A Kiss From The Dead

POPPY

Unicorns and rainbows and cotton candy.

I forced my subconscious into a pastel wonderland filled with colorful fairies and innocent magic. But something wasn't right. One of the fairies was…grunting? No. It was a low, straining sound.

“Babe,” Jamie's hoarse voice called from between my thighs.

I snapped out of my head, a polite, practiced smile forming on my face as I propped myself up on my elbows.

“I asked if you liked it like this,” he muttered before he leaned down and took a long, wet lick from my slit to my clit. I closed my eyes, letting a soft moan escape my lips to encourage him.

“Or like this?” he leans down again and spears his tongue in me, trying to fuck me with it.

“You're doing amazing, Jamie,” I rasped, though my mind was already elsewhere.

I reached out, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as I tried to force myself to feel a connection that wasn't there. I reached down to press his face further into my mould. I move, trying to ride his face, trying to feel something.

I throw my head back, bucking my hips up to meet his face, feeling the slight pain as my breast bounces. I feel myself reaching so close. But then he stops and everything disappears I whine and look at him, the frustration clear on my face.

He shifted back, looking slightly pained. “Sorry, babe. You were pulling a bit too hard.” He gestured to how tightly I had been holding onto him.

I immediately pulled my hands away, a wave of embarrassment washing over me. “Oh. I'm sorry,” I stammered. My eyes stung, and I quickly shifted away, putting distance between us before the awkwardness became unbearable.

“Hey, it's okay,” Jamie said, trying to bridge the gap. “We've talked about this. It's fine to be a little intense. I just want you to be happy.” He reached out to pull me back into a gentle embrace. Then he started taking his pants off.

“Jamie… I’m just not ready to go further yet,” I whispered, my posture tense.

He looked like he wanted to argue, to ask the same questions he always did about why I was so guarded, but he chose to let it go, leaning in for a soft kiss instead.

I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing intently on the friction, the weight pressing me into the bed. I try to focus on Jamie. I conjure the image of his face, the way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating, the soft, tentative way he kisses me. I try to hold onto that image, the safety of it, but my mind betrays me, slipping the tether of reality like a dog off its leash.

His face blurs. The gentle features dissolve into shadow, melting away until there is nothing but a void. The hands on my skin aren't gentle anymore, they are demanding, rough, possessing.

In the dark theater of my mind, I can’t see him. There is only the sensation of fingers hooking inside my cunt, dragging against my front wall with a ruthless precision that makes my toes curl. It’s a nightmare, a violent intrusion, but my hips buck up to meet it, craving the harshness.

A hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just claiming. The kiss that follows feels like suffocation. A tongue forcing its way past my lips, choking me with the taste of copper and lust.

He fucks me with his fingers, hard and fast, treating my tight hole like a thing to be used rather than worshipped. Just how I like it. The roughness scrapes against my nerves, sending jagged spikes of pleasure-pain racing up my spine, obliterating the thought of anything else.

The pressure builds, a tight coil in my belly threatening to snap. I’m gasping into the mouth of the faceless man, my cunt clamping down on those invading fingers, trying to milk them for everything they have. The orgasm rips through me, violent and sudden. I cry out, my back bowing off the mattress, vision going white behind my eyelids as the pleasure washes over me in a filthy wave.

The wave crashes, leaving me panting, sweat cooling on my skin. The illusion shatters. The heavy weight on top of me shifts, becoming familiar. The shadow retreats, and I blink my eyes open.

Jamie is there, looking down at me with a soft, satisfied smile. His brown hair is mussed, his chest heaving slightly. He leans down and pecks my lips, a gentle, dry press that feels jarringly innocent after the violence of my fantasy.

"That was amazing," he murmurs, his voice husky but kind. He brushes a stray hair away from my forehead, his touch tender.

I force the corners of my mouth up. The smile feels like a mask made of cracked porcelain. "Yeah," I whisper, my voice wrecked. "It was."

Guilt is a cold stone in my stomach, heavy and indigestible. I just came on my boyfriend's fingers while fantasizing about a faceless man choking me. I don't know what kind of fetish that is but it's definitely not normal and that doesn't stop me from craving more. The shame eats at the lining of my throat, acidic and sharp.

I reach up and stroke his cheek, trying to anchor myself in this reality, in his kindness, but my fingers still tingle with the phantom memory of rougher hands.

He rolls off me and sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He grabs his jeans from the floor, the denim rustling as he pulls them on.

"We should get going, everyone's already at Katie's" he says, buttoning his fly. "You know how they get if we're late."

"I know," I say, staring at the ceiling. "I'll be out in a minute. Just need to clean up."

"Okay. I'll warm up the car." He pulls his shirt over his head, covering the chest I was just pressing against, and walks out. The door clicks shut, sealing me in the quiet room.

I lie there for a moment longer, listening to the blood rushing in my ears. Then I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My thighs are sticky, a mess of arousal and release. I grab a tissue from the nightstand and wipe myself clean, the friction rough against my sensitive skin. I pull on a pair of panties and a simple sundress, the fabric cool against my flushed skin.

I stand up and walk toward the window to check my reflection in the glass. I pause.

Sitting on the windowsill is a vase. It wasn't there when I got into bed. I know this with absolute certainty I keep the sill clear for the stray cat that always comes by. But there it is, a crystal vase filled with fresh, vibrant lilies. They are pristine, their petals a stark, aggressive white against the dusty paint of the frame.

My breath hitches. A shiver ripples down my arms, raising gooseflesh despite the warm afternoon air.

The dead roses I threw out yesterday are gone. In their place are these, newer, prettier, fresher. They smell intoxicatingly sweet, a scent that seems too heavy for my room.

I look at the window latch. It's locked. I haven't opened it in days. It must've been him. My stalker. He was here. He replaced the flowers.

The fear isn't a surprise. It’s a familiar, worn-in coat I slip into every time this happens. This isn't new. He's always watching, always leaving signs. But as I stare at the pristine white petals, I can't help but wonder, did he see me?

The lilies seem to mock me with their perfection. At least my stalker has good taste. I clutch the fabric of my dress, my knuckles turning white, unable to look away from the silent, beautiful threat sitting in my window.