Deliciously Naughty

Haunted Dreams---what are your thoughts?

So having read the first 10 chapters, is it worth finishing or am I just wasting my time?

Haunted Dreams--Chapter 10

“What should I wear?” Maggie asked Selena.

 

“Do you own anything even remotely slutty?”

 

“You know I don’t.”

 

Selena sighed.  “I was hoping you’d have a few too many to-go cups while you were shopping one day, and you might have finally caved and bought yourself something tight and short.”

 

“Yeah, well, no.”

 

“What about tank tops?  The ones you usually layer under shirts?” Selena asked thoughtfully.

 

“I have a bunch still.  I wear them around the house because even with the a/c it’s so freaking hot here,” Maggie replied.

 

“Say fucking, not freaking.  Anyways, so…pair a tank top, no bra, with jeans and the strappy sandals I forced you to buy when the Barney’s first opened up here,” Selena said.

 

“What about the cobblestones?  Don’t you think heels would be treacherous?” Maggie whined.

 

“I think flats would look virginal and stupid.  Watch where you walk, and besides, it’s an excuse to hang onto guys.  They love that white knight bullshit,” Selena said.

 

“I’m going to get Kevin’s advice,” Maggie decided.

 

“Fine, he’ll totally agree, only he’ll tell you to wear a thong.  Good luck finding your inner slut.  I have faith in you, chica” Selena rang off.

 

Maggie put on the outfit Selena suggested and called Kevin.  When she described the outfit, his only comments were to put on a white tank to better show off her nipples and to make sure she had on a cute thong for a guy to peel her out of.

 

“If you’ll excuse me, I just met my future husband, and we’re going to go out dancing, after which I’m going to molest him on the cab ride home.  He claims to have never gotten head in a moving vehicle, which makes me wonder if he’s really queer,” Kevin drawled.

 

“Don’t you ever worry that you’ll run into a student at those clubs?”

 

“Baby, if only you knew…” his voice trailed off as he recalled a memorable encounter with a former student in the men’s room at Rain who wanted to show Kevin exactly how much better he liked math in high school now that he was in college…..so to speak.

 

“I don’t want to,” she said.

 

“So how slutty do you want to be?”

 

“I don’t want to come home alone,” she said.

 

“How choosy are we being?”

 

“I don’t want to fuck a freak, but not overly as long as he’s hot and manly” Maggie said to her reflection, who didn’t entirely seem to be buying this.

 

“Okay.  Once you’ve met your mark, finish your drink and palm a piece of ice.  Go into the ladies room, and rub the ice all over your nips.  It will totally make them stand out more, and if you wear the white tank, the liquid will make the cloth translucent and he’ll get to see some pink, which will make him think of your other pink.  You’ll have to fight to keep your jeans on in the cab ride home…which you shouldn’t…but baby steps, here.”

 

“I shudder to think how you know all that.”

 

“My future husband awaits.  Good luck, baby slut,” he said before clicking off.

 

Maggie took a long look at herself in the mirror.  She nodded, gritted her teeth resolutely, and picked up her id, credit card, and cash, and looked for her keys.  She couldn’t find them for a good hour, all the while she found herself questioning this plan over and over.

 

When she walked out the door, it slammed behind her.  She was surprised that she’d been that firm, but she shrugged and walked to the streetcar.  Destination:

Bourbon Street

.

 

Three bars and zero prospects later, Maggie was really getting tired of having tourist frat boys walk up to her, dangle cheap plastic beads in front of her, and staring at her tits expectantly.  One had even gone so far as to run them over her cleavage in his attempt as suaveness.  All would have been happy to service her, but she didn’t want any of their cocks near her.

 

She told herself that she’d try one more bar, and if there wasn’t anyone there, then that was it.  She took a left off of Bourbon, and found a very different bar.  Obviously a local hangout, the patrons were older than the bourbon street madness, but not so old that she’d be out of place.  This was a place with potential.

 

She ordered a beer from the bartender, and when she went to pay for it, she heard a deep voice say to put it on his tab.  She turned around and saw a hot guy dressed in ripped jeans and a Saints t-shirt.  He had three days (easily) of stubble on his face, and she could see the edge of a tattoo poking below the sleeve of the shirt.  This could be perfect.

 

“Thanks,” she said, turning to him.

 

“I’m Drew,” he said, his eyes sliding over her body, lingering on her breasts.  His arm came around her and he guided her to a table. 

 

“Maggie,” she said.

 

“So, you a student at Tulane?” he asked, his hand sliding over her ass, and squeezing it before sliding back to her waist.

 

“No, I’m a professor at

New Orleans

University

,” she replied, trying to give him the kind of smile she’d seen Selena use on guys a thousand times.

 

“If I’d had a hot professor like you, I don’t think I’d have dropped out of college,” he said, his eyes again lingering on her breasts before meeting her eyes.

 

Maggie forced back a blush at being called hot.  She’d never been called hot before, and it seduced her into continuing the flirtation.  “Really, so what did you do instead?”

 

“Fireman,” he said laconically.

 

Maggie ran a hand over his bicep and felt her nipples harden at the feel of his hard muscles.  He noticed, and smiled appreciatively.  He took her beer from her, and put their drinks aside.  Then he turned her so that her back was to the wall, and he took possession of her mouth.  A hand came up to pinch the nipple away from the room so that no one could see what he was doing, and his thigh found it’s way between hers.  She could feel his hard cock against her hip, and as his mouth found the same magic spot on her neck that had caused her to give up her virginity, she found herself saying something so totally out of character, she shocked herself.

 

“I’d love to handle your hose some time.”

 

Where the hell had that come from?  It was like she was channeling Selena or something.  Maggie quickly lost the ability to think because the hand that had been teasing her nipple moved to her jeans, and his middle finger began rubbing right over her clit, causing her to moan.

 

“How about now?”

 

“What?”

 

“How about you handle my hose right now?  I live a block away.  I’ll have you naked and coming in less than ten minutes.”

 

“Yes.”

 

What?

 

Her mind was fuzzy with drink and desire as he grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the bar.  They crossed Bourbon where some college boys yelled at her to show her tits.

 

“Do it baby, give them a thrill, and let them imagine you the next time they’re in class,” the fireman urged her.

 

Feeling reckless, she grabbed the bottom of her tank top and lifted it, giving the street a good long look at her full C cup breasts, and soft pink nipples.  The college boys shrieked their appreciation, and she was showered in strings of beads.

 

The fireman pulled her into an alley.  “I can’t wait, you’re too hot.  Fuck me here.”

 

“No!”

 

A fling with a fireman in his bedroom was one thing, but she wasn’t so far gone that she’d have sex on the street.

 

“C’mon baby.  You’re so hot, and no one will see us,” he begged.

 

“What’s wrong with your apartment?”

 

“Nothing.  I just want to live a little.  Fine, we’ll fuck at my place,” he sulked.

 

What had been so hot was quickly souring for Maggie, and when she saw the broken light outside his apartment, and the cockroach that scuttled under the couch when he opened the door, she turned and fled.  She heard him call her cock tease and a bitch, but she fled to the safety of a cab and then her home.

 

Shaking, she tossed her clothes into a pile and climbed into the shower.  This wasn’t the answer.  She didn’t know what was the answer, but this clearly wasn’t it.  Yes, she needed to get Philippe out of her head, but she had jumped in over her head.

 

The next day she confessed everything to Selena, who was genuinely shocked.  “Chica, that wasn’t safe.  You’re not even sure of his name.  There’s nothing wrong with it, but you jumped in over your head.  I thought you’d find a cute lawyer or something.  The flashing was a good thing, though.  Keep the positive, and don’t give the loser a second thought.  Besides, you were totally right to ditch-cockroaches are a sure sign that you should bail.”

 

Kevin was repenitent.  “Honey, I didn’t think you’d actually do it.  You’re safe, right?  You’re okay?  Okay, so no more bar hopping for you.  We should conference call and help you set up an internet dating profile or something.”

 

She told both of them that she appreciated their concern, but she was going to try to try something else.  Fully repressing herself by working so hard she’d fall over into a deep sleep each night should be effective.

 

That night she dreamed of Philippe lecturing her until she cried, and then disappearing.  After that, she broke out the sleeping pills again.  It was one thing to have an imaginary lover.  But when that imaginary lover began to yell at you for flirting with flesh and blood guys, it was time to move on.

 

It was time, she decided, to throw herself into her job.

 

To hell with Philippe, his fucking journals, and the sexy dreams.  It was time to devote herself to American Civ I.  Which, she noted, unfortunately meant she’d be researching the time that he was alive.  But she could research it without ever talking about Mr Philippe Bournet. 

 

Really. 

 

She could.

 

At least she hoped she could.

Haunted Dreams--Chapter 9

She was Julianna, crying over yet another miscarriage.  Her third in two years.  Her blasted sister in law was fat with yet another child, and seemed to get pregnant each time her husband hung up his trousers for the evening.  Julianna was infuriated at the idea that a woman like that could get pregnant so easily, and that she could not.

 

Her sister in law had hinted that her lack of fecundity was because she was lacking as a woman; evil words that had indeed hit their mark, and scored deep into her soul.  Worse, however, was when her sister had looked up over her tea, and casually wondered aloud if Philippe’s mistress had been to that witch, Marie Leaveau, and had Julianna’s womb cursed.  At least then, Felicity mused, it wouldn’t be Julianna’s fault.

 

Her sister in law had at last, thankfully, taken to her bed in anticipation of yet another “blessed event.” 

 

As Julianna wiped her tears, she found herself wondering if in fact, it could be that her husband’s slut had done such a thing.  Cursed her womb with that wicked voodoo?  If so, could she do anything to stop the spell?  She fell to her knees and began fervently praying, saying Hail Mary’s over and over until the words bled together.

 

It was like this that her husband found her; tear stained, on her knees, praying fervently, her eyes wild like those of a madwoman’s.

 

“What are you doing?” Philippe asked?

 

“Praying for my womb to be cleansed.  Surely there must be something wrong that I can not bear your child,” she replied.

 

“These things happen.  We’ll try again, as soon as you tell me to, I’ll happily return to your bed, cherie,” he said, trying to take her hand.  “Now you must get dressed.  It’s late in the afternoon.”

 

“Return to my bed?  From where?  Where do you spend your evenings?” Julianna lashed out.

 

“Wife, you have no right to ask me such things,” he reproached her, his voice growing deep with annoyance.

 

“With whores.  Perhaps it is because you sin so deeply that God punishes us so,” Julianna’s words lashed out with the force of a whip.

 

Philippe did not reply.  He merely turned and walked away.

 

Maggie sat up, shocked.  She had read in Philippe’s journal that his wife had had several more miscarriages, but there’d been no hint of any sort of fight or animosity.  This dream must have been brought of by the stress of the first week of class, and too much to eat before bed.  She sighed, had a glass of water, and returned to bed, noting that it was only three in the morning.

 

As her eyes closed, she felt herself drawn into another dream.

 

This time she was Claire.  Philippe had stormed into her home and was ranting about his wife, and how she’d accused him of causing her miscarriages by keeping a mistress.

 

“As if it isn’t custom, what every man, including her father in his day, has done.”

 

“My dear, women feel strongly about children.  And as her wife, she must feel worried that you might cast her aside,” Claire murmured, sitting in his lap. 

 

“She’s a good wife.  I care for her,” he murmured.  He looked and Claire, and kissed her deeply.  “I care for you as well.”

 

“And I for you,” she said.  It surprised her, but after almost ten years, she found that she did care for him.  She missed him when he was gone overly long, and looked forward to his visits and his touch upon her body. 

 

“I only wish she enjoyed sex.  You were a virgin when I first touched you, and you’ve always enjoyed my touch.  She resists me, acts as if sex is something awful when I try to pleasure her.  Perhaps what they say is true-wives are for company, mistresses are for sex,” he said, his hand opening the wrap of her dressing gown, knowing she was nude for him underneath.  “You certainly are a creature of lust.”

 

She moaned her assent as his hand slid between her thighs and two fingers plunged deep into her wet core. 

 

“Show me your lust,” he said, removing his hand from her, and spreading his legs.

 

She slid to the floor and unbuttoned his pants.  His cock sprang free, and Claire bent to suck him.  Philippe watched as her head bobbed, his hands tangled in her soft black hair.  She moaned her pleasure as her tongue swirled about his shaft, and her hands came up to tease his balls with feather soft touches.  He pushed her dressing gown off, and told her to kneel on all fours.  She did so, never removing her mouth from his cock.

 

Philippe watched her ass as she enthusiastically moved about his cock to pleasure him.  “Stop!”  He stood, and shed his clothes before kneeling behind her.  “Your ass is a work of art, ma belle.”

 

She impudently wiggled it at him.

 

“Such behavior makes me think you want me to mar that café au lait skin with red hand prints,” he warned.

 

She wiggled again.

 

Philippe smiled, glad that she had understood what he needed.  His hand landed on her ass with a loud smack, leaving behind a pleasing pink glow.  Over and over, his hand came down punishingly, taking out the anger he felt towards his wife, and channeling into his darker desires.  Claire encouraged this with gasps, with moans, and with the backwards thrusting of her ass, signaling that she wanted more.  The woman in front of him blurred, and in his mind, he punished his wife for never welcoming him to his marital bed, for never trying to enjoy tender lovemaking.  His Claire, his beloved Claire, was his equal in lust and in imagination.  He welcomed the sting of his hand on her ass, but  when Claire started to cry out in pain, and not pleasure, he slowed his rain of slaps, and ran his hands over the ass he’d punished so cruelly.  It was hot to the touch, which aroused him.

 

Philippe gripped Claire’s hips, his eyes on her red sore ass, his cock hard as iron.  She opened her stance wider, so that he could see that her cunt was dripping.

 

“Little whore,” he growled.

 

“Yes,” she begged. 

 

He growled again, and thrust deep into her hot, honeyed channel.  She welcomed him, thrusting backwards, the heat of her ass radiating against his stomach as he pumped.  His hands went to her breasts, pinching the nipples, thrilling as her cunt clenched him in time with her moans.  He fucked her as hard and as fast as he wanted, driving her over the edge, and into such an orgasm that she begged him to stop.

 

“Philippe, please, I need….a moment…please” she cried out.

 

“No,” he growled and slowed his pace not an iota.

 

She was driven into a second orgasm so intense she actually screamed, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a servant burst into the room, take in the scene, and flee. 

 

“Your driver just saw us.  Every time he escorts you to one of your ladies’ charities, he’ll know what you look like naked and on all fours, taking a cock like a whore,” Philippe said harshly.

 

Claire sobbed as he finally came, her third orgasm almost causing her to lose consciousness.  When he let go of her, she slid to the floor in a boneless heap.  When she turned over, a hand between her heaving breasts, she saw Philippe looking contemplatively at her.

 

“What would you do if I ordered him to watch us?  Or another slave?  Perhaps a comely wench, who I would then ask to join us?” he asked, taking in her naked sated form.

 

Claire raised an eyebrow at him, and managed to gasp out, “Really, Philippe?  Not that you’re not capable of satisfying two women, but I am a greedy wench.  I’d hope that the idea that my driver saw me will be enough to fuel your desire.”

 

He laughed, and said “Perhaps another time.  When my finger is on your clit, you’d agree to almost anything.”

 

She laughed.  “Let me bathe you, and feed you first.”

 

They left their clothes on the floor of the parlor and sauntered upstairs together, Philippe taking pleasure in the female servants’ averted eyes (and stolen glimpses) and the men’s overt stares at Claire’s beautiful naked body.

 

Maggie awoke, shocked that her imagination could even come up with such a thing.  She blushed as she washed herself in the morning, and found herself wet.  She managed to keep herself focused during her classes, but each time she found herself alone, her eyes would close, and the intense sexual scene would play out again, in vivid detail.

 

Resolutely, when she arrived home, she did the only thing she could think to do.  She gathered up all of Philippe’s journals, including the last unread one, and dumped them in the trunk she’d found them in. 

 

“That’s enough,” she said.  “No more of this.”

 

She had cancelled the appointment with her therapist out of shame.  But, she decided, her therapist was right.  It was time to find a real man and to leave her imaginary man behind.  The dreams that had been so welcome when they had meant the introduction of sexual pleasure into her life were now a frightening occurrence that she wanted nothing to do with.

 

That night, she took a sleeping pill, and feel into dreamless sleep.  She followed that pattern for the rest of the week, doing everything she could to last until Friday, when, she decided, she would go out on the town, and do something that she’d seen Selena and Kevin do a million times-she was going to pick up a guy.

Haunted Dreams--Chapter 8

“So why are you here, Margaret?” the woman asked her.

           

Maggie blushed, and looked down at her twined hands, wondering just what she’d been thinking.  “I need some help.  I…”

           

The woman waited.  For an eternity, it felt.  The silence seemed to grow in the room like a living thing until Maggie couldn’t take it anymore.

           

“I’ve become obsessed with….”

           

“With?”

           

“My….work.”  Each word felt like it was being pried out.

           

“Your work?  What do you do?” she consulted a sheet.  “Ah, yes, you’re a professor, of history, correct?”

           

“Yes.” Maggie was relieved a simple question.

           

“In what way have you become obsessed with your work?” the psychiatrist asked.

           

“I’m studying some journals.  Of a man.  And I’ve dreamt of him…” she flushed again, embarrassed beyond words, “sexually.”

           

The doctor nodded and waited for her to continue.

           

Maggie had made the appointment after realizing that she’d gone to bed several times with one of the “sexy” journals under pillow.  That she’d started masturbating to the idea of Philippe, of her dreams about him almost daily.  That she’d found reasons to go upstairs to the attic now that her project was done and she was supposed to be working on her syllabus and lectures.  She would sit near his portrait and stare at it, even though it was August, and while the attic was cooled by vents, it was still significantly hotter up there than anywhere else in the house.

           

She was, in short, infatuated with a dead man.

           

While that was fairly humiliating, she would never have dreamt of getting therapy if it hadn’t begun to interfere with her work.  She tried to sleep multiple times a day, hoping for sex dreams.  She’d neglected her lectures and school was starting in just a few days.  And yet she hadn’t let herself finish his journals, to read the one she hadn’t read.  If she didn’t read it, she could hold out hope that it would initiate sexy dreams.  If she read it and didn’t, it would crush her.

           

So she decided to get some therapy. 

           

“Maggie, let’s talk about Channing.  Why didn’t you want to be with him?”

           

“Because he wasn’t what I wanted.”

           

“What does your dream lover offer you that Channing didn’t?” the therapist asked her, her laser gaze catching Maggie like a deer in the headlights.

           

“He’s stronger, more forceful, more….I guess manly,” Maggie said, playing with a ring on her right hand.

           

“What makes sex with your dream lover different from your previous sexual encounters?” she asked.

           

“I orgasm.  I like sex better.  I wish I liked sex like that in real life,” Maggie murmured.

           

“Maggie, I think this dream lover is an attempt by your subconscious to get you to acknowledge that you do enjoy being sexual, and that you’re looking for a different sort of man than you’ve dated in the past.  I think that you should do two things.  The first is to purchase a vibrator, and to try to masturbate to the type of man you imagine this Philippe to be, but put into contemporary terms.  The second is that I want you to try to seek this sort of man out to date.  Internet dating might be a good choice.  We’re meeting again in three weeks.  I want you to report back to me how your efforts are succeeding.  I think after you begin to accept that you could meet a man like that here, you’ll stop pretending that you need the dreams.”

           

The therapist dismissed her, after extricating a promise that Maggie would at least make an effort to separate her newfound sexual desire from her imaginary lover.  Maggie stepped into the sweltering heat, and walked down

Royal Street

, resolved in her search for a new sex toy.  She’d tried hard plastic wands, but this time she would purchase one of those Rabbits, like they had joked about on Sex and the City.  If

Charlotte

could get addicted to it, surely she could as well?

           

She blushed as she entered the first sex shop she found.  It was at the end of

Bourbon Street

, past all of the strip clubs, open even at ten in the morning.  Maggie wondered who besides drunk tourists would feel compelled to go to a strip club at ten in the morning on a Tuesday.  The sex shop had just opened, and thankfully there was no one in there but the cashier, who looked at her with bored eyes.

           

She headed to the wall with the vibrators and was a little taken aback at the selection.  She had bought her vibrator at a novelty store, not a sex shop, and had never realized how many choices there were.  She looked at vibrators shaped like eggs, butterflies, even a rubber duck.  There were vibrators of every color.  There were vibes that lit up, and one that even apparently vibrated in tune to your musical selection on your iPod.  Even among the rabbits, there were too many choices, and she stood there, staring and silent for what felt like an eternity.

           

“If you’re looking for a rabbit, this is the one I like best,” a woman’s voice drawled behind her. 

 

An older woman with long black hair gestured to a pink rabbit with pearls in the shaft.  She continued, adding “the pearls really shove you into overdrive when you start to orgasm.”

 

Maggie blushed, and took the package.  “Thank you.”

 

“No problem.  Have fun,” the woman wished her well, and returned to contemplating the other vibes as Maggie handed her purchase to the cashier, blushing furiously.

 

She wondered what it took to be like that.  Selena certainly seemed to be like that woman.  Maggie could imagine that woman and Selena bonding over vibrators and then going to a bar to chat, flirt with guys, and generally bond.  She couldn’t even get up the nerve to ask the woman how she knew so much.

 

As Maggie meandered back to the streetcar, pausing for beignets at Café du Monde, she contemplated all the ways in which she wished she were like her best friend.  Sure, Selena was gorgeous, and she had big breasts, but Maggie wasn’t convinced that that was the reason men flocked to her.  There was something carefree in her attitude that seemed to draw people to Selena.  She had a confidence that seemed impenetrable.

 

For that matter, Kevin was a lot like Selena.  Straight guys didn’t mind when his gaydar failed and he hit on them.  It was turned into a joke and before long, they were calling Kevin “dude” and buying him a beer.  Gay men adored him, as did the ladies.  He was flirtatious, and handsome as hell (with a body that no one would ever credit to a math teacher) but he had that same sort of confidence.

 

Maggie knew that they’d both been dumped, and more than once, so it wasn’t like it was a freak thing.  But it was like they’d found the secret to sexual happiness.  She just couldn’t figure out what it was.

 

Arriving home, the air conditioning felt like a god send after the soupy outdoors.  Maggie took her package upstairs and opened it.  She fished out the enormous C batteries that would power her new toy and turned it on experimentally.  The loud buzzing sounded obscenely loud in the quiet house.  Maggie turned it off, and losing her courage, left it on the bed and went downstairs to work.

 

That night, however, when she went to bed, she was confronted by the pink toy mocking her from her bedspread.  She turned off all the lights, got under the covers, and pulled the covers up her neck.  The toy, she hid under the covers with her.  Realizing that it needed to be inserted, she decided to try to warm herself up with her hand before using the toy.

 

Maggie closed her eyes to the darkened room, and tried to imagine a man like Philippe.  Of course, the first image was Philippe.  She experimented with dressing him in a cop’s uniform, a construction worker’s dirty wife beater and jeans, and a cowboy’s jeans and chaps.  She tried to change his hair to blonde, his eyes to blue, but the second she lost her focus, he morphed back to her 19^th century gentleman.  She went back to Philippe as the cop, but it wasn’t working.

 

Sighing, she let him be himself.  She imagined her Philippe pulling back the covers, exposing her busy hands to him.  She imagined his wicked smile, and the dimples that would appear.  His hands would cup a breast, and when she stopped touching herself, he would put her hands back and tell her to continue.

 

Maggie moaned as she contemplated the fascination with which he would watch her.  How he would undress as she slid the Rabbit into her pussy.  His eyes would hungrily watched as she fucked herself with it.  As she turned the ears on to tease her clit, he would offer her his cock to take into her mouth even as she filled her pussy with a toy cock.

 

She would lick at his head as the head of the toy began to twirl.  She would open her mouth wider to let the entire head in, and she’d flick his frenulum with her tongue as the beads began to brush her tightening channel.  One of her hands would delicately play with his balls as the other kept the toy tightly against her.  As her hips arched against her toy, he would slide deeper and deeper into her mouth until she had taken him all.  As her orgasm began to build, her mouth would eagerly slide up and down his shaft.  As it broke, and she moaned her orgasm around his cock, he would let go and fill her mouth with his salty sweet cum.

 

Maggie turned off the vibrator, her entire body tingling with the force of the orgasm.  Her therapist had been right that she was capable of intense sexual pleasure, but she hadn’t been able to think of anyone but Philippe.

 

“Why can’t I accept that you’re a figment of my over productive imagination?” she asked the room before turning over and falling asleep.

 

Unsurprisingly she dreamed of Philippe.

 

“Do not turn your back to me cherie.  You need to finish the story,” he said to her.  He was laying in bed next to her, holding her close. 

 

Maggie nestled her cheek on his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his sweat mixing with his cologne.  Her arm wrapped possessively across his chest, and she luxuriated in the feel of his arms about her.

 

“But what if I don’t dream of you?  I need to dream of you,” she said.

 

“Didn’t you prove to yourself tonight that I can come to you whenever you wish?  You don’t need the journals to have me.  But you must read them,” he said, kissing her forehead.  “Beloved, finish what you started.”

 

As the morning light streamed into her windows, Maggie awoke with a promise on her lips.  When she recalled the dreams, it wasn’t pleasure at having dreamt of Philippe that filled her heart, it was fear.  What was going on?

 

Her alarm went off just then, and she couldn’t remember why she’d set it.  She looked at the calendar and realized that it was the first day of meetings.  Like it or not, she had to go to work, and the journals would have to wait.  Classes began in a week, and she had to finish getting ready.

 

Resolutely, Maggie got dressed, and left for her first day as a college professor

Haunted Dreams--Chapter 7

            For the next several nights, Maggie went to sleep, praying that the would dream of Philippe again, but nothing happened.  There were three journals left, and she wondered if there was a connection between reading a journal and her sexual dreams.  If so, that meant that she’d only have three more dreams like that, ever.  She was torn between her desire to learn more about Philippe and her need to prolong the experience as much as she could.

            Kevin had a new boyfriend, so they weren’t talking very often.  However, Selena was calling her fairly regularly.  With each phone call, it became harder for Maggie to keep her secret, especially as Selena kept pressuring her to go out and flirt, dance, and meet men. 

            “You know I don’t do the bar scene,” Maggie answered.  “And before you even suggest it, I’m not interested in doing online dating.  It’s a little too modern for me.”

            “Chica, you deserve a summer fling.  You know you’ll bury yourself under a mountain of student papers to grade, and spend hours preparing your lectures.  Classic first year professor.  You don’t want to look around and realize you’ve been there a year and you’ve been alone the whole time, do you?”

            “Not all of us have graduate students to abuse,” Maggie responded.

            “Well, duh, you’re a baby prof, not a tenured prof with three books under her belt, and a cabinet full of completely indexed and cross referenced lectures, are you?  Mmmmm, Will had a great ass.  I loved watching him file.  But the point is that being a baby prof doesn’t mean you can’t make time to get out there,” Selena smiled into the phone, remembering the grad student who had spent a full year typing, indexing, and cross referencing her lectures in hopes that he might get his hands on her tits.  He had, but not until two years after he’d graduated and moved onto a doctoral program in another state.  They’d met up at a conference and drinks had turned into dinner and then finally steamy sex on her hotel room’s balcony.

            “Maybe I don’t want to get out there,

Lena

,” Maggie responded.

            “You wanna get out some where else?  Take a round trip train to the Clit Club, perhaps?”  Selena teased

            “

Lena

,” Maggie moaned.

            “What?  It’s something every girl should try once.  Or four times, but who’s counting?” 

            “

Lena

.”

            “Fine.  But honey, just cause the men in your life haven’t deserved you doesn’t mean there isn’t someone out there who does.”

            “Maybe,” Maggie said a little wistfully, contemplating that her Mr. Right could’ve been born years ago.

            “There’s no maybe about it.  But it’s not like he’s going to show up in that house of yours, so you need to open the damn door, and get your ass out into the real world,” Selena said.

            The conversation drifted from there to recent movies, but Selena’s comment about how men don’t just appear in your house stayed with her.  Philippe had shown up in dreams of hers when she was feeling heightened emotions.  Perhaps he was just her conscience’s way of getting her to pay attention?  At any rate, she wanted to finish her project and she only had a few more weeks before she had to start planning for her classes.  Her boss said they needed to find one more professor before he could distribute courses, and what she’d get would entirely depend on how experienced the final new professor was, so she didn’t need to feel guilt over her project.

            She managed to ignore the journals for a week, before succumbing to the next one.  Again, it was dated several years after the last one.  Philippe was now 30, and thinking seriously about marriage.  His parents were now both dead, and his one remaining sibling, a sister had married several years ago and already had three children.  His business was more than thriving, thanks to the invention of the cotton gin, and

New Orleans

was one of the busiest ports for cotton in

America

.  So it was time to take a wife.

            His concern was that he was “new” money.  His father had been the first to prosper, and while he’d grown up in a certain society, he understood that the uppermost reaches of Creole society were closed to him.  If he wanted to grow his business past it’s current success, he needed entrée, and a wife would provide him with that.

            Over the course of several months, he was able to find a girl that suited him.  She was an orphan, living with her aunt and uncle, her parents having perished from influenza.  Her family name was good, but since she had no dowry, and marrying her provided no social or business gains, she’d had little success finding a husband.  Which was where he came in.

            He found his new young wife beautiful, well mannered, and charming, if bland.  Philippe wrote that had he not had a mistress already, a wife like this would have caused him to seek one out.  A wife, after all, was for cementing alliances and birthing heirs.  A mistress was for erotic games.  And who, he wrote, could imagine an erotic marriage with a wife?  He did hope, however, that they would grow to love each other.

            As Maggie read of this, she felt stirrings of pity and jealousy.  The pity was for both Philippe, and his wife, Julianna.  It would be the equivalent to her marrying Channing.  Yes, it would make her family happy, but what about her?  She had no burning passions for Channing, and she could have empathy for why he’d want to look outside his marriage for comfort.

            Later in the year, he mentioned that Julianna was pregnant, and his hopes for a son.  Only weeks later, though, he noted that it was “a sad day, for we have lost our child to be.”  Julianna, he wrote, was in seclusion, and Maggie wondered if it was from the physical pain or the emotional.  Never having been pregnant, of course, she didn’t know what it was like to lose a child, but she imagined it must be horrible.

            That night, when she fell asleep, her dreams were different than they’d been in the past.

            She dreamt she was Julianna, which was not unexpected, but rather than an encounter with Philippe, she was sitting in a formal living room with another woman about her age, Philippe’s sister.

            Felicity was round with child, and she rubbed her stomach possessively as she spoke. “Julianna, you must move on.  You lost a child.  The only thing to do now is to try again.  It’s common to lose a pregnancy or two.  God decides, not you.  You must go to Philippe and begin again.”

            Julianna stared at the floor.  “I feel as though I’ve failed, Felicity.”

            “You have.  But next time, God willing, you will succeed.” Felicity stated bluntly.  “I myself have lost two pregnancies, but I have the three older boys and this little one soon.  You will see, Julianna, that being a mother is what makes us complete.  Which is why you must try to overcome your failure.”

            Julianna blinked back tears, and her raw envy of her sister in law, and the ease with which she seemed to breed.  “You’re right, of course.”

            “Besides, if you don’t, he’ll just keep going to that mistress of his in the city.  You don’t want her fat with his child before you are, do you?”  Felicity’s cool eyes assessed Julianna, and it seemed that she found Julianna lacking.

            Julianna felt stung.  She knew that most men kept a mistress as a matter of course, but polite women ignored it.  How could her sister in law speak of such a thing?  She blushed and bent her head back to her husband’s shirt, which she was mending.

            “Think about what I’ve said, Julianna.  Stop hiding from your husband.  No man wants a barren wife, so if you are to prove that you’re fruitful, you’ll get with child again as soon as you can.”  She heaved herself off the settee and walked slowly towards her rooms.  “I’m going to nap.  Please have one of the maids wake me in time to dress for dinner.”

            “Of course, sister.  Enjoy your rest.”

            Julianna sat there, sewing and worrying.  As the needle went in and out, her thoughts ran circles, but kept returning to the idea that his mistress could become pregnant with his child before she did.  What would happen to her if it did?  In that moment, she hated her husband’s harlot with a red hot fury.  Her rival, in all things, gotten not because it was custom, but perhaps because Philippe found her lacking?  She had no idea how long he’d had a mistress, or anything about her.  And she could never ask, because it wasn’t a wife’s place to.

            Julianna wept as she sewed.  For her lost child.  For the life she’d expected.  For her parents.  For herself.  She’d never felt so lonely in all her life, and the worst part was that until she had a child, she would never feel anything but.

            Maggie woke with tears on her cheeks, in the middle of the night.

            When she fell back asleep, Philippe was there. 

            She was Julianna again, laying in a large bed.  Philippe kissed her cheeks, and softly on her lips.  She murmured her assent, and he rolled atop her.  Philippe was a heavy weight on her, and she was uncomfortable when he untied the neckline of her nightgown and lowered it to expose her breasts.  She wanted nothing more than to reach up and cover herself, but her husband had told her that he enjoyed doing this to her, so she would bear it.

            His tongue licked at her as if he were a dog, and she lay there waiting for him to get on with things so that he would finish.  She never knew what to say when he asked her to tell him what she found enjoyable.  Sex was something you did to create children, and it was wrong to like it so much.  So she’d been told when she reached the correct age to know such things, and so she believed with all her heart.

            Philippe pulled the gown off her, leaving her naked.  She spread her legs, hoping he would enter her and finish.  Julianna was shocked, instead, when he continued kissing her body, moving down her stomach to her thighs.  She gasped when he used his fingers to part her most sinful place and actually put his tongue to it.  Her husband seemed to take it as a gasp of pleasure, for he lapped at it, obviously expecting more of a reaction.

            “Philippe, stop,” she said urgently.

            He again mistook her reaction and began licking more urgently.  Julianna was horrified at the heat that built up in her low belly and make her hips move.  She was no whore, and she would not act like this.  She forced her body to still, but the heat overtook her and she shuddered. 

            She was horrified when he then climbed atop her and tried to kiss her, his tongue pressing against her mouth.  His cock entered her and she felt only relief.  He would soon finish and leave her alone.  Julianna was shocked when she found herself idly wondering if he did this sort of thing with his mistress.  She supposed the slut would pretend to like it-after all, that’s why he paid her, wasn’t it?

            When Philippe shuddered and lay still on top of her, she closed her eyes and waited, counting the moments until he would leave and return to his own bed.

            Somehow she was not at all surprised when what she heard was the front door closing, and the sound of his carriage being harnessed.  From her bed to whore’s because she wasn’t woman enough to please him, to give him a child, or to do anything besides introduce him to wealthy important men.

            Julianna’s hands went to her abdomen and she prayed with all her heart to conceive a child.

            Maggie came slowly awake, feeling cheated.  She looked forward to her dreams of Philippe for their sexual release.  Why had she dreamed such bad sex?  It was even worse than the sex she’d always had with Channing!

            She looked around the room and muttered “At least I could’ve enjoyed the orgasm, you know.”  Not that she expected an answer.  She’d talked to herself for years, ever since she’d realized she would be an only child, and that her nannies weren’t really all that interested in the musing of a six year old.

            The final two journals still held surprises, and she looked forward to reading them, but not with the same urgency or twinges of pleasure she’d had before that night.  Julianna may have lost a child, but she, Maggie, had just lost out on good sex.

            If this was the way of things, maybe she’d have to take Selena’s suggestions into serious consideration.  Or at least seriously contemplate buying a vibrator.

Haunted Dreams--Chapter 6

            June rolled into July with little variation in Maggie’s schedule.  She would get up, catalog things in the attic, stop around lunch to shower and head out into the city and then return after dinner.  She read the journals more slowly, wondering if she could somehow turn them into a book.  Publish or perish was, after all, the battle cry of the academic.

            The fourth of July was exciting for Maggie because both Kevin and Selena were coming to visit her.  Her parents (well, her mother) was beyond annoyed that she wasn’t coming back to

Boston

.  After all, it couldn’t be the fourth without the Boston Pops Concert on the television and all her

DAR

friends over, being served little hot dogs and apple tarts by waiters in red white and blue ties to liven up the usual black and white uniform.  However, as her friends pointed out, she’d being doing the fourth in

Boston

her whole life and now was her chance (and theirs) to do it N’awlins style.

            All afternoon she kept glancing out the window, even though she knew their flight wouldn’t be arriving until three, which meant they wouldn’t arrive before

four thirty

at the earliest between baggage and the inevitable airport hurricane Kevin was likely to insist on.  When the cab pulled up out front, she was sitting on the front porch, not so much reading as alternating between staring at the same paragraph for the last half hour and staring down the street.

            Selena shrieked and ran to Maggie to hug her as if it had been years, rather than weeks since they’d seen each other.  Her attitude was contagious, and before Maggie knew it, Selena had grabbed Kevin, who was laboring like a mule under his excessive amount of luggage and dragged him into the group hug as well.

The cab driver shook his head and brought her bags to the veranda himself, and was rewarded with not only the tip he’d been hoping for, but a dazzling smile from the hot

Latina

chick with the big tits.

Selena and Kevin were eager to dump their stuff, change and head into the Quarter.  Maggie couldn’t help but notice that the house felt totally different with them there, the seductive silence broken.  The evening was great, with even Maggie getting into the spirit, and having a few drinks.  Selena was loudly disappointed that no one was asking her to flash for beads, causing (of course) a chorus of “show your tits” from the last bar of the evening.  Selena, under the influence of several hurricanes, happily indulged, and was rewarded with a plethora of shiny plastic beads.  When the men then tried to get Maggie to flash, she blushed, and dragged Selena and Kevin (who were egging her on) out of the bar and poured them into a cab.

Arriving home, she convinced her friends to take some aspirin and drink some water.  She then pointedly left them each a jug of water next to their beds, as well as a bucket, just in case before retiring to her own bed.

She smiled at the ceiling, closed her eyes, and dreamt of nothing at all.

Luckily her friends had a full day to recover before the excitement of the fourth.  They staked out a blanket on the banks of the

Mississippi

, chowed down on po’ boys and beignets, and took turns running to get water or something a little stronger in a “to go” cup.  Her friends didn’t come near the level of “fun” they’d experienced on the first night, but as Kevin memorably put it “I’m too damn old to get that drunk more than twice or three times a year, and I need to save one day for Thanksgiving so I can put up with the family drama.”

They enjoyed the music from various zydeco, jazz, and other uniquely New Orleansy bands playing not too far up the Riverwalk.  Within hearing distance, but not so close that you felt you might go deaf.  Kevin was thrilled when the men who sat next to them turned out to be gay, and he flirted shamelessly, even though they weren’t a day over 25.  Selena had brought nail polish and she and Maggie took turns painting each other’s nails.

The long wait was worthwhile because around nine thirty, two sets of “dueling fireworks” began.  The three friends lay back and excited pointed out their favorite shapes, colors, and designs.

“Mags, how could you even have contemplated going back to

Boston

?  I mean, sure it’s like walking through a swamp, and the flying cockroaches are just plain wrong but honey, this place fits you to a tee,” Kevin remarked to her as they walked back to the streetcar.

            “Why would you say that?  I don’t like drinking, dancing, or any of the partying,” she replied, curious.

            “Margaret Alexandra,” Selena began “don’t be purposefully stupid.  You’re happy here, and it shows.”

            Kevin continued, “Mags, you know your way around here, you already have like twenty favorite restaurants, and you tried to get us to eat at all of them in three days, you know where all the good bookstores are, you’ve memorized the streetcar and relevant bus maps, and while you don’t have inferior replacement best friends,” the last was said with a grin “it’s only a matter of time.  Once you start working you’ll make friends here too.  You smile more easily here.  I bet you have a lover before school starts.”

            “Besides,” Selena said “I gave your number to that cute guy you were talking to.”

            “Why would you do that?” Maggie asked shocked.  “He was only talking to me because he friend wanted to talk at your breasts.”

            “Yes, well, the girls do get most of the attention, but the point is that he was actually flirting with you and you were totally oblivious.  I know you’re not the no-tell motel type, but he could be worth a dinner date or two,” she replied smiling down at her generous chest and then at her friend.

            When Maggie saw them off the next day, she thought back to the conversation.  She was happy here.  And while she missed her friends, the house felt much calmer and more like home without them.  Just her and her projects. 

            At the end of the month, Maggie started Philippe’s’ next journal, something she’d been wanting to do, but had gotten sidetracked from in the past few weeks as she organized her own research library as she got ready to start writing syllabi when the doorbell rang.

            Surprised, because she wasn’t expecting anyone, Maggie padded to the front door.  Her jaw dropped open when she saw Channing.

            “What are you doing here?” she asked, so jarred at seeing him that she didn’t protest as he entered.

            The first thing he did was run to the air conditioning vent, where he stood, cooling his face for several minutes, ignoring her growing impatience.  Then he turned to her with a look of disgust and said “You left

Boston

for….this?”  This was said as if he were talking about a month decayed body instead of a beautiful home in a beautiful southern city.

            “It’s humid in

Boston

as well, Channing,” Maggie replied, trying not to roll her eyes.  “What are you doing here.”

            “I’m here to talk about us, Maggie.”

            “Us?”  As far as Maggie understood it, there was no us.

            “Of course, us.  I understand that you need to come out here and have your little fling, but I wanted to make sure that it wouldn’t last too long.  So I had a nice long talk with your mother, and then came to talk to you directly.”

            Maggie raised an eyebrow.  Little fling, indeed.

            “I don’t think you realized the depth of my emotions or intentions when we last spoke, Margaret,” he began.

            And that was when the light dawned.  Maggie almost wanted to laugh at the idea that popped into her head.  He couldn’t possibly mean that…

            Channing took her by the hands and led her to the sofa in the living room.  They sat and he began his soliloquy.  “We’ve been friends since we were children.  We know each other so well, and we compliment each other.  We’re a suitable match.  I know you don’t think I’m serious enough about you.  I had hoped that asking you to stay would show you, but now I understand that you wanted more from me.”

            “Channing, I…”

            He cut her off.  “Margaret Alexandra Madison, we belong together.  Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”  And with a flourish he pulled out the classic Tiffany robin’s egg blue box that she just knew contained a classic 3 carat round cut diamond in a Tiffany mounting that her mother had picked out. 

            She was saved from having to react because the lamp nearest them went out with a bang.  Literally.  The light bulb exploded and the lampshade caught fire.  Maggie ran for the fire extinguisher, while Channing tried to smother it with a blanket from the couch that Maggie prayed wasn’t an antique.  She rushed back and opened fire on the lamp and Channing, who was in the way.  Afterwards she made a point of cleaning up, and feigning fear that her aunt and uncle would be so mad.

            Finally, she couldn’t procrastinate any longer.

            “Maggie, what about this?” he asked pulling the ring box.

            “I don’t….” she began.

            “You want to think about it?  How very like you, my little academic  I have a hotel here in the Garden District.  I’ll let you think about it, and tomorrow we’ll go to dinner at the Commander’s Palace to celebrate.” He kissed her cheek goodbye and left.

            Maggie paced for hours, up and down each floor, even up and down the staircases, when she found she wasn’t tiring.  She knew she had to say no, but she wasn’t sure how to say it in a way that anyone would pay attention to what she was saying.  Her thoughts swirled round and round until exhaustion set in.

            She lay in her bed, thinking about how different she was from Claire, who’d at least had some choices, and who’d been brave enough to pick Philippe when her mother wanted her to take someone older and more established.  She would’ve picked Philippe, too, she thought, thinking of his portrait.

            Her dreams were different than the ones before.  She wasn’t Claire or the other mistress, but herself.  However, the same Philippe stood in front of her, perhaps a little older than she’d last seen him, but easily recognizable.  They were standing in her bedroom, and he was angry at her.

            “How could you!  You belong to me and no one else.  I won’t have this!” he shouted at her, before dragging her close and kissing her.

            This was unlike any other kiss she’d felt.  It was brutal, and connoted ownership, not affection.  It was meant to force her into submission.  His hands tightened around her, and his hand fisted in her hair as his mouth possessed her.  Philippe kissed her until she was breathless.

            “I won’t have some man come in and try to take you from me.  You’re mine.  Say you’re mine!” He roared.

            Seeing him like this made her a little afraid of him, but at the same time, her body responded to him.  As he commanded her, she felt her nipples harden.

            “Say it!” he yelled.

            “I’m yours,” she whispered.

            “Again,” he ordered.

            “I’m yours Philippe,” she repeated.

            “Yes,” he replied, and he dragged her mouth back to his. 

            The kiss branded her like fire, spreading throughout her body, making her pliant, desired, and needy.  Her lips opened readily under his, and when he picked her up bodily and placed her on the bed, she thrilled at how masculine and masterful he was.

            “Tonight I can not bear to be so gentle with you, darling.  Give me permission to let go,” he begged as he kissed her lips, her neck, his hand reaching down, easily sliding under the elastic band of her sleeping shorts and panties.

            “Yes.  Let go,” she whispered, not understanding, but knowing he needed this, and that she was the only woman who could give it to him.

            “I won’t be gentle.  I will do things to you that no man has before, and you’ll like it,” he warned.

            “Don’t be gentle,” she breathes as his thumb pressed on her clit.

            “So be it, and remember you asked for this,” he said.

            He pulled his hand from her shorts and fisted both hands in the fabric of her tank top.  Even so, she was unprepared when he literally ripped it open and pulled it from her body.  His hands possessed her breasts, and he cruelly pulled and pinched at her nipples until she cried out. 

            Philippe flipped her onto her stomach and yanked her shorts and panties off.  Then he pulled her onto her knees and without any other preparation, he plunged into her.  Her body wasn’t quite ready for him, and she cried out at the invasion of his cock.  However, with each stroke she became more wet, more ready, more eager, and when he began to give her pleasure, he stopped and pulled out.

            “You encouraged him.  You didn’t even refuse him,” Philippe accused her.

            “I didn’t mean to,” she said, tears coming to her eyes, starting to turn over to face him.

            “I didn’t tell you to move,” he said, and she stilled, staying on all fours.  “You deserve punishment.  Didn’t you understand you’re mine now?  I tried seducing you, and I thought you understood.  Instead, we’ll try force and see how that goes,”

            His hand came down painfully on her ass, the crack of flesh on flesh reverberating through the room.  She cried out, but it didn’t stop him from landing several more slaps.  He lectured her, telling her she belonged to him.

            Philippe pulled Maggie from the bed, and then pushed her to her knees, telling her to take him into her mouth.  She would have taken him slowly, inch by inch, but Philippe grew impatient with her, and holding the back of her head, slid his full length into her mouth.

            “Do you understand now, that you’re mine completely?” he asked her

            Maggie moaned her assent, and he pulled out of her mouth.

            He lifted her as he had his father’s mistress, and pressed her against a wall.  Maggie wrapped her legs around his waist, and moaned her pleasure as his cock slammed into her g-spot, something she had long suspected she didn’t possess. 

            “Who’s making you come?” He growled into her ear

            “You.  Philippe,” she moaned.

            “Whose are you?”

            “Yours.  Only yours,” she cried out as she came.

            And with that he allowed himself to come as well,

            When Maggie awoke to the sound of her doorbell, she realized three things.  The first was that her subconscious had a hell of a way of telling her that she didn’t want to marry Channing.  The second was that she was naked, and sore in places and in ways that she didn’t think she’d ever been sore in before.  The third was that she was totally and completely infatuated with a man who’d been dead for over one hundred and fifty years.

            Maggie hastily threw on some clothes, and when she saw Channing on the other side of the door, the memory of her dreams gave her the strength to say what she had to.

            “No, Channing, you can’t come in.  I need you to listen to me.  I am not going to marry you.  Not now, and not ever.  I don’t want to be with you.  Not as your girlfriend, not as your fiancée and not as your wife.  Go home, and find someone more suitable,” she said firmly, and shut the door in his face. 

            It took a half hour of doorbell ringing for him to get the idea, but Maggie didn’t care.  She was too busy laying in her bed, reliving her dreams from the previous night, and for the first time in her life, she lay in a bed in total daylight, without covers and masturbated.  She knew that the dreams were just that, but if that was the kind of dream she could manage on her own, who needed a man?

 

Haunted Dreams--Chapter 5

After a cooling shower, Maggie wandered downstairs to watch TV, only to find out her aunt and uncle either didn’t have cable, or had stopped it, or that it was broken.  She shrugged, and decided to move onto Philippe’s next diary, which was about 10 years after the first.

The older Philippe never mentioned his father or his father’s mistress and she wondered what happened to them.  He seemed to be running the business now, and one must assume that his father had retired or died.  She particularly enjoyed a recounting of a visit of his to Boston, and his excitement over hearing that they were going to build a trolley car that went underground and their pushing back of the bay near the Public Common to create more land.  Like New Orleans, he noted, these were a people who would not let geography dictate where they would live.  They would find a way to live there, whether Nature wanted them there or not.

He did finally broach the topic of his love life, when he noted that he was tired of harlots out to cheat him for every penny, and he contemplated the pros and cons of a mistress, as he was not ready to be married.  He decided, finally to attend the annual quadroon ball, to fill his own curiosity, and to see what was what.

Philippe recounted meeting a woman named “C” whom he fancied, and that her mother had negotiated long and hard over the contract.  He was to purchase for her a home in the Faubourg and furnish it, provide C with two servants, and a monthly allowance.  She was to make every effort to ensure that their were no children, and should one occur, she would get rid of it.  The home and the furnishing were to be in C’s name after 5 years, and, barring unfaithfulness, she would keep this should he decide to end the relationship after that. 

Maggie was surprised at the detail.  Most placage arrangements were a mystery as few, if any, were written out in this kind of explicit detail.  Most often, the man and woman would just come to a verbal agreement that he would provide for her and her children.  Children being especially important as under Napoleonic law, illegitimate children had the right to inherit equally with their legitimate siblings.  This was probably why he didn’t want “C” to have any children.

The rest of the year was relatively quiet, with comments about cotton crops, the occasional mention of “C” and other friends, none of whom he used anything but initials to represent.

Yawning, she looked at her bed and contemplated last night’s dreams.  Half wanting to, half afraid of doing so, she closed her eyes, and slid into dreams, unsure of what the night would bring.

 She was a young woman, perhaps nineteen years of age, standing next to a bed, clinging to the post as her mother pulled hard on her corset strings.  Her eyes closed as she focused on holding her breath.  Finally, her mother pronounced her laced.  She let out her breath and took several experimental ones, finding her rhythm.

“Claire, you must remember everything we’ve spoken of,” her mother said, helping her into petticoats.

“I remember, Mama.  I am to smile, not hide my bosom with my fan, and remember to never leave the room with a man without having first gotten your permission.  Must I really do this?” she pleadingly looked up at her mother, who was holding the low cut ball gown.

“Do you wish to be a seamstress?  A laundress?  Perhaps maid to your former friends?  Or do you wish to have the kind of life you knew until last year, ma petite?” her mother asked sternly.

Claire looked at the ground and sighed.

“Exactly.  So you must do what I am too old to do.  Find the right man, and we’ll return to the life we knew.  If Charles’ parents hadn’t turned on us, I could have accustomed myself to the life as the poor relation, but they did.  You lost your betrothed, and we lost our position when your father died.  We shall not let that happen again,” her mother’s tone was icy as she added “I’ll make sure of it.”

Claire blushed when her mother reached into her corset and plumped her breasts so that they were presented like peaches on a platter, a fact that her new rose colored ball gown did nothing to hide.  Her mother also added rouge on her cheeks, paint to her lips, and color to her eyelids before pronouncing her ready.  The woman who looked back at her from her bedroom mirror was a stranger, and one who looked just a little too obvious to be respectable.

Her mother was full of instructions on the way to the ball.  She repeated things she had said to Claire a thousand times in the last few weeks; how to flirt, how to tease, how to evaluate a man for his financial worth.  She was advised to target older men, who were more likely to be established, and who wouldn’t bother her as much as a younger man would bother his mistress.  Her nose wrinkled in distaste at that idea, and Claire decided to find a balance between age and money.

The ballroom itself was a surprise.  She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but a room that was no different from the ones she’d waltzed with Charles in was a shock.  How could such arrangements be worked out in a well lit ballroom?  She paused at the door, nervous, but her mother’s hand gripped her shoulder and forced her to enter.  Claire pasted a smile onto her face, took a deep breath, and entered her new life.

As the night wore on, she grew tired of the leering stares men directed towards her firm young breasts, and of the jokes they made about “juicy peaches, ripe for plucking” and “cherries.”  The older men all tried to “accidentally” touch her breasts, and several tried to convince her to lift her skirts as some of the other girls did so that they could see what type of drawers she fancied.  If this was the kind of man she’d submit to in exchange for her old life back, she wasn’t sure it was worth the trade.

There was one young man, however, who seemed polite as he approached other girls.  He would sit and talk with them, taking several for a dance afterwards.  However, he did not seem to find a girl that he fancied, for he kept moving on.  Claire thought that he, at least, would not make her uncomfortable, and so she calculated a plan for him to run into her.

As he stood and bowed to a young lady to take his leave of her, Claire began to walk in that direction.  She smiled shyly at him, and averted her eyes as she passed him.  Later, she allowed one of the older men to take her out onto the dance floor and she again shyly met his eyes before averting his as she and her partner passed him and his own.  Finally, she posed herself at a window, pretending to watch the stars, but really watching as he approached her.

“Mademoiselle?”

She turned and dimpled prettily.  “Monsieur.”

“My name is Philippe.  May I have the honor of speaking with you?  Would you care for a drink or a dessert?  All this dancing can be thirsty work,” he asked, offering her a hand, just as Charles used to do.

“My name is Claire.  I would enjoy some punch, thank you.”

He led her to a settee, and once she was settled, he fetched her a glass of punch.  She was grateful that he began the conversation by speaking of such things as the guest preacher who had lectured at the Saint Louis Cathedral the previous week, and of restaurants she might know.

Slowly, he moved the conversation to her, and her life.  He was so bold as to ask why she was here, which was a bit rude, but she liked his boldness, and returned it with her own.

“My father was a merchant, Arnaud LaDuree.  When he died, his wife evicted my mother and I from our home, and because it was not in her name, and because my father never formally acknowledged me in his will or in any papers, we had no recourse to claim my share of the inheritance.  My fiancé ended our engagement, and my mother and had to make our own way for the past year.  We decided that a placage arrangement would be the most suitable for me, as I am not the sort to be happy as a lady’s maid, a spinster teacher, or a seamstress.  Do you think me selfish?” she asked, glancing up through her eyelashes.

“You were educated in France?”

“Yes, Paris.”

“I can understand how dull the life of an ordinary girl would seem to you.  You’re a delicate flower, Claire, and you deserve to be nurtured.”

They danced, not once, but through three songs before returning to the settee.  Claire could see her mother glaring at her as she flaunted the advice she’d been given and pursued this handsome, young, polite, and intelligent young man.

Finally, Philippe asked if he could take her onto the balcony for some air.  Violating her mother’s strictest rules, she agreed.  The cool breeze that floated into the Quarter from the Mississippi whispered in her ears, and made her remember a thousand stolen kisses from Charles on balconies just like this one.  When Philippe’s hand caressed her cheek, she closed her eyes and pretended it was Charles who was touching her, bringing her close and brushing his lips against hers.

Philippe did not kiss anything like Charles, and the spell broke.  For where Charles was shy and occasionally clumsy, Philippe was bold, his lips caressing hers, his tongue reaching out to seduce her lips into parting.  When she did part her lips, it slid in and began to dance with her own.  Philippe drew her even closer, so that her breasts were pressed against his jacket, and her arms came up to twine about his neck.

“Have you ever done more than kiss a man, Claire?” he whispered as his tongue and lips made delicious paths over her neck.

“No,” she whispered.

“What do you think of doing more than kissing me?  How does this make you feel?” he murmured.

“I feel like there are shivers all over my spine.  As though I’m scared and excited all at once,” she replied quietly.

“Let us talk to your mother then,” he said and led her back into the ballroom.

Claire’s mother was furious, but her exterior was calm.  Only the fire in her eyes warned Claire about the lecture she was in for once they were alone.  When Philippe told her mother that he would like to “make arrangements,” they withdrew to a quiet corner.  Claire watched, her stomach suddenly nervous.  There were nods, disagreements, and much back and forth until finally, she watched as her mother smiled, and shook hands as men did with Philippe.

“We will speak further at the end of the week, Monsieur Bournet.  Claire, it is time to go.  I’ll wait for you in our carriage, and Monsieur Bournet will escort you out.”

Philippe took her hand and led her to a private alcove where he kissed her more passionately than on the balcony.  “Arrangements must be made, but we will see each other again soon, my dear.  And then we will see what you make of the pleasure I’ll give you…and what pleasures you can think of to give me.”  As he kissed her deeply, she felt his thumb dip into the front of her corset, and graze her nipple, a bold action that sent a hot liquid flash unlike anything she’d ever felt to her secret place.

In just two weeks time, they were moved out of the tiny apartment they’d been renting, paying for with stolen jewelry that they’d had to pawn into a beautiful home in the Faubourg.  It wasn’t too close to their old address, but it was fashionable, and Philippe had furnished it with lovely furniture.  Claire was dizzy with happiness when a dressmaker arrived to take her measurements, planning a new wardrobe for her as well as several pieces for her mother.  Best of all, there were even two servants to take care of the less pleasant chores.  It was almost like paradise.

Of the man who’d provided all of this, she saw nothing until a week after they’d settled in, almost a month since the ball.  She often wondered if he thought of her, and what how often he would visit her.  More often, she wondered what it would be like to run into Charles in her new fashionable finery, and see a look of regret for what he had cast aside on her face.

Her best friend Caroline, who had never deserted her, even in those terrible months, much to her mother’s dismay, was happy for her and a frequent visitor.  Caroline was having tea with her when they heard the front door open, and a man’s footsteps on the polished hard wood floors.  Claire stood when Philippe appeared in the doorway, and glanced nervously at Caroline.  Caroline smiled, introduced herself, and then made her excuses, leaving them alone.

“Well, Claire, does your new home make you happy?  And your dresses?” he asked, kissing her hand.

“It’s all lovely.  Thank you.”

Philippe shrewdly assessed Claire’s state and asked for a tour of her new home.  She showed him the first floor, and then, with prompting, she led him upstairs, the tour ending in her bedroom.  He watched as she literally shook when he shut and locked the bedroom door behind them.

“For privacy, cherie,” he murmured.

He began slowly with his virginal lover, kissing her as he had on the balcony, slow and gentle.  His lips traveled up and down her long neck, and his hands caressed her back, calming her with soft soothing strokes.  When he moved to kiss her lips again, she kissed him back, and he was charmed at her attempt.

He took things slowly with her, removing her dress and petticoats slowly, praising the softness of her skin, the effort she must make to look so beautiful, kissing every inch of her skin.  Next the corset came off, and he was charmed that she still wore a light chemise under it.  He peeled off her stockings, and then lay her on the bed in her light chemise and drawers.

Sitting next to where she lay on the bed, he toed off his shoes and socks, and then simply lay next to Claire.  He pulled her close and simply held her until her eyes lost their fear again.

He traced her chemise; the neckline, the straps, and then the row of buttons that marched down the middle.  His hand slid over the soft cotton, and he cupped one of her breasts, his thumb again sliding over her nipple, encouraging it into a hard little peak.  Claire shivered, but this time he could tell it wasn’t from fear.

When his hand went to her waist and then snuck up under her chemise, Claire was surprised that she was eager to feel his hand on her naked bosom.  The top slid up with his hand and she watched in excitement as he neared her breasts.  But instead of using his hands to touch her nipples, she was shocked when he bent his head and began to kiss her nipple, taking it into his mouth, laving it with her tongue, and she felt her hips move involuntarily.

Philippe gave a low laugh at that, and moved his attention to her other nipple, his hand pulling and rolling the nipple he’d just abandoned, until she again involuntarily arched her hips.

“Sit up, my dear, so that I can remove this troublesome piece of clothing” he said.

She blushed as he did so, as she had never shown this much skin to any male.  But the pleasure of his hands and lips convinced her, as did her mother’s voice in her head reminding her that she had sold her body to him for this, that she had selected him, and that she had no right whatsoever to refuse him.

He moved so that he was hovering over her, moving from one nipple to the other, then moving lower, kissing her ribs, her stomach.  Then his hands were undoing the laces at her waist and moving her drawers down.  She squeaked in protest, but stopped when he whispered for her to be calm.

Laying there naked while he was fully clothed was surprisingly pleasurable.  Especially when he made encouraging comments, and made the effort to tease her, causing those liquid tugs in her low belly to continue.  When he parted her legs, she thought he was going to take her in the way her mother said men always did, but he instead bent his head to her secret place and began to kiss it.

Claire gasped and tried to close her legs, but Philippe firmly held them wide open.  His mouth and his tongue now danced over a place she had never dared to touch, a place that made her squirm and whimper with pleasure.  She felt a tension building and building in that place until she could not stay still and begged him mindlessly.  She didn’t know what she was begging for until he replaced his mouth with his finger and worked her until she felt like she was exploding into a thousand little pieces, sobbing his name.

Philippe pulled her close, waiting for her to recover from her first orgasm.  He smiled, thinking that he would have all the pleasure training Claire to his sexual likes an dislikes that his father’s mistress had had training him to her desires.  She certainly had the potential to be an exciting bedmate.

When her eyes finally fluttered open, he said “I wanted you to experience the pleasure I can give you before I take you.  The first time, I’m told, is usually painful for girls, so it’s important that you know sex can be pleasurable first.  I’m going to do my best not to hurt you, but the first few times I take you it may not be pleasurable.  I promise, though, that you will get pleasure from me, and that sex will become a thing of pleasure eventually.”

It wasn’t what her mother had said, but then her mother hadn’t told her about the explosions either.  So she nodded.

“I want you to undress me,” he told her.

Claire clumsily unbuttoned his shirt, opening it to see a fine sprinkling of hair across his chest.  His nipples were a dusty pink, and she uncertainly ran a finger over one of them, and was delighted when he made a sound of pleasure deep in his throat when she did so.  Emboldened, she leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on it.

“Lick it with your tongue,” he murmured.

She did so, and was rewarded with an encouraging moan.  Claire pushed the shirt from Philippe’s shoulders, and admired his muscular chest, shoulders and arms.  He lay back on the bed, and folded his hands under his head, telling her to do with him whatever she wanted.  She perched next to him, and hesitantly ran her hands over the planes of his chest.  Feathering kisses over his nipples, he moaned, and she watched as his pants tented. 

Fascinated, she reached out and ran a hand over the strained part of his pants.  He shivered, and encouraged, she stroked it more boldly.

“Gods woman, are you trying to make me embarrass myself?  I thought you were the inexperienced one here.  If you keep that up, I’ll spill before I touch you, like some virgin boy with his first woman.  Have a heart and at least open my trousers,” he murmured, making her giggle.

She undid the buttons on his trousers, and pulled them along with his drawers down.  His manhood surged forth, and she gasped at the sight of it.   Her mother had told her where he would put that, and she looked at it and then at him with fear-it couldn’t possibly fit!

“Touch me,” he begged, still laying supine.

This was so unlike what her mother had told her to expect, which was that he would remove her clothes, open her legs and push that part of him into her until he spent himself.  Never had her mother suggested she might have agency in the process.

She took him into her hand, and lightly ran her hand up and down his length, which caused him to moan again.  She wondered what he would do if she kissed him there, and she darted forward and quickly did so.

“Gods woman, I must have you now,” he moaned, and pulled her close to him.

He rolled so that Claire was under him, and she braced for him to pummel her with his hard cock.  Instead, he reached between them and found that nubbin of pleasure again.  She was truly wet now, and he slid a finger, then two into her, working her as he did so.  When she was squirming and mindless with need, he replaced his fingers with his cock, and slowly he entered her.

For Claire, the fingers had been surprising but not painful visitors.  But his cock felt like it was splitting her.  She gasped in shock, and a little pain.  But Philippe murmured softly to her, his thumb still on her clit, and his cock stilled.  His thumb excited her, and she couldn’t help it when her hips began to arch in time to her blood singing in her head as he pulled her closer and closer to her apex.  As she did so, he slid further and further into her until he met resistance.  Philippe took her over the edge, and as she came, he grabbed her hips and broke through her innocence.

She was so tight that it was all he could do to keep from coming.  But she had to grow used to the girth and length of him inside her, and he managed to keep a hold of himself.  He stilled until she had finished her orgasm, and then he began to move above her, letting himself almost slip out before filling her again.  Finally, he let himself go, and he sped up the pace, fucking her completely.  She cried out a little, and in his deepest heart, that gasp of pain only fueled his desire.  When he came, it was a torrent, and he collapsed on top of her, sweating and spent.

Claire was confused.  On one hand, she had liked the pleasure he gave her, and there was a part of her that wanted it again.  On the other, she hadn’t liked the part where his manhood stretched and hurt her.  Then again, this part, when he held her close, and praised her, was unlike anything she’d expected.

When Philippe finally took his leave of her, he dressed, but told her not to bother.  He would send her maid up to her to help her bathe.  She blushed as he spread her legs and named the parts that he had touched, and instructed her on what to expect over the next few days.  Philippe made a point of showing her what he called her “clit” and told her that he would like it if she rubbed it and thought of him at night.  He told her she could give herself the kind of pleasure he’d given her by doing so, and that he would approve of her touching herself like that.

Alone, Claire reached down and absently ran a finger over her clit, surprised at how quick the hunger and pleasure could eclipse the pain where she’d been stretched.  She played with it, remembering how exciting it had been to be in control, to touch him.

Maggie awoke on her back, with her own hand on her clit.  Horrified, she pulled her hand away as if she were worried that she was about to get caught.  Then she realized there was no one to catch her.  And if she wanted to masturbate to a dream, why not?  It was better sex than she’d ever had.

Her hand slid down, parted her lips, and reached again for her clit, but she couldn’t do it.  Masturbating to a man she’d seen in a painting and in her dreams was just too surreal.  Sighing, she got up, and decided to face the day.

Haunted Dreams will be paused so I can post about Wicked Faire

We leave for Wicked Faire on Thursday, where we get to hang with a group of awesome kinky geeky people, see some burlesque and hopefully ditch the LM (thanks to Musings for volunteering to help us out with this) to go hang in the over 18 room for a while. 

Haunted Dreams will resume Tuesday 2/24 and resume it's normal posting schedule of a chapter every other day.

Haunted Dreams--Chapter 4

“So Mags, how’s the swamp?” her gay husband Kevin greeted her.

           

“I’d correct you, but I’d be lying.  I went outside for three minutes to get the mail and came back inside and thought about a shower.  New Orleans is brutal in the summer.  Why didn’t anyone warn me?” she laughed.

           

“Because we wanted you away from that drip Channing.  And better to be dripping than be with a drip, Mags,” he replied.

           

“Ouch.”

           

“Truth hurts babe,” he replied.

           

“To what do I owe the tremendous honor of a call from you during school hours?” she asked.  He was a high school Math teacher, which just blew her away.  He actually enjoyed teaching fifteen year olds the “beauty” (as he called it) of the quadratic formula and could talk endlessly about the law of sines, whatever that was.  He assumed she knew, and she was too scared to tell him she didn’t, especially since it would mean a three hour math class for her that she’d be too soft to interrupt because he loved it so much.  He loved it so much that he was even teaching summer school, the freak.

           

“Summer school is out at noon, dear, and we’re an hour ahead of you,” he reminded her.  “Anyways, I just wanted to let you I’d just met my future husband.  He’s this delicious Latino barista at Starbucks.  Our eyes met over my non-fat latte and it was just lust at first sight.”  Kevin sighed dramatically

           

“You’re dating a barista?”

           

“Well, no, but if he asked, I’d be his forever and ever, amen.”

           

Maggie laughed and they settled into a nice long chat.  Kevin filled her in on what he and her other best friend, Selena had been doing, which was a lot of boy-watching at Hampton Beach.  She was far to shy to have ever joined them for that, but she enjoyed the tales that always came out of it.  It was hard to believe that someone as shy as her would enjoy hearing about how Selena once “accidentally” lost her bikini top and made the lifeguard come in and “rescue” her and how she’d convinced him to spend the weekend in a hot tub at one of the “no-tell motels” (as she and Kevin called them) afterwards.  Selena’s comment had been that the bikini was a Ralph Lauren and had cost sixty dollars on sale and was worth every penny, even though she’d only worn it twice.

           

Her friends never edited their sex lives, and she supposed she enjoyed some vicarious thrill in hearing about their exploits, even though she was far to shy (scared?) to do anything like that.  She was just too much of a good girl, through and through.

           

When they finally hung up, Maggie was struck by both how happy she felt, and how homesick.  She spent a few hours writing emails to her friends, and reading the online edition of the Boston Globe before deciding that she was living too much in her old life and that it was time to explore her new one.

           

Wanting to dress as coolly as possible so as to best handle the oppressive heat, she dressed in a tank top she usually used for layering, and jean shorts.  She completed the outfit with sneakers, and tossed her keys, wallet, cell, and a bottle of water into her purse along with a map and guidebook of New Orleans.

           

Her aunt and uncle had told her how to get to the quarter and suggested several “must do” eateries.  She had heard of several, like the Commander’s Palace that she knew were dressy, but there were several options that her aunt had marked as “super casual.”  She was proud of herself for the time she spent wandering the Quarter, allowing herself to be aimless.  She usually explored via list and plan, so sitting in Jackson Square, watching the sun set over the River, listening to a lively Jazz band play felt just decadent.

           

She smiled to herself as she made her way back to the street car.  This had been the right decision all along.  She just knew it. 

Sorry for formatting errors with the novel

I'm working on fixing it...

Haunted Dreams--Chapter 3

The rest of the drive to New Orleans was, thankfully, uneventful.  Although it meant McDonald’s all the way, Maggie only ever stopped at the kind of extremely well lit, family oriented rest stops from that point on.  She had only one more night on the road, and she managed to find a Best Western as opposed to some potentially unsafe or sleazy roadside motel.  Nonetheless, when New Orleans

started appearing on the signs, and the number of miles dropped into double digits, she sighed with relief.

After seeing her first “City of the Dead” from the highway as she approached New Orleans, she called the moving company to let them know her estimated time of arrival.  Things got a little dicey once she was in the city properly, but her navigation system didn’t let her down, and she arrived at her aunt and uncle’s home in the Garden District with no major mishaps.

It was a stately three story white home with four columns and black wrought ironwork on the second floor veranda.  There was a cupola in the attic, above two stories of bay windows.  The pink flowers that lined the path from the delicate black wrought iron gate to the front steps were feminine and welcoming.  Maggie smiled when she noticed that the trees out front near the gate glittered with last year’s Mardi Gras Beads, even though it was months later.

She could be happy here.

The movers were waiting for her, and with surprising speed they had her unpacked and took possession of the behemoth of a truck.  Maggie was left alone in the house.  She wandered through the first floor, taking in the kitchen, dining room, “formal parlour” as her aunt called it, family room, and library.  The second floor would allow her her pick of 5 guest rooms, now that her cousins were all in college and came home rarely.  The third floor was an attic where the detritus of every owner since the property was built collected.  Her aunt had muttered time and time again that she really needed to just go in there and make a clean sweep, but had never gotten around to it.  Considering it took up an entire floor, it’s not like it would be a priority any time soon.

  She made the several necessary phone calls; her father’s secretary, her mother’s, voicemails for Kevin and Selena and a message at her aunt and uncle’s hotel in Paris, where they were visiting before starting their own apartment hunt on the Riviera.

Being the sort of girl who enjoyed roots, Maggie explored the five guest rooms, and picked the one that best suited her.  It was a fairly simple room with sky blue walls, and a lovely white quilt on the queen size bed.  Her favorite part of the room, though, was the antique cherry secretary desk, which matched the other furniture.  She had always loved antiques, but her parents strongly preferred modern furniture so she didn’t often have the chance to indulge her own tastes, especially as since she’d been on her own she’d been a student, which meant fairly broke.

While beautiful, it occurred to her that it was rather impersonal.  Maggie decided to rummage through the attic to see if there were any other antiques that she would enjoy.  There was no artwork on the walls, which was something she’d like to fix, and she was sure that there were plenty upstairs.

She climbed the stairs into the attic, stopping to sneeze once or twice when dust rose to tickle her nose.  There were no electric lights on the third floor, which made her glad she’d thought to go up there while it was still daylight.  But the intermittent windows let in enough light that electric bulbs wouldn’t be necessary during the day.  She paused at the top of the stairs and surveyed the attic.  Taking up an entire floor, it was huge.  The ceilings were slanted, with exposed beams, with the exceptions of the cupola and the windows, which jutted up and out from the main room.

Cluttering the attic were boxes, furniture ranging from cribs to high boys to old style television cabinets.  There were toys, several abandoned rocking horses gazing forlornly at cobwebbed doll houses.  Steamer trunks, like the ones rich people used to travel with were piled here and there.  Pictures leaned against the walls here and there.  There was even an old dressmaker’s dummy.  In short, it was a historian’s wet dream.

Maybe as a favor to her aunt and uncle, she could try to sort through the contents of the attic, and catalogue it, letting them know what was valuable and what was junk.  Perhaps there were even a few things that might make good donations to a museum.  The house had been built in the early to mid 1800’s, so there was easily 150 years worth of history here.  It wasn’t like she had a lot to do before September, so she might as well earn her keep.  And if she found some nice things for her room, that would make it all the better.

Arbitrarily picking an end of the attic, Maggie approached a steamer trunk perched under a window.  She opened it, cringing when the hinges squealed in protest.  Sneezing as she did so, she lifted the top item; a man’s jacket made of black velvet, which was shockingly still soft.  Below were several stacks of leather journals.  She picked up the topmost one, which she opened long enough to read the name and date on the first page.  Personal Journal of Philippe Bournet, 1835.  She quickly closed it, knowing that the bright sunlight could damage the fragile paper.  She gathered the journals, of which there were 5, dated 1835, 1845, 1850, 1853-1855, and 1858, and took them down to her room, placing them reverently in the secretary, which when closed would also protect them from sunlight.

Returning to the trunk, she found some more clothes, a small portrait of a lovely red-haired woman, a gun, which she gingerly put down and wrapped in the coat, and some smelly mothballs, which explained why everything was still in such remarkable condition. 

Torn between hunger, desire to work on her project, and wanting to read the journals, Maggie elected to repack the trunk and return upstairs first thing in the morning to begin cataloguing things in an organized manner.  She’d go and get dinner, and then come home and relax by reading the journals.

That evening, after taking a long bath in the enormous old fashioned claw footed tub, Maggie pulled on soft yoga pants and a tank top.  She curled up under the comforter in the bedroom, having turned the air conditioner up just enough to indulge in this, and opened the first journal.

Philippe was 15 at the time of the writing of the journal, and when he wasn’t working with his private tutors, helped his father with his import business, although Maggie wasn’t sure exactly what they were importing or exporting.  The journal was fairly banal except for the moments when the young man confessed of his attraction to certain women, and wrote about waking up hard.  Although, as she thought to herself, that just proved he was a typical teenager.

Late in the year, he wrote of his father taking him to a house in the Faubourg, which was where Maggie knew the Gens Du Coloeur  (or Free Blacks, as history more commonly called them) lived.  It seemed that his father had been keeping a mistress there for some time.  Philippe was not surprised by this, but he was surprised to be introduced to the woman, as the men usually kept their white families separate from those of their mistresses.

More surprising was the comment Philippe recorded his father as saying, which was that a wife was for childbearing, a mistress was for pleasure.  And no women, his father opined, could give pleasure like the ladies one found at a Quadroon Ball, which was where he’d met his own mistress.  The girl was maybe six or seven years older than Philippe himself, and his father decided that it was time that Philippe became a man in every way, and since they were so close in age, his mistress should be the one to introduce Philippe to the pleasures of the flesh.

Maggie’s eyebrows raised at that, and at the clumsy descriptions but obvious enthusiasm with which Philippe recounted his experiences.  Did fifteen year old boys have more fun during sex than she?  Shaking her head, she finished out the year.  Philippe apparently dallied with his father’s mistress on a regular basis, with his father’s blessing.  No record was present of what the girl thought.

Rubbing her eyes after spending a few hours deciphering the old lettering and spelling, Maggie put the journal back in the secretary and then climbed back into bed ready for sleep.

She dreamed she was a woman with café au lait skin; a quadroon.  Her younger lover appeared to her, several years older than when they’d first joined together in sex.  She was pleased that he was finally interested in giving her pleasure as he had not been in the beginning.

“Caroline,” he said as he pulled her close.  His long slow kisses were addicting, and made her head swim.

More arousing was when he fell to his knees in front of her and lifted her skirts to her waist.  He parted her drawers, and his tongue began lapping at her.  Her hand grabbed the doorframe in an effort to keep her balance as she placed a leg over his shoulder to further expose her sex to him.

“Philippe,” she moaned.  “Yes, just like that.”

Her knees weakened involuntarily when he slid two fingers into her already wet channel, and moved them in time to the lapping of his tongue.  The pleasure continued to build until it felt like Caroline’s knees weren’t steady enough to support her.

“Philippe, I can’t take any more and still stand,” she moaned.

Caroline felt him full his mouth, but not his pumping fingers long enough to say, “So don’t.”

He guided her to floor, pushing the front of her skirts to her waist and spreading her legs wide.  His mouth returned to it’s former mission and Caroline’s hips arched and swiveled beneath him, as she moaned her pleasure.  For Caroline, it was like being at the center of the sun as he performed this most beloved task, one she had taught him to her specifications, until it imploded in on itself.  She sobbed his name as he brought her to climax once, twice, three times.

Philippe stood, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, appreciating the sight of his lover spread open for him, her hand on the bodice of her dress, chest heaving, eyes slightly unfocused.  After giving her a few moments, he helped her to her feet, enjoying the way her skirts fell neatly, hiding all evidence of her passion.

He asked for tea, enjoying playing at normalcy, while watching her move about knowing that she was still sopping from his touch, and would still be when he reached for her again.  Caroline served him, sat and listened attentively as he discussed business and politics, allowing her hands to stroke his thigh, his arm every so often while simultaneously contributing intelligent comments.

“My father was right,” he said, smiling at her.

“About what, chere?”

“That there is no lover to equal a quadroon lady,” he replied, kissing her hand, and causing her cheeks to flush.

“Thank you, chere.”

With that, he took her hand and led her to the bedroom.  He unbuttoned the back of her gown slowly, enjoying watching her corset appear.  When the green chiffon had pooled about her ankles, he next removed her petticoats.  He had her step out of her skirts and turn for him, enjoying the contrast of her café au lait skin against the bright white of her corset, drawers, silk stockings, and green heeled shoes.  He removed the shoes and drawers, exposing her sex, but keeping her breasts and thighs hidden.

“Bend over for me,” he said huskily.

She did so, leaning over the bed.  Her wet, red sex opened like a flower and she felt his hands caressing her ass before a light slap landed on it and his hands lowered to remove her stockings.  He slowly unlaced her, delaying the moment that her breasts would be exposed, leaving her nude to him.  When she turned and he unfastened the grommets, his mouth had begun to eager lap her nipples before the corset hit the floor.

He lifted her to the bed, and she reveled in the rough feel of his clothes against her soft skin.  He unlaced his pants and pulled out his sex. 

“Do you want it this badly?  That I don’t even have time to undress myself?” he asked in a teasing tone.

Knowing the correct answer, she begged “Please, now!”

Caroline wrapped her long legs around him, enjoying the play of muscles that she had watched him grow as he matured from spindly bookworm to strapping young man.  His cock plunged into her, stretching her and filling her.  His hands teased and pulled at her nipples as he rode her.  Caroline’s hips arched to join more lustily with Philippe, their skin the only noise she could hear, his mouth the only thing she could taste, and lust all she could feel.

Gasping, he pulled out of her and spilled his seed on her stomach.  He collapsed on the bed, and Caroline divested him of his clothing.  Snuggled close to him, she happily anticipated filling her afternoon with her young lover.  She pressed her head to his shoulder, and inhaled his cologne, and smiled as she drifted to sleep.

When Maggie awoke in the morning, she was cuddling a pillow, and she could have sworn it smelled of cologne.  As she brushed the sleep from her eyes, she blushed at the memory of her dream.  She blushed even further when she shed her clothes to shower and saw that her panties were soaking wet.  They didn’t smell of urine, and she had never been a bed wetter, so she had to conclude she’d had a wet dream. 

She didn’t know that women could have them, too.

Maggie shook it off, and focused on her project.  She took her laptop up to the attic and began to catalogue the items from the same end of the attic as Philippe’s trunk.  There was a stack of pictures leaning against a wall a few feet away and she described each one as best she could.  There was a street scene of Jackson Square, a painting of a home in the country, and a picture of the Mississippi with steam boats.

The fourth picture was of a man that Maggie recognized instantly.

“Philippe,” she breathed, for it was the same as the man in her dreams.

 She sat there in shocked silence for a few minutes before she addressed herself.  “Don’t be stupid, Margaret.  You must’ve stumbled across this yesterday.  You have no proof it’s Philippe.  There’s no name at all.  Transference, that’s what it is.  You saw this, you read about sex, and you dreamed about him.  Transference.  Now grow up, and get back to work.”

She resolutely finished cataloguing the pictures and moved on to another set of boxes, full of household minutiae from the early 19^th century before stopping for lunch.  She only picked at it, though, part of her still unnerved by the odd coincidence of the man from her dream and the man from the paintings.

Haunted Dreams-Chapter 2

“Margaret, it’s not too late to stop this madness,” Marilyn said peevishly.

“Yes, it is mother.  I have accepted the position, booked a truck and people to load my truck, and Dad has set things up with Aunt Kelly and Uncle Brent for me to stay at their home while they’re away, which means they don’t need to book a house sitter.  It’s all planned,” Margaret tried not to roll her eyes.

“I don’t understand why you insist on driving that behemoth yourself.  Your father and I have made it amply clear that we’d at least pay for movers to move your things.  You could fly down and enjoy a few days in a hotel, use their spa, if you’re at least following this foolish plan of yours,” Marilyn tried changing tactics.

“I’ll miss you too, Mother,” Maggie replied.  “I’m sure you’re late for a meeting, so I’ll let you go.”

Her mother sighed as she checked her watch.  “I am late.  Please reconsider Margaret.”

“Good bye, Mother.”

Her mother hung up.  Marilyn Madison was not a woman used to losing negotiations, and she had tried to negotiate long and hard over this move.  She’d even gone so far as to offer Maggie a condo and a new car if she’d stay.  Maggie, however, had seen how accepting that, tempting as it was, would have just cut off more options, and having dreamed her nightmare several more times, she was not inclined to put that particular noose of obligation around her neck today, or ever.

Her friends, at least, were much more enthusiastic.  Kevin, her “gay husband” and Selena, her best friend from undergrad were both thrilled at her chance to be on a tenure track, and to have someone in

New Orleans

to visit.  They had both stopped by to shore up her courage and confidence over the past few weeks.

She felt a small ball of fear form in her stomach as the movers packed one truck with the things she was taking to

New Orleans

, and a second with the things she was leaving in

Massachusetts

.  This was a fairly large act of defiance, and she occasionally wondered if it was worth it.

The ball of fear grew as the movers handed her the keys to the truck she was to drive to

New Orleans

.  She had never tried anything of this magnitude alone.  She’d gone to college within a few hours of home, and all of her vacations had happened with friends or family.  Driving 2000 miles by herself and setting up a home in a town she’d been to less than 5 times, and her aunt and uncle weren’t even going to be there to help her get used to being there.  She blinked back tears as she made her slow way down

Memorial Drive

towards the highway.

The drive itself, which was supposed to be fun, at least for the value it would have in pissing off her mother, quickly became boring.  Three days in, she stopped for dinner late in the evening somewhere in

Tennessee

.  She had discovered that it was easy to stop at the truck stops, where parking her truck wasn’t a problem, and tonight was no different.

She entered the diner, and took a booth.  The bored waitress seemed surprised to see a girl alone, and made a point of fussing over her.

“Honey, just you?  You’re not waiting for someone?”

“Just me.”

“Do y’all really think it’s a good idea to stop at a place like this by y’self?” she asked, pouring Maggie some coffee.

Maggie shrugged-no one had even looked at her twice, so what, exactly, should she be afraid of?  “I don’t see why not.”

“Honey, just keep an eye on y’self, y’hear?  These boys are nice, but they don’t get nice girls like you in here very often,” she added, raising an eyebrow toward the counter where a young looking woman dressed in a lipstick red tank top and low rise jeans smiled a tight smile at a group of men at the other end.

Maggie blushed, realizing exactly what the waitress meant.  But surely no one would ever take her for a common prostitute.  She was wearing khakis, for god’s sake.  What kind of prostitute wore khakis?

“Thanks,” she murmured to the waitress, and, after finishing placing her order, pulled out a book so as to ignore the goings on of the much more flamboyant “lady.”  However, it was difficult, as she quickly learned, as ‘Luanne’ had a grating laugh and an exceptionally loud voice.

Her smiles had apparently netted her the attention that she’d sought, as one of the drivers was now sitting next to her, his hand drifting to her ass every few moments.  Whenever he did so, she’d let out a squeal of delight or call him “honey pie,” which was enough for Maggie to start losing her appetite.

She ate the sandwich quickly, leaving aside the questionable looking coleslaw, and asked for her check.  She left an ample tip, grabbed her bag, and headed out.

It had gotten much darker since she’d entered the diner, or so it seemed.  As she hiked across the parking lot, she saw one or two other unfortunate girls knocking on 18 wheeler doors, soliciting business, or so she assumed.  The light near her truck was out, so she stopped by the nearest light to dig the keys to her rental out of her purse.

“Lookin’ for some fun?” a deep voice asked from behind her.

Maggie felt the ball of fear return to her stomach as she turned around.  An older man, obviously a truck driver was looking her over.

“No, just my keys.  Thank you.”

He walked closer, causing her take a step back.  She misjudged and ended up with the pole against her back and the man invading her personal space.

“You got a look of quality about you.  How much you charge?” his hand came up and cupped a breast, thumb rubbing over nipple.

Bile rose in her throat.  “I’m not a whore.”

He laughed.  “’Course not, you quality types never are.  But Billy understands how you like it.  You like to play the demure type, sayin’ no, until I get my cock in you, then you turn into the slut you really are.  I like that game.  Come on, my truck’s right there…I got a bed in the cabin.” He took her arm, and she began to struggle.

“I said no!”

“That’s it.  That’s what Billy likes.” Surprisingly strong arms pulled her against him and she smelled alcohol, and the kind of BO that said he hadn’t showered in a few days.  His mouth landed on hers, and his hands slid under the waistband of her pants and managed to grab her ass. 

“Stop it!” she sobbed as he pushed her back against the cab of the truck.

He pushed between her legs and ground his cock against her.  Then his hand came between them and he rubbed between her legs, “Billy’s gonna give you something you’re gonna love.”

“Please, stop!  NO!” she fumbled in her purse and found not only her keys but the travel sized hairspray she’d bought on a whim.  Whipping the hairspray out, she closed her eyes, held her breath, and pressed down on the trigger and let some loose right into his face.

He screamed in pain, calling her a bitch, but miraculously let go.  She ran full tilt to her truck, got in, locked the doors, and peeled rubber getting out.  Once she’d been driving for a good half hour, she finally found a place to pull over and cry.

Men were just no good.  Nothing good ever came of sex.  She hadn’t even looked like a whore.  She sobbed and sobbed, and realizing that she couldn’t drive, she found the closest Holiday Inn and got a room.

The water washed over her body, soothing her, washing away the dirtiness she felt from where Billy had touched her.  She cried again in the shower, and put on her warmest pajamas, even though it was a hot June evening, feeling cold.

She thought she’d never get to sleep that night.  But exhaustion took over, and soon after crawling into bed, (leaving the bathroom light on for safety and comfort), she fell asleep.  As she sank into sleep, the events of the evening began to replay.  Billy, his groping, the fear and helplessness that she’d felt.  But this time, when she tried to reach for her purse, he knocked it aside, and got her khakis undone.  He’d spun her around so that her breasts were flattened against the side of his truck, and he’d yanked her pants down.  Then they were off, and he kicked her legs wide, exposing her to warm night air.  She’d felt his cock probe her pussy, but as she tensed for the ripping sensation she knew she would feel, the heat of his body disappeared. 

She heard the solid thwap of a hand hitting skin.  She turned and saw Billy on the ground, his hand clutching his jaw.  Another man stood over him, back to Maggie, looming menacingly.  She saw his hand gesture for her to get going.  Maggie gathered her khakis, her purse and her keys and ran to the safety of her truck.

Looking back once she was safe, she only saw Billy, still on the ground.  Of her savoir, there was no trace.

Maggie’s eyes fluttered open.  It was morning, and she felt more rested and safe than she’d felt since she was a child, safe in her home.  It was so counter-intuitive, to feel this way after someone tried to hurt you.  But the memory of her dream savior warmed her, and made her blush.

She’d always felt envy for the girls who had strong, sturdy boyfriends.  Channing, Nicholas, and the two other men she’d allowed into her bed had all been the type of men who grow up and slip into the places in work and in society that their parents expected them to take without question.  There wasn’t really anything manly about that, or strong.  But no man like her dream savoir had ever acknowledged her existence, much less shown any interest in her

And Margaret Alexandra Madison, for all of her brains, was a coward when it came to men.

Haunted Dreams-Chapter 1

“Margaret Alexandra Madison”

Maggie stood, proudly walked to the stage, and shook the President’s hand.  She accepted the regalia of a PhD, and accepted the round of applause.  This was the pinnacle of her academic career-a PhD in History.  Not Law, like her father had wanted, and not Business as her mother would have preferred.  She had managed her own path, and had several job offers, a rarity in her field.

She crossed the stage, and met her family, who had no interest in staying out of respect for the other students.  Her father would say that they were being productive with their time, and being productive was a priority.  You couldn’t bill $500 an hour without proving you’d been productive, after all, as he often said to her in high school and college.  Her mother would agree.

Channing stood just behind her parents, making her sigh.  Channing was the eldest son of her mother’s closest friend, and the two

DAR

cronies had been trying to get the two of them together since high school.  Channing seemed happy enough to go along with it, but she’d always found him to be a drip.  Still, her mother managed to nag her into going out with him about once a month, and as she didn’t have any better alternatives, she would go out with him, and since college that would usually mean sex at the end of the night.  Bad sex, but still.

“Darlin’ Ah’m of you,” her father exclaimed, the excitement causing his carefully learned diction slip, and the southern accent taking over for a moment.  Her father’s southern roots were valued, as he could trace his lineage back to the FFV’s (or First Families of Virginia) just as her mother could trace hers back to the Mayflower, but his accent was not.  Soon after moving to

Boston

, her father had cultivated a voice free of regional accent, so as to be more impressive.

“Well done, Margaret,” her mother said, dryly kissing her cheek.

“Congrats, Maggie,” Channing offered along with a bouquet of lovely roses.

She had no clue how Channing had managed a ticket, as she had only been allowed to invite two people, and given the choice for a third Channing would not have been it.

The four of them went to dinner at a properly upscale restaurant to celebrate her graduation.  Her mother had, predictably, fussed at her plain sky blue sheath as being not dressy enough, but as it was “her day,” had left it at that.

The conversation drifted over such pleasantries as whose family was vacationing where, and what boards Channing’s mother would be chairing over the summer.  Marilyn commented, as she always did, that she wished she could co-chair the boards, but was simply swamped with work.  As if she had to work, when in truth she loved it. 

"So Maggie, what do you do now?" Channing asked, smiling that annoyingly white prep school smile at her.

“I have several offers on the table,” she replied.

“Darling, I thought I told you.  Katie Bellamy is on the executive board at

Bremerton

and has said that you can teach there next year,” Marilyn said, mentioning an exclusive girl’s school nearby.

“Mother, I didn’t get a doctorate to teach high school,” she replied.  “Actually, Dad, I’m thinking of accepting the offer from

New Orleans

University

.  It’s a tenure track position, which is something almost no one gets right away, and I though that perhaps Aunt Kelly and Uncle Brent might be able to help me find an apartment down there.”

“Isn’t that rather far away?” Channing asked surprised.

“Well, yes, but it’s such a great opportunity.  I’d never get into a school like that if they hadn’t lost so many of their faculty after Katrina.  They were closed for a year and are relaunching the school in September.  I’d have a great deal of voice in the curriculum, and I’d even be able to pick up a few upper level classes, which new professors never get to do,” she replied.

From there dinner devolved into her mother and Channing arguing as to why she should stay right in

Boston

, and her father trying to make peace by changing the subject.  After dessert, Channing offered to take her home, which she gratefully accepted, if only to get away from her mother.  Channing, she could handle.

The drive back to her apartment was quiet.  She could feel Channing’s desire to talk things out, but his equal desire not to start an argument.  Arguments, after all, didn’t lead to sex.  She had been avoiding him under the excuse of finishing up her dissertation, and they hadn’t been alone together in two months, so it was more than a little expected that sex would follow today’s liberation from studenthood.

Channing hadn’t been her first lover.  In high school she’d fallen under the spell of Nicholas, a handsome baseball player.  She’d hung around the fringes of his group, hoping he’d notice her, which he finally did during the winter of her Junior year of high school.  He’d asked her to the Winter Dance.  She’d accepted, and on the drive home, he’d found a secluded spot in the woods.

She remembered how Nicholas (never Nick) had started kissing her, and how his lips had created a liquid tug in her low body.  The tug had been so pleasurable that she hadn’t murmured even a token protest when his hand slid to her zipper and pulled it down.  The dress had been shoved to her waist, and her breasts fondled.  While the kiss had been exciting, the rough handling of her breasts had been less so.

“That hurts,” she’d said.

“Don’t worry, you’ll like it,” he’d replied and had reached over her to the control that would tip her seat back.

He climbed on top of her, distracting her with the kisses that made her protestations quiet.  When he kissed her breasts, instead of squeezing and pinching them, she felt the liquid pleasure again, and let him part her legs.  He’d lifted her skirt, and pulled down her panties before she fully understood that he wanted to do more than fool around.

“I don’t think we should….” She began but he kissed her into submission, having realized how easy she would be if he just kept kissing her.

She heard him unzip his pants, and his hands moved to her thighs, lifting and parting them.  He kissed her for a few moments, sending her into an erotic haze that lasted long enough for him to fish out a condom and get it on.  Then he kissed her again as his cock nudged her folds.

“Just let me put the tip in.  I need you so much.  You’ll like it,” he murmured between kisses.

She didn’t entirely consent, but she didn’t protest as he forced the head of his cock into her narrow passage.  He just kept kissing her, slowing moving until he found resistance.  Then he took hold of her hips, and as he had so many times before, shoved through her cherry.  She cried out, but just like every other virgin pussy he’d ever had, a few kisses and a stroke or two on the clit shut them right up.  He babbled some shit about how special she was, blah blah blah, and enjoyed the tight ride she gave him.  He loved how tight virgins were, and he never fucked them more than once.  But she’d learn it soon enough.

Afterwards, he handed her a towel.  “Sit on this okay?  I don’t want to get blood on the leather.”  That was the downside of cherry girls, bleeding all over his shit.  He tossed the used condom out the window and drove her home.

He never paid her any special attention afterwards.

Maggie had had several lovers after that, but none were anything special.  She had learned to masturbate, as the pleasure she’d had when he was kissing her was alluring, if elusive.  But she had grown to like cuddles after sex, and every once and a while fantasy wasn’t enough, and she’d fuck Channing.  No many, however, had ever given her an orgasm, and she figured that none ever would.

 Channing predictably followed her into the apartment, and watched her put the flowers, now a little wilted, into the vase. 

“You know you should stay,” he said finally.

 “Why?”

“You have a life here.”  Channing was hardly one for deathless romance, but then again, neither was she.

“I do, but that life was wrapped up in school.  I’m ready for a change.  And it’s not like I have serious ties to

Boston

.  My family travels, my friends would be happy to come to

New Orleans

.  I do already have family there, as well, so it’s not like I’m moving to some city I’ve never seen,” she countered.

“What about me?” he asked.

“What about you?” Maggie was confused.

“I suppose I figured that we would be seeing more of each other now that you’re done with your dissertation,” he said.  “Why not stay for me?  Haven’t I indicated my interest enough?  You’re an ideal girlfriend for me.”

 Hearing Channing use a word like “girlfriend” made her want to shudder, much less apply it to herself.

 “We’re just having fun,” she protested, something she’d heard men say to her before.

Channing kissed her.  Realizing that sex would be easier than conversation, she kissed him back.

They moved to the bedroom, shedding their clothes as they did so.  For Maggie, it was fairly mechanical-remove clothes, lick nipples, touch penis, lay on back, he touches breasts, parts legs, inserts penis.  As she lay there, she wondered why she didn’t like sex the way others did.  She certainly overheard enough girls giggling over sex, and all the magazines and television shows couldn’t be wrong.  So maybe it was her.

 She let out a moan like the one she’d seen a character on “Sex and the City” give.  It was the sort of thing that usually encouraged Channing to speed things up.  The faster he came, after all, the faster he’d leave and this awful conversation would be over and done with.

 She felt her breasts bounce with each thrust, and wondered how much longer this was going to take.

 Finally, Channing groaned, and collapsed on top of her.  She allowed the cuddles, closing her eyes and pretending it was someone else holding her.  She did like the feel of male arms around her.  But after ten minutes, she was encouraging him to leave.

“You really should think about it.  We’d be a great couple.  Don’t go,” Channing said one last time before leaving.

 When he did, Maggie sighed deeply, and reached for her laptop to accept the position in

New Orleans

.  As she saw it, it was an excellent career opportunity, and as a bonus, two cities couldn’t be more dissimilar than

Boston

and

New Orleans

.

 After she finished the email, she returned to her bed, and reached for her vibrator.  She put the pulsing egg against her clit, and pulled the covers over her, as if to hide what she was doing.  She tightly squeezed her eyes shut, and lost herself in the building orgasm.  When the first jolt of pleasure made her twitch, she turned the vibe off, and cleaned herself with a towel.

Maggie fell asleep wondering just why a man had never made her twitch like that.

 

 

 

 

 

Haunted Dreams-Prologue

Maggie slept, and dreamt.  She was a young woman, standing on a platform under a tree.  The coarse rope around her neck scratched and ripped her delicate skin.  She couldn’t pull the rope away from her, as her hands were bound cruelly behind her back.  She looked out at the crowd that had assembled to watch the macabre scene, looking for someone.

 

He isn’t here.  He’s going to let them do this to me.  This is what I deserve for letting myself trust him?  Foolish girl!  I should’ve known that he would be no better than my own father.

 

A sonorous voice read charges of murder, and that her sentence was death.  He nodded, and someone behind Maggie kicked the platform out from under her feet.

 

The shock of the noose tightening around her throat woke Maggie.

 

Gasping, she reached for her throat, and was surprised to find nothing other than smooth, unmarred skin.  She got out of her warm bed, and padded to the window. 

Boston

glittered on the opposite side of the River, cool and reserved as usual.

 

“I have to get out of here,” she said to the vista. 

 

The very next day she began applying for jobs outside of

Massachusetts

, and in doing so, sealed her fate.