

“I’ll tell you if you do.”

“I was really impressed with the way you spoke to that meeting. I felt proud. Is that odd?”

“Odd? Perhaps but also lovely.”

We went, inevitably, to her bed. She led but slowly as if she were learning about me. Undressing was at her pace. Then came the deeper intimacies. Mouths first, then tongues, then hands. Hands roaming freely, as if to prove that we had no reservations, no doubts. Her fingers with their lightly polished nails ran along the soft flesh of my under-breast, circled my nipples, squeezed them exquisitely. I did what I could to match. I found my hand in her hair, behind her neck, over her breast. We kissed throughout, except when one or the other of us sought out a new pace to kiss, to lick, to suck, even to bite.

Her finger entered me, curling, stroking and I wanted her, desperately. She straddled my thigh and her cunt was wet on it. For a brief moment, she raised herself and looked down at me, pressing herself to my leg and rotating her hips. She raised a hand and slipped a finger between my lips and I felt possessed, occupied. Then it became more urgent, as if she’d had enough time to prepare for the final onslaught. I was pinned to the bed, with, now, two fingers deep inside me and her thumb on my clit. Relentlessly she rubbed herself, now hard, now soft against me. Her mouth covered mine and I felt her stiffen, as if something had alarmed her but it was her orgasm. It spewed out of her mouth into mine. It flooded out of her cunt onto my leg and it was that, that sudden, unheralded indicator of climax that precipitated mine. It felt, down there, like the confluence of two rivers. We held onto each other, like shipwrecked sailors clinging to a raft. Our breathing was laboured, as if we had run a marathon. The fluids between us began to cool and dry.

“Would you like a shower?”

I rolled her onto her back and stared into her eyes. “No, I want to clean you.”

Sliding down, I licked her breasts, loving her still semi-hard nipples, down over her stomach, the feel of her wild triangle of hair slightly coarse against my chin and then that beautiful, still-flowering cunt, wet still and hot. I licked her, tasted her, drank from her and was rewarded with a small orgasm that gave me still more to clear away. I licked down to her arse and, nose in her cunt, I licked around it and over it then back up.

Sleep came. When I woke up, she was behind me, her arms around me, holding me, restraining me.

“Calm down,” she said, inexplicably. “You’re safe. Who is, er, Clancy?”

Clancy? Oh, dear God, she meant Clemency. “What did I say.”

“You told her to leave you alone, go away and, finally, fuck off. Hardly appropriate for a librarian.” There was a grin in her voice.

“What did she say?”

“Who? There’s nobody else with us,” she paused, “is there?”

“Sorry, just a nightmare.” She stroked my hair.

I went to work that Thursday morning, dressed as I had been when I met Eleanor, except I wore no stockings but I did wear a pair of her knickers. “My best, so look after them.”

I felt renewed, relieved. My day passed without my noticing it’s passing. I arrived home and changed into a slip and a cardigan, made myself soup and toast and sat at my kitchen table.

Postscript.

Two Wednesdays in a row, Tina didn’t turn up at the library for the reading group. I searched my phone for the call from Patience asking me to supper, but I couldn’t find it. I went through the safeguarding forms at the library to see if I could find Patience’s number or address but the forms for Tina were missing.

I decided to walk home past Clemency’s house. It was away from my normal route home, but, try as I might, I couldn’t quite remember the way.

I was turning out a drawer when I came upon the notes I had written when I first decided to try and get my head around Clemency’s mysterious intrusion into my life. Tucked among the pages of the notebook was a small red square of silk, a conjuror’s silk hankie. I was sure it was the one that Clemency had conjured into my suspender but now, there was no telephone number embroidered on it.

Eleanor and I went shopping one weekend and, as we passed a charity shop, she stopped suddenly. “Look at that gorgeous dress. You’d look fabulous in that for the Mayoral Ball.” The dress was the deepest red velvet with two sheer black silk arrows sewn in the top and the skirt, pointing like arrows at the groin and with long sleeves of the same material.

I dragged her away, much to her surprise. The sight of it had made me feel hot and almost as if I might faint.

Eleanor asked me if we might ever consider moving in together. I said, do we need to wait?

Post-postscript.

It seemed that Clemecy and all traces of her were disappearing. I was relieved. I felt that I could breathe again. Eleanor was lovely, safe, warm. Our sex was exciting, uninhibited and deeply satisfying.

I was wrong though. Two days before the Mayoral Ball at which Eleanor had invited me to be, as she put it, her date, I found a box on my doorstep when I returned from work. Intrigued, I carried it indoors and put it on the kitchen table, leaving it there while I changed.

I poured myself a glass of wine, then opened the box. Its contents were covered in tissue paper and there was an envelope with “Maggie’ written simply on it. I opened it and there was a card. “I can’t resist you and I couldn’t resist this either. E.”

I moved the tissue and froze. Dark red velvet. I stepped back, horrified. I lifted it out of the box, handling it like I might an unexploded bomb. The silk panels, arrows, the sheer sleeves; it was THE dress, of that I was certain.

I picked up the card and opened it. I almost screamed.

“You can’t resist me. C.”