Gillian flopped down onto the couch and surveyed the chaos around her. Moving into the house had taken three friends, 42 boxes and countless trips from the flat in the city. She’d always loved this neighbourhood. Longed to live in the quiet, leafy lanes of a suburb steeped in history and character. And she’d finally bought the old Victorian cottage with the ubiquitous brookie lace and high ceilings that nestled on the corner of 12th and Stanley. The fireplace in the lounge, the scarred hardwood floors, the strange pantry-like cupboard in the hallway; she loved every inch of it. It was going to need serious work. But she was in no rush. It was hers and she planned to be here for a very long time. A place of her own.
Time to start unpacking.
As night began to creep in, Gillian packed away the last of a box of glasses and Tupperware, sipping on a glass of Springfield’s “Life from Stone” sauvignon blanc. The wine was cold, a celebratory moving gift from a colleague. Around her, the house creaked and shifted, every new noise strange. Gillian wondered if the night sounds of the old floors and walls would eventually become familiar. She’d heard backyard gossip about the house when she bought it. Apparently it has once been a home for hysterics. Women who reportedly had visions and saw angels and wept and railed, but were probably just raging against forced marriages and closed, trapped lives. She quite liked the thought. That she was able to live the kind of life that those women had fought for; a single working woman, in charge of her own life, her own destiny.
She finished the wine, rinsed the glass and left it on the sideboard to dry. Time for bed, she smiled to herself, my first night in my very own home.
As she walked through the box-stacked lounge, she flicked off lamps and closed just hung curtains, leaving the house in darkness behind her. In the master bedroom, her bedside light cast a yellow glow against the wood floor. The night pressed against the window until she shut it out, drawing the blinds over the beautiful sash windows.
She took off her jeans and t-shirt climbed naked into the freshly made bed, snuggling down into the crisp linen and reaching over to turn off the lamp. Although she was exhausted from the move, she lay awake, watching the room reappear in dark shapes as her eyes adjusted to the night and thinking about what this house would bring her. What memories would be made within these walls?
Finally, around midnight, she drifted into the half consciousness of pre-sleep. Half asleep and half awake she felt the air turn cooler. In fugue of slipping deeper into sleep, she felt the softest trace of fingers on her cheek. Gillian smiled and turned over, the duvet slipping from her shoulder. The dream fingers trailed gently down her neck and over her exposed clavicle, the curve of her shoulder blade and down her back. In the blue halfsleep, Gillian felt the fingers trace circles down her spine, raising goosebumps that patterned her skin and hardened her nipples.
This feels so real, she mused to herself in the flow of the dreaming. Sighing, she turned over to lie on her back, pulling the bedding to one side of her body and feeling the fingers fade into smoke.
Slipping deeper again, she felt the fingers return. On her cheek. This time they slipped down her face, over her neck and down to the swell of her breast. Her nipples hardened again. The fingers slid slowly up to the areola, circling the sensitive flesh. Gillian sighed. Her breathing deepened. The fingers traced an unbearably soft, intricate pattern over her breasts and her ribs and her belly. Through the mist of the dream, the conscious part of her brain wondered again at how real the fingers felt. I’ve been alone to long, was the fleeting thought that melted in the wake of the touch.
The fingers lingered. Long, slow, soft strokes caressed the swell of her belly and down over her legs. Lost in the sensation, Gillian shifted. The fingers circled back up towards the dark triangle at the top of her thighs. As the fingers brushed over her pussy, she moaned. Trapped in the fog of the dream, Gillian felt the fingers stroke her, tease her, open her, slide into her. She was hot and slick. As the fingers began to touch and stroke and rub, a deep soft breath in her ear began to whisper in a strange tongue, a canticle of desire and lust and insatiable hunger, the sound rising with the rhythm of the fingers.
Her own breath quickened and sighed. Her body moved against the rising well of pleasure, her hips rising to meet the hot pulse of the fingers. The whispers in her ear became a mouth that still sang as it moved over her, biting and licking and sucking her as she rose to the longing of the dream. The mouth took a nipple, slowly suckling, the tongue running round the hardened flesh. The pressure of the fingers rose and fell, light and then hard until she was liquid. Lost. The mouth moved to her other breast. Biting harder now. Her body arched with desire. The fingers were hard and intoxicating, the mouth brutal, her desire raged wild and uncontrollable until she exploded in a molten flow of heat and bliss. In the moment of her climax the voice in her ear was dark and low and clear.
“Welcome Gillian. Welcome lover. I’ve been waiting.”
Gillian bolted awake, her body slick with sweat and her pulse racing. The voice was gone, an echo in the pitch black of the room. She fumbled for the light, knocking the lamp over in her rush to banish the dark. She shivered, pulled the duvet around her, and tried to convince herself that the dream was only that; a dream. Taking a deep, steadying breath she reached over for the bottle of water beside her bed and stopped dead. There, in the red glow of her bedside clock the new day had clicked into place, Friday the 13th.
**Written as part of the OneLongMinute Fortnightly Challenge