Pleasure Unbound

JAMES

Her words stop me. I’m walking into her building, and her words stop me. Beautiful? And then the call ends with three quick beeps and I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at it. She took those pills. Her words were slurring. I scared the fuck out of her and she took those pills.

I grab the key I had made and open her door. The place is quiet except for the mechanical hum of the air conditioning. I close the door and walk over to her bed. She’s curled up in a ball, clutching her pillow. Most nights this is how she sleeps. But it’s not night and she’s not asleep. She’s passed out.

I grab the bottle from the bathroom and count the pills. Seven missing. Fourteen milligrams. Not great, but could be worse. These pills are not easy to overdose on. I know this shit. Pharmacology is my specialty. My calling card when I need to take care of business. The poison I use tells my superiors what kind of job it was. Anti-anxiety drugs are worthless for killing people, so she’s not gonna die, but she’s gonna be out of it for a while.

I pull the covers back and she moans. Her clothes are soaking wet, she smells like salt, and her head is still seeping blood. “Harper?” I pull her to a sitting position and grab her face. “Harper?”

Her eyes roll a little as she slurs out an incomprehensible word.

I let her lie back and then reached down to unbutton her shorts. They are stuck to her skin, so I have to tug them to get them over her curvy hips. Her underwear drags down with them. They’re black, like her sports bra, and for a moment I imagine her in lingerie.

My dick is hard immediately.

Her pussy is covered in fine blonde hair. Trimmed and neat. It stops my heart for a second. God. I’ve wanted this girl for months. I’ve imagined her spread out on this bed naked so many times, this is like reliving a dream. I pull her shorts and panties over her ankles and then lift her to sit again. “Hold still,” I whisper as she moans. I tug the bra over her head and toss it down on the floor next to the shorts. And then I lift her in my arms and hold her close. Her breasts press against me and then her arms encircle my neck and she leans in, pushing her face into my shoulder like she’s snuggling.

Fuck. I want her so bad.

She is mine. She feels like mine. I have an overwhelming desire to touch every part of her toned and tanned body. I want to push her up against the wall and take her from behind. I want to fuck her mouth with my cock and her pussy and ass with my fingers. I’ve dreamed of this for months.

HARPER

Oh, God. The headache. I turn over in bed and smell… what’s that smell?

My sheets smell delicious. Like a summer meadow. Fresh.

I inhale and then remember why I passed out in the first place and sit upright, my heart once again beating wildly. I don’t smell like the ocean and my clothes do not stink of salt, even though I jumped off a pier. And my bed is not littered with sand. I look around, trying to assess what’s happening.

Or what happened? When I fell asleep.

My head is so foggy from the Ativan. I look over at my bedside table and spy the bottle. How many did I take? Three? Four? More?

Too many after so many months of cleaning. Enough to mess with my memory. But I only took them because I was freaked out. I thought… What did I think?

I try to remember back. The pier. I jumped off a pier. Hit my head… my fingertips go to my left temple where the throbbing is. There’s no blood, just a scab and… stitches? I flick my finger back and forth across the tiny knots and there’s a jolt of pain as this pulls the tender skin.

Someone stitched my head.

I withdraw the hand.

Beautiful saved me. He stitched me back up.

No, no, no! Oh my God! That’s not what’s happening here, Harper! He’s working for them! He has to be, how else would he get my phone number? And why was he following me in the first place?

I silence the inner voice. I can’t stand it right now. It needs to just go away and let me react. Things need to be simple. If ever there was a time to rely on instincts, this is it.

And the simple truth is, that guy attacked me, kissed me, and insinuated he was going to have sex with me. He works for them. I know this. I’m certain of this. I’m not sure what kind of game he’s playing, but I’ve met a few of the hunters growing up. He’s one of them. All cocky, charismatic, and calm. He seemed very sure of himself.

Didn’t he?

But why didn’t he kill me? Or take me back?

I look around for my phone and spy it on the table next to the pills. I scoot across the bed and grab it so I can search my messages. But when I open the log, there’s nothing there. Empty. Just as it should be. No one ever messages me. No one has this number.

But… he did message me. He asked me… damn. I can’t recall what, but I jumped off the pier when he asked me something and then I walked home, panicked when I got the message-the one that’s not here-and I took the pills and went to bed to ride it out.

But… I look down at my clothes. I’m wearing a pink tank top and white boy short underwear. I smell my skin. Nope, no trace of the ocean. I smell like soap. I must’ve taken a shower.

And changed the sheets?

Because there’s no sand in the bed. None between my toes. The shorts and sports bra I was wearing should be on the floor where I usually throw them when I undress, but they’re nowhere to be found.

I laugh as I get up and pad over to the kitchen to start some coffee. “I should get high on Ativan more often. Stoned Harper is a neat freak.”Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

Or…

Beautiful came in, cleaned me up and stitched my wound, clothed me, changed my sheets, and did the laundry. I laugh at the thought.

Or…

God, I hate the incessant sub-vocalization of my mind. Why can’t it shut up?

Maybe I imagined the whole thing? Maybe there was no man on the pier? Maybe I took the pills and all that stuff was nothing more than an over-sedation fugue.

I need to get out of this house. How long can one person talk to themselves before it’s considered a pathology? I have no idea, but I’m not into finding out. Maybe that guy was a dream, who cares? If he was here to take me back, I’d be back. I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing half-naked in my kitchen making coffee.