Be Still

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
She is visited by an entity, touched, and seduced, always left to wonder if an angel, demon, or ghost has claimed her.

Submitted: May 13, 2017

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Submitted: May 13, 2017

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Have you ever had a secret that consumes your mind?

I walk, I drive, I work, I converse, I eat, I sleep, but I am not ultimately present in my head. I am projecting an illusion of myself to please the people in my world and to keep anyone from asking questions. When I forget to put up this false image, I am asked, “Are you ok? What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Sometimes it feels that if I let them look at me, they will see the deviant I hide inside my core. It is similar but more powerful than that clandestine, sometimes delicious awareness when one is holding ben wa balls in her vagina…a secret no one but the wearer knows.

I have come to believe in ghosts…or spirits.

Sometimes I find myself unintentionally losing up to an hour of time remembering my experiences in a sort of trance or fantasy state. Memories come and I dwell on them, analyze them, relive them, and mentally document them. I find myself both dreading and hoping for these unseemly things to happen again. I fear and ache for it, or him, to come again.

My secret is sexual.

Something has been happening to me at night. Well…not every night…and I guess it’s not always night…but I seem to feel it coming like a premonition on the nights when it does happen. Someone or something is visiting me, usually as I fall asleep. I close my eyes and start to drift, and in the moment when I am falling asleep and my body is paralyzed but my mind is still lucid, I hear it.

It started like a love affair. I sensed a presence, an event that would normally frighten me, but this thing made me feel wanted. There was nothing I could point out at that time to lend credence to my feelings, and I largely ignored the strange ideas that came into my mind. I began to feel nervous when the presence would come around, not unlike a young girl with a crush. I couldn’t say why, but I longed for the presence when it was gone.

One day, as I sat at the dining room table painting my fingernails, I felt it come. Pressure like a hand rested on my right shoulder. I stiffened, feeling my heart begin to race. After turning to the right and left to try to see what I thought should be in my peripheral vision, I gave up and remained still. Not expecting to feel anything at all, I touched my right shoulder and my hands brushed what felt like the skin and nails of fingers. They withdrew below my touch. With a screech of my chair, I stood, whirled about, and put my hand out in front of me as if I were blind. What I felt was a dissipation of energy so delicate, I couldn’t be sure I had felt anything at all.

Shortly after that first physical contact, the spirit increased its number of visits. Along with these visits came an increased number of physical encounters: a touch on my cheek, a caress of my hair, fingers on my spine, hands on my hips, and a mouth on my neck.

Apparently it—he—could no longer restrain himself, and as I stood one evening at my kitchen sink washing the day’s dishes for one, his presence came without warning, pressing me against the counter. I screamed, as my first thought was I was under attack. His smoke-like hand, transparent but firm, closed over my mouth. This comforted me rather than terrified me. While my pulse was pounding in my ears and I was shaking uncontrollably, I knew this was my visitor. He took his hand away from my mouth.

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice wavering. I felt silly talking to what might be my imagination.

“Shhh…” I thought he whispered.

“Please,” I begged. “I need to know who…” His hand closed over my mouth again and I felt as though my whole body was suddenly restrained. The pressure of his soul moved against me, surrounding me, and it bent me over the sink, where I stared wide-eyed at my blue, sudsy dish-sponge, abandoned near the drain. My hands shot out to brace myself against the rim of the sink. He instantly made me dizzy with the pleasure of his energy. In whatever spiritual realm this was occurring, my clothing did not pose a barrier, and I felt the very physical sensation of him entering me. Rocking waves of his desire rolled through my body translating into ecstasy for me. I felt my most intimate muscles opening and closing for him, accepting him as he steadily thrust into me against the counter, slowly at first and then faster and harder until I knew I would release. I felt him begin to slow as he prolonged my orgasm, and just as I thought it would end, he moved faster again to lift me to that second climax.

I cried when it ended, certain this experienced meant I was some kind of whore for demons because of my sins, and as I sank to the tile floor I felt him sink with me, bathing me in his own despair. I sensed he was hurt that I thought him a demon and myself a whore.

That was the first and last time he fully seduced me while I was wide awake. In fact, that was the last time he touched me when I was awake. Perhaps, in mercy, he wanted me to think these occurrences were only dreams. Perhaps I had hurt him for feeling shame. On occasions, I still sense him in my house, and I thank him for not completely abandoning me while I’m awake.

My most recent experience happened after a typical day at work. I cannot say it was induced by stress or low blood sugar, as nothing unusual happened to create any undue amount of stress, and I had been eating regularly. I have taken the same medications for years, so I cannot say it is induced by a side effect. I never drink and I’ve never even smoked marijuana. Chemical or stress-induced hallucinations are not a possibility. Hesitantly, I do accept the possibility of mental illness, but I firmly believe I am sane. And honestly, if this experience is an illness, I do not want to be cured.

This recent experience is much like the others before it.

From my left the spirit seems to come, sounding like white noise or a thousand whispers, and I look to the double French doors that open up to the patio off my bedroom. The curtains stir just slightly and I begin to see the mist. It curls and waves through the cracks between the threshold and the door and between the two glass doors as well. In some places the mist is like transparent arrows whose beads have been drawn on me, and in some places it undulates like smoky, coiled, irregular rings.

I feel my body rise slightly from my bed, lifted by this mist. It vibrates me into a sensation that used to terrify me, as if something were tearing my soul from my body; and although the feeling is nothing I can prove physically, it is fully corporeal. My whole body is consumed…or so I think until the mist surrounds me and saves me.

The cloud is electric, sending tendrils of sensation through me like currents. As of yet, it is not sexual, but I am filled with ecstasy. Slowly, my mist begins to take on a form, and although I cannot see it clearly, I sense this form is male. What I cannot sense is whether this apparition is of an angel or a demon.

I sigh.

He gently touches my belly as if pressing down, and I return to my bed. The touch is like that of a warm hand. Heat begins to spread from the spot on my stomach where he presses. That simple contact tells me he is in control and I feel I can do nothing save give myself over to his will.

I cannot say I have heard him speak, as I’ve never heard his voice, but he communicates with me.

“You’re safe.” This is spoken in an inaudible thought without words, as if our combined sentience is linked and words are not necessary.

I sigh, trembling.

“Be still.”

My heart races as the sensation begin to grow, wrapping its ribbons around by head, my neck, my shoulders, my arms, my breasts, my belly, my fingers, my legs, my knees, my feet, and my toes.

It then moves directly up the inside of my calves, under my knees, up my inner thighs, and against the soft flesh between my legs.

I gasp.

It feels as if a kiss has been placed there—a soft sweet pressure—and I twitch. The sensation has now become undeniably sexual. I tremble again.

“Oh, god!” I cry aloud.

“Be still,” the non-voice says again.

I can almost see him, though I am not sure if I am imagining what I want to see, or if this is the specter’s true form. I feel like I love him, but my body is making all of these conclusions.

He is at once heavy and weightless, everywhere and nowhere…ethereal. When I try to focus on his features, they blur, much like looking directly at a dim star in a black sky.

“Who are you?” I whisper, and I almost tell him I love him, but I feel my mouth fill with him, as if he is refusing to let me speak or ask any more questions. I open my mouth to relieve the pressure with which he has filled it, and suddenly it feels as though fingers are stroking my tongue. A mouth presses on mine, each point of contact filling me with pleasure. The hands of this being are slipping around my neck, his thumb stroking my throat, his fingers caressing the back of my neck and the base of my skull. The fingers seem to grow to enclose my head, scraping lightly against my scalp and through my hair. I arch my back against the desire.

His one mouth becomes two, then four, then eight, then I don’t know how many. The mouths feel as if they are all over my body, suctioning circles of my flesh into them. Tongues lick at me, teeth bite at me, lips kiss me.

Even behind me, in some dimension in which my bed does not exist, I feel his hands and mouths there as well. Pain like a slap shocks the skin on my buttocks and my eyes fly wide open, fearing he will hurt me.

“Be still,” he whispers to my brain while delivering another painful slap sensation.

I’m shaking in fear. My heart races and tears fill my eyes.

“Still,” he demands, the voiceless voice forceful and commanding.

I try to calm my heart. It feels as if he has frozen until I obey his order. I feel almost nothing except his presence, the withdrawal of sensation a sort of punishment. When I have sufficiently calmed, I feel his fingers again. Lightly, they touch me. The mouths are gone…except one. It presses to mine and his tongue parts my lips. I feel fingers stroke the tender lips between my legs, pressing, pinching, and pulling. They enter me so slowly…slowly, then deeply…impossibly deeply.

My mouth fills again. I have unquestionably taken his ghostly phallus into my mouth. This entity wants to receive pleasure as well as give it. I suck and suck.

“Open,” he says, and I obey. I feel him pressing deep against my throat. I taste the ghost’s desire, an essence like nothing else.

“Close and suck,” he says, and I obey, feeling him pull back against the suction I create.

“Again,” he says, “again.”

I repeat the pattern once, twice, a hundred times, I cannot be sure, and I sense he is pleased with me.

“I am.” He has answered me, though I did not voice my thought. As he shifts his body, I try to swallow the trepidation that will make him angry, reminding myself that he told me I was safe, but every moment when I do not know what is coming next, I fear he will hurt me.

But he moves, rotating to return his mouth to mine. He kisses me gently as he spreads my legs apart with his and enters me with unexpected violence. A gasp escapes beneath his kiss. He rewards my shock by inserting his fingers into my open mouth to stroke my tongue again, his kisses moving to my neck. As he moves his fingers in and out of my mouth, he thrusts his cock in and out of me in a matching rhythm that continues until I feel as if I have disintegrated into nothing but mist myself. I am almost sick with pleasure, but I don’t want it to end. I feel tears stream down my cheeks. Spasms make my hips twitch, and I cannot keep myself from curling my pelvis to meet his, finding resistance where there should be none.

I succumb to that climax, that summit, that apex again and again, and I know I cannot endure any more. My brain hears him whisper that I can and I will, and he continues. Just as the pleasure turns to pain, he erupts, squeezing my soul and filling me to bursting for seconds, minutes, or hours. He finally slows, moving delicately as if a complete stop might be harmful. It feels as if he has sent strings of himself into every extremity of my body through my soft center, and finally those strings of sensation withdraw slowly, creating a pleasure of their own. In mercy, he has called them back, and now he moves to soothe. His touch is now calming. He has withdrawn and my body feels the physical loss of his internal pressure.

Thinking I sense his presence still, but not entirely sure, I feel nothing but my own body for several minutes and I catch my breath, trying to become still as he would have me do. Like a reward, he returns his touch. Gentle and kind, he caresses and embraces my body, relieving me of the heat I no longer need. I feel that his soul has absorbed my own. Calm and restful I feel in his arms.

Why has he chosen me? Does he sense my particular desires? Is he real? Is he an incubus who visits this enchanting torture on others? The thought actually makes me jealous.

“Be still and sleep,” he whispers and is gone.

 

 


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