The Phantom's Return
Keywords: Return, Phantom's, The,
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The skin that hurt and ached and had these incredible, wicked and extravagant marks etched across its surface – the skin that kept her a prisoner within its fragile cage, but that she could not claim as her own. Had it ever been hers? She had no way of telling.
She sat there, quietly soaping and massaging away the stink - and breathing – until the water ran cold.
There was only one Fantasies Can Come True tank top remaining in the closet and a single, tiny black spandex skirt. This one was even shorter than the others had been. She had to choose between tugging it down so low on her hips that the crack of her ass was in danger of being exposed, or showing off her labia with each step she took. There was no way to even imagine sitting in this minuscule excuse for a skirt.
And the shoes, the only shoes there, were skyscraper-tall black spikes with laces that wrapped around her ankles and calves. Ten minutes later, when she was as dressed as she was going to get and had a smear of red on her lips, she was an advertisement for sex, pure and simple. Blatant and uncompromising and without a shred of decency about her.
She teetered into the small living room in the apartment, each step an adventure in maintaining her balance. It was then that she saw it. The computer monitor was turned on, with a small, red-bordered window of black text on a white background centered in the middle of the wallpaper image. The wallpaper was a photograph of her. She was kneeling on the floor in a darkened room, naked, her hands on the floor in front of her and looking up at someone above her.
The words on the screen echoed loudly in her mind.
""Does my pretty little slut want to be fucked tonight? Does she want to cum?" "
A second sentence, below the first and in a different, more delicate font, resonated in her soul as if it were a bell that had just been struck.
""You know you want to. You cannot say no.""
Her mouth formed the word "Yes," as soon as her brain had processed the symbols inside the glowing, red rectangle. Her single syllable answer welled up from inside her without even having to think, though no sound passed her lips save for an outrush of air.
She was shaking, trembling as if she were kneeling in the midst of a raging blizzard, frozen to near hypothermia. It was all rushing towards her so fast. She had no idea what it was, but it was nearly here and it was about to consume her. It wasn't fear, or panic, or horror, though. It was anticipation and euphoria and an awareness that her life was about to be altered beyond comprehension. It was nearly here, and she was about to cross the threshold into heaven.
There was a letter balanced on the keyboard beneath the illuminated rectangle of stained-glass-like light that was the computer monitor. The envelope had a small, elegantly scripted line of calligraphy on it. She reached for it with her hand. The heavy weight of the envelope surprised her. The paper was as luxurious and sensual to the touch as the script was to the eye.
"For 146" was all it said.
She worked the flap of the envelope open carefully. There was no way she was going to damage the parchment inside. Her hands shook as she worked her blood-red fingernail beneath the edge.
And then it was open, and ready to divulge its Pandora's Box of secrets.
She extracted the single sheet of paper and unfolded its precisely-folded thirds. She held the letter in both hands to steady it enough so she could read it.
"Fantasies do come true", the gently curving loops and swirls of ink said. Beneath that single line was an address, and a date and a time.
She felt as though she should recognize the address. She knew where it was, though. How or why she knew escaped her. She glanced at the small text at the right of the Start menu on the computer. The date was today and the time was forty-one minutes from now. She would have to hurry, though her shoes would limit her speed considerably.
She took one look around the silent and completely disinterested furnishings of the small, drab room. And then she walked out the door without even bothering to close it behind her; with the piece of paper in her hand and leaving the computer screen glowing, its rectangular, red framed words there for whoever might chance upon its titillating message.
When she was outside, she turned and strode up the sidewalk towards the park. It was this way. She would have to cross the manicured green sward, following the curving ellipses of the graveled path to the other side.
Everyone who passed her gawked and stared and leered, but she saw none of it – or even registered anyone else's presence.
Mid-way across the park, she slowed. A woman in a wife-beater t-shirt and a black and white striped skirt sat on a bench, masturbating. Her long blonde hair was a cantankerous cloud of curls and kinks and her face was a study in concentration. The woman was pinching her nipples and tugging at her labia beneath her skirt.
She slowed her pace. She was going to have to traverse the narrow length of gravel right in front of this woman who was on the brink of orgasm. The woman wasn't embarrassed or hesitant about being so close to her while she fingered her pussy. Not at all.
Jean wanted to linger and watch, and hopefully be close enough to share the sensual backwash of her orgasm. She so very much wanted to come. Her need was palpable and it was surging. She needed it, now. As much as the woman on the bench did – or more.
As she drew closer, the sounds and even – she would swear to it – the scent of the woman's urgency and arousal washed over her. The sounds of wet fingers thrusting in and out; and of the woman's labored breathing and her quiet, unintelligible words, hit her like the sudden rush from a line of cocaine. She so very desperately wanted to linger and watch and to let her body vibrate and resonate in time with the woman's fast-onrushing orgasm.
She stopped right in front of the woman, her shadow falling across the woman's scrunched-up face. If she lifted her arm and reached out, she could lay her hand on the woman's head and caress her wondrous hair. She so very much wanted to do that, to make that intimate, skin-on-skin connection and to be sucked into the tight-spinning vortices of the woman's passion. She wanted to become one with her, to surrender her own existence and disappear within the private intimacy of the long-haired blonde's orgasm.
The woman was oblivious, and unaware that she was being watched. Nothing existed for her other than her cunt and her fingers and the lewd images of sensuality and depravity that flickered behind her tightly-closed eyelids.
At the very last moment, an instant before she convulsed and shed the last little bit of control over herself, the woman's eyes flew open and she looked up, directly at her.
"No, no, I can't. It's not permitted. I'm not allowed. Not yet." The woman was looking right at her – or through her, really. It was as if she wasn't even there, watching this exquisite sliver of agony.
The woman winced her eyes shut again and whipped her fly-away blonde hair back and forth as she forced herself back from the edge, pinching her clit and savaging a nipple with her other hand. "Please, oh god, please. Take me soon. I can't stand much more of this."
Jean's cunt was dripping and spasming little fuck-spasms as she watched the blonde twist and writhe and beat back her orgasm.
"It's getting late," the woman on the bench gasped. "It's so very late. Please hurry," she said without looking up.
While the woman's eyes had never even focused on her or given any sign that she knew that there was someone else there, she knew that the woman had been speaking to her.
It was late. She was late now – dangerously late. And she would have to hurry now, to make up for the time lost here in the park, in this exquisitely frozen slice of time. If she was not there at the appointed time, the door would be locked and she would be denied entry, and admission. Of that, she was certain.
She started to run, awkwardly, and with her arms flailing about to help her keep her balance in the spike heels. After a few minutes of that, she kicked off her shoes and scooped them up in her hands and started to run, barefoot, on the graveled path.
Her lungs burned and her feet felt every sharp stone and twig as she raced across the park. To be late would be unforgivable.
When she reached the street on the other side of the park she continued to run barefoot across the baked-in heat of the street. A shard of glass cut her foot but she didn't stop. She ran, leaving bloody footprints down the sidewalk as she dodged and weaved around the others who stood there and gawked at the underdressed young woman who sprinted past them, leaving a trail of blood spatters behind her.
They all turned to see who was chasing this terrified girl. But of course there was no one pursuing her. What she feared wasn't behind her – it was in front of her. And what she feared was also what she craved. She had to have it, or she was lost forever. And she was almost out of time.
Finally, she was there. She burst through the door into the cool and serene quiet of the foyer. She fell to her knees, panting. The blood from the gash in her foot made a long red smear across the black and white tiles of the floor, while sweat dripped from her face to mix with the sticky wetness beneath her.
The blood was on her hands and her legs and on her face now. It was everywhere. Everything she touched, she left her crimson imprint behind.
Leaving her shoes behind, she began to crawl up the gleaming wood stairs. Her eyes were fixated on the glowing rectangle of light at the top of the stairs. She was almost there. She could taste it now.
She counted the stairs, as she crawled and climbed. It was all she could do, counting, to keep her mind from exploding. By the time she reached nineteen, and the cool white frosted glass on the door at the top of the stairs was close enough to touch, she was dizzy with exhaustion and from the loss of blood.
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Keywords: Return, Phantom's, The,