It came for me in the night again, during the theta states; those moments I'm neither asleep nor lucid. That alone begged all manner of questions; primarily that it couldn't be a dream.
Dreaming only occurs in much later sleep stages, during the REM cycle. Every medical journal agreed. Yet this was the third such experience in as many weeks, each more thrilling and unsettling than the last. So either the medical world was wrong or this was something else entirely.
I tried to slow my breathing, listening for any signs above my galloping pulse. There was nothing to latch onto, but I knew it was there. I could sense it, waiting, planning its moves and I didn't know whether to smile or puke. Jesus, what would it be tonight? More of that exquisite touching and probing? The way it somehow knew exactly where to stroke. The perfect amount of pressure to exert. Or maybe it would take things to a completely new level? Would that even be possible after… last time?
I shivered. Neuroscience 101 posits that fear and exhilaration begin, electrically, with the same response. Same impulses to the thalamus. Same surge of dopamine. Same neurotransmitter activity. The difference between the feelings stems from how the brain interprets those signals. How you allow yourself to be affected by them. With my eyes closed I couldn't figure which was the greater.
The tiny sliver of moonlight, cast across the ceiling from curtains that had never quite shut, faded from my mind's eye. The bed felt cavernous in the dark, my skin clammy, duvet and clothes discarded due to the heat. But I still shuddered when it touched me. It made no sound, yet I could somehow hear it clearly in my head, telling me to breathe. To relax and trust it. I knew I could reach for the lamp to dispel the uncertainty, but part of me – the part that wasn't scared shitless – revelled in the unknown.
It had to be a dream. Nothing as good could be real. One appendage on whatever the hell it was, slithered over my brow, an attempt to soothe my nerves perhaps, while another ignited my libido as it traced hips that Andrew had tactfully described as "womanly". A third feeler lazily looped the circumference of my left breast and I knew the hardness of my nipple would betray me, regardless of the turmoil in my head.
Its touch was soft, slightly tacky, and it explored with the flowing grace of a dolphin through an ocean. I let it. An electric thrill coursed my body as the appendage formed a figure eight around my quivering breasts and squeezed. I opened my mouth and breathed in sharply, fear definitely taking a back seat, just for a moment.
The analytical side of my brain – the one I'd employed every day at work until recently – needed answers to why this creature now plagued my nights. A stress reaction, perhaps? God knows it'd been a hellish few months. The breakdown had come seemingly out of the blue, but on reflection the signposts had been clear.
When Andrew walked out after four years of marriage, citing how distant I'd become, I should have paid attention instead of choosing denial. But it drove me further into work. More hours. More breakthroughs. Less sleep. Blocking out the truth day after day until, like the cam belt on my car that left me at the mercy of public transport, I'd snapped.
And the straw that broke the camel's back? A staple gun. A fucking staple gun of all things. Funny how such small moments can shine a spotlight on the great. Like the way in which two more of the creature's appendages brushed up and down over each of my rigid nipples. Feathery and fluttering like moth wings around a light bulb, yet the effect as deeply felt as when I have three fingers buried deep inside my wet pussy in a bid to propel myself over the orgasmic precipice.
There'd been a lot of that after he left. Perhaps the result of denying myself what my 'womanly' body craved after too many not tonights, preferring to drift asleep alone to the sound of his gentle, rhythmic snoring beside me. Content. Unchanging. Safe.
With Andrew gone – I suspect partly due to our infrequent attempts at starting a family resulting in failure – and my self-inflicted workload rising, switching off at night became difficult. Mind permanently on spin cycle. No position comfortable. Too hot under the covers, too cold sticking my feet out.
Pills were an option, but I was reticent. Too many side effects from such man-made chemicals afloat in my system. So I tried an alternative: exploring my neglected body. Taking myself places I hadn't been in months or longer. Reconnecting. Using the natural drugs my body could provide to banish the tumbling thoughts and slip into hazy sleeps, fingers sticky, the room reeking of unshared desire.
As the creature stroked my forehead and rhythmically tightened and loosened its grip on my breasts, my mind began to wander. I fought to stay focused on the moment, on the exquisite feelings stirring in the pit of my stomach, but found it impossible. Almost like it wanted me to remember.
Memories flapped and jumped like my great grandfather's reel-to-reel until an image stabilised in my mind. I was alone in bed. Naked, like now. Exploring. Starting slow, just caresses over my trim belly, stoking the fires within until the embers began to glow. My fingers moved across hypersensitive skin that almost crackled beneath its surface. Gentle squeezes of my breasts became needier as want welled, just as my unseen invader was mimicking.
It directed me to recall a time the kindling ignited inside me, one hand trailing to my sex, finding it open and waiting. Dripping. I dipped my finger in, teased myself repeatedly, bringing the end in sight then backing off. Over and over. Edging. Circling ever closer to the volcanic lip until I could take no more. Until the only way to quench the magma in my veins was to thrust one, two, three fingers inside myself, and mash my aching clit with my palm. To take myself on a familiar yet uncharted journey towards release, each moment making me hotter. Wetter. More animated. Bucking off the sheets as the flames consumed me, lighting every synapse at once and flushing my perspiring body with its desperate, chemical payload.
The welcome firecrackers in my head would bring closure, at least for one night, allowing me to float to sleep in the sticky aftermath. A pattern repeated almost nightly until, well, the stapler incident.
It started innocently enough. My boss called me to her office and asked if I'd assemble a study group from the workforce. Volunteers to connect up to our latest wave pattern analyser – unofficially termed Professor X for reasons that only X-Men comic fans would appreciate. I was in the middle of another experiment, irritable from lack of sleep and too much caffeine. A deadly concoction.
Hands on hips, a defiant flick of my inky, shoulder-length hair, I challenged: "Can't you send out an All Employee email?"
Eleanor's peroxide bob stayed put, even with the shake of her head. "IT would have a fit. It's not mission-critical."
I sighed theatrically. "I'm in the middle of this research and close to a result. Don't have time to babysit a study group. Can it wait a few days?"
She pursed her lips and brushed some invisible dust from her desk surface. "Not really. Time is money."
I sighed again. "Any recruitment specifics?"
"No. Random sample."
"So how should I get volunteers?"
"Jesus, Chelsea. Use your imagination. Go old school if you have to. Bit of paper on the notice board in the canteen for all I care. Just get it done."
I scowled. "Fine. I'll do it later."
"Now, please. The sooner it's posted the sooner they stop hounding me for results we don't have."
"Why can't you do it?"
"I'm busy."
"So am I. And I don't even have any stationery."
"This isn't a discussion, Chelsea." She reached into her desk drawer and retrieved a sheet of headed notepaper and pen, sliding it towards me beneath cerise nail polish. "There."
I stalked to her desk, grabbed the pen and wrote: "Volunteers wanted for exciting brain study. Ten minutes connected to 'Professor X' while being asked a few questions and recording the results. Email Chelsea.Lake if you're interested."
Clicking the pen shut, I spun the paper. "There. Old school enough for you?"
Eleanor read it and sighed. "Hardly appealing, but it'll do."
I took the pen back and added a smiley at the end. "Better?"
"Don't be such a smart-arse, Chelsea. Just go and stick it up."
I resisted the wisecrack to ask her which orifice. "With?"
She exhaled noisily and muttered, "Want a job doing…" She reached into her drawer again, retrieved a staple gun and held it out. "Here. Try not to hurt yourself."
For the record, I don't hate my boss. Sure, she's a little brusque and condescending at times and is under a lot of pressure from management, but at that moment I just saw red. Total, irrational blind rage flared up inside me and I boiled over; three months of repressed fury released in one instant. I grabbed the staple gun, turned it and fired one into the palm of her outstretched hand.
Time seemed to slow down as we both stared at the blood seeping from the pair of pinpricks beneath the metal, and watched it roll off her palm and drip to the desk. I raised my free hand in horror to my mouth and dropped the staple gun in the same instant. It clattered alongside the drops of blood, scratching the desk surface in the process.
After the initial shouting and tending to the wound, and after I'd sunk to a heap on her office floor crying, Eleanor was remarkably understanding. Far more than I'd have been if the roles had been reversed. I spilled details of the break-up, stress at work and my lack of sleep, while she nodded wordlessly. I missed out the part regarding my nocturnal solo habits. In the end, we decided it best if I take some time off. Paid, thankfully.
I took the bus straight home, alongside midday weirdos and the elderly with nothing better to do than complain to each other about why the service was not on time. Neither group I acknowledged, just stared at the floor, to the point I almost missed my stop and stumbled off the bus in a daze.
Trudging up my street, I jangled keys in the lock on automatic, swung the door shut and just stood in the hallway, shaking and listening to, well, nothing. Didn't know what to do. Eventually animating, I sought out my pyjamas then spent the afternoon feeling utterly sorry for myself on the sofa alongside a slab of chocolate that would feed four and a stack of DVDs. Pretty in Pink. Coyote Ugly. Guilty pleasures.
Perhaps spurred on by the LeAnn Rimes lyrics or the cocoa, when the evening rolled around I'd decided that sorrow wasn't going to own me and that the way to cheer myself up was a drink and some music or dancing. I dolled myself up as best I could remember, opting for heels, a pleated black skirt and lilac blouse, with a little make-up to cover the red eyes from crying. I wore my hair down.
The sun hadn't even set as I took a cab into the city and ended up in Grumpy's tavern. The name seemed fitting, yet the clientele were anything but. It was raucous and hot and energetic: four-deep at the bar, with a six-piece covers band belting out tracks in the corner. The music was more than three decades before my time, but the band were pretty good; The Six Tees, according to the logo on the kick drum. People packed onto the minuscule dance floor laughed, boogied and spilled plenty of beer. I considered joining them. One more drink first.
Several shots in – I treated myself to doubles, bought in pairs to avoid the queue – I was feeling that buzz, swaying to the music as the band finished on a lively rendition of I'm a Believer, cleverly utilising the trumpet player whom I swore was checking me out.
Turned out I was right. He sidled up to the bar after they'd packed away and we got chatting. Well, I got chatting. A real motor mouth when I'm drunk. He had a chiselled jaw and magnetic eyes the same shade as the chocolate I shouldn't have consumed. Playing it cool, he bought me drinks I didn't need and listened to me unload. I like a man who just listens and doesn't try to fix everything.
He was charming. Funny. Flirtatious with a self-deprecating ease that indicated he didn't take himself too seriously. Knew when to shut up. When to interject with a good-humoured tease. When to brush his hand against mine. I shivered every time, the touches stirring something I realised I'd missed, even though I was still technically married.
Closing time came and went as the place began to empty. Perhaps knowing he was onto a good thing, he helped me totter through the oak door into the night and gave me a piggyback a short way, before we both collapsed through laughter at the entrance to an alleyway. Laughter died away as our eyes met and I made a snap decision. Marched him between the buildings, grabbed his lapels and shoved him against the wall, kissing him hard. He responded like I expect all trumpet players would: with good fingering.
In the time it would have taken his band to play Lady Madonna, his hands were in my knickers and were every bit as good as his playing would suggest. Thanks to our extended flirting I was already wet, grinding against his leg, hands clutching his pert arse and urging him on.
It had to be lowered inhibitions: I wasn't usually that girl. The market for giving out on a first date was cornered by Mercy Markham from HR, usually wearing half what I was, rain or shine. Yet I gave out in the biggest way, skirt hiked, everything on the menu. As his fingers crept further into my dampening underwear, slithering between wanting pussy lips, my mouth found his between gasps. I was all over him. Hands everywhere, trying to pull him into me; through me. Lipstick smeared between us, tongues lancing. I must have seemed desperate, but he didn't seem to care. Wanted it as much as I did.
Lips still connected, my hands scrabbled for his belt, loosening with surprising dexterity given my inebriation. He was already surging in his underwear. I could feel his heat as I slid my hands into his boxers and pulled out the thickest cock I'd ever wrapped my hand around. It was a fucking python, I swear. Veined, hard, and eager, it pulsed every time I slipped my enclosed fist around its girth. It felt deliriously good in my diminutive hand. I had no idea how I'd ever fit it inside me but knew I wanted to try and would do anything to get it. Even beg.
I momentarily tore away from his kiss. "Fuck, I want you."
He grinned, working his fingers inside me as far as he could; a task made more difficult by the angle of my body against the wall. "So I feel."
Bringing my hands to my chest, I rubbed and pinched through the thin fabric, feeling the heat coursing my body, electric pinpricks at the tips of each hardened nipple. Looking down at the enraged phallus between us, I bit my lower lip. "Put it in me. Now."
He withdrew his fingers, used my lubrication glistening in the ice blue light from the streetlight to smear the tip of his impressive manhood, and angled it at my needy centre.
My head lolled to one side, barely registering the stares from a couple passing the mouth of the alleyway as they strolled past the spectacle. Me with my skirt up around my waist, panties yanked aside, shoulders against the wall, lunging my hips at this man I didn't know but who smelled musky and right as he guided his massive prick inside me.