Smut Showcases the Soul!: Getting Over You By Getting Under Someone Else

Unforgettable –

Part Two

Read Part One Here

Even to a back room that looks strangely like storage. Except it won't be.

There will be a small bed in the back, tidy if plain.

Until She sits down on it, somehow transforming the bed—the room—into a more familiar setting as Her weight settles into the down. Look around at your old room. Your old bed. “How is this possible?”

“You already know.”

Your stomach will clench at the sound of Her voice. You’ll shake your head, trying to clear it. You’ll swear it can’t be real. It can’t.

“Say it.”

Magic.

Except you won’t believe in it.

“Say it!”

You do.

She’ll smile. “Good.” She’ll stand up and walk around you, dissecting you with Her gaze. “Strip and lay down.”

Do it. Without question, let your desire overpower your doubt. At just Her words, you will feel naked in front of Her, in a way that no amount of clothes can change. So peel yours off, layer after layer. Don’t be frightened when you feel small, exposed. Everything will be heightened, making denim and cotton feel like flesh, flayed while you pull it down your limbs.

Once actually nude, you will feel different. Raw and ragged. Crawling onto the bed, you will feel reborn. You’ll shiver as the sheets rub against your vulnerable skin. Close your eyes and imagine what, after a week without Her, Her touch will feel like.

You’ll hear Her chuckle at your shaky need. You’ll feel Her footsteps on the hardwood pound in your heart. Look up at Her. She will stand at the foot of the bed, tall and looming. “Who am I?”

Unsure, you’ll raise an eyebrow at Her. You’ll wonder what She’s talking about.

“Tell me.”

You will learn. Your tongue will tickle, the taste of the tea tingling. That sensation will reach inside you and pull words from your throat as you tell Her who She is. She is a miracle and a nightmare. She will grab your ankle, digging Her nails into your flesh. She is your every dream, good, bad, and ephemeral as hell. Those menacing, manicured hands will claw and climb up your leg, leaving long, red scratches on your skin, marking you as Hers. You’ll want to touch Her and be touched by Her. She will grab your hips, digging Her grip as She climbs onto the bed between your legs. You’ll want to take Her and be taken.

She’ll reach up and grab your face, forcing you to look at Her. “Who am I?”

The only woman you’ve ever loved.

“Am I?”

Your eyes will widen while She begins to change. Try to recoil, but She won’t let you go. Won’t let you look away.

“Who am I?”

You’ll shrink in Her grasp, held still as Her smile widens and Her dark eyes blink to blue. Her body will swell, filling out in places beneath Her clothes. Slight wrinkles will slash across Her skin near Her eyes and mouth. Dear God.

“Who am I?”

Your fifth grade teacher. Her name, that you won’t have thought about in years, will fall from your lips like stony truth. Stuck in the clutches of prepubescent hormones and awkwardness, you’d been so in love with her. She’d been so sure you were cheating, scoring high on tests and homework, but failing miserably whenever called on in class. It hadn’t been that you couldn’t do the work but, the minute she spoke to you, your brain would stall. She was too beautiful, too smart, and too kind, always treating you like you mattered, like everyone, like you, were special. So young and inexperienced, how could you not have loved her?

“You love me?”

You had. Once. As much as a fifth grader could, which will feel both more pure and less real than love today. You’ll close your eyes and lose yourself in the memory when she leans in to kiss you gently on the forehead.

You’re body will tense and panic when you feel her hand on your cock.

“Shhh. It’s cool.”

You will know that voice.

Open your eyes.

You’ll look into the face of your college girlfriend, who wore her long, black hair in severe, high ponytails and always wore cherry-flavored lipgloss. She’d been your first, well, everything. Your first girlfriend. You’re first sight of a naked woman. You’re first blowjob. Your first lover.

“Did you love me?”

Yes. You’ll look at her now, right into the brazen face she boldly wore to mask the vulnerable insecurity she carried inside. You’d loved her; part of you always will.

Let her hand move over you, move you. Feel her fumble with the condom, her hands eager but unsure. Close your eyes again and remember what it felt like to love like that. When everything was new and unknown. When for now felt like forever. When you feel the slick slide of cherry-flavored lip balm slip smooth and sloppy down your dick, enjoy it. Moan her name. Hitch your hips and coat your length in drugstore cosmetics and her. Remember her.

Cry out when she sinks her nails in your thigh, bringing you back from your past. Look down and watch your memory melt into Her. Her dark eyes will glare at you, cold and hungry. Her smile will look self-satisfying and sharp. She won’t ask you if you love Her. She already knows.

Instead, She will climb atop you, straddling your hips so She can ride this body beneath Her that She’s already claimed as Hers. You will hate that you love Her while She slides your hard length inside Her. Hate that She still has such a hold over you.

But, as She rides you, feel it. Really feel it and know that it’s different than it has been. Don’t be afraid. Or disappointed. Understand that within this love, you’ll feel the echoes of all the others that came before. Having felt the fuel, the fire, and, yes, the fade of those loves, recognize it now. Even in Her.

When She grips your thighs to undulate over you, grip Her hips too. Dig your fingers deep. Hold tight to Her and know that, want all you want, but this too will fade.

Watch while She flickers, fluttering into someone else. For a moment, She’ll look strange, like a flash of someone you ought to know, before She settles into her. Familiar. Similar. But uniquely her.

Grab her hips and thrust into her. Let the pleasure of you—of your and her together—build and burn. Ride her as she rides you. And, when you hear her come, pour everything you are—everything you have been and the promise of what you could be—into her.

Then hold her. Pull her limp, slick, soft form to you and wrap grateful arms around her. Kiss her and imagine that you can taste your whole life on her lips.

But, most of all, thank her.

When it’s finally time to get up, to leave, put on your clothes and take out your wallet. Pay her and tip well. Very well. She’ll have more than earned it.

As you tie your shoes, ask her if you’ll see her again.

“Do you need to?”

Maybe not. “But I might like to.”

She’ll smile at you. “Well, you know where to find me.”

True enough.

But, before you leave, ask her the question that’s been bugging you for the past few minutes. “At the end, before the glamour dropped, you transformed into my cubemate from work.” You’ll shake your head, confused. “Why?”

She’ll quickly tuck your money into her purse and look at you innocently. “I don’t know. The spell reads your mind and tells me what to look like through the link.” She’ll shrug. “So you tell me.”

Your brow will wrinkle. “She’s just a coworker. A work friend, at most.”

She’ll grab her purse in her hand and shoot you a knowing look. “I’m not the one you have to convince.”

You suppose not. You’ll think of your coworker with her windblown pixie cut and warm, grey eyes. You’ll think of her brown bag lunches and rainbow of glitter pens kept in a chipped mug on her desk. You’ll think of her laugh and the way her nose crinkles when she smiles or is trying to remember something. You’ll think of coffee breaks and lunches that never seem long enough.

You’ll think about how she always slaps your hand away when you try to steal a taste of her chips or treats. And the way her eyes fire when making a point with a client or colleague. You’ll remember the way her voice sounds when she argues with you, ruthless and right. And you’ll feel a familiar feeling.

You won’t love her yet.

But, maybe, if it’s meant, you might.

Nod at that thought, think about talking to your therapist about it next session, and smile.

UNIDENTIFIED FETISH OBJECT

Sometimes really it sucks being female! Please check out my feminist, space alien novella from Less Than Three Press! Available Now On

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