by Alam, Donna
I’m not sure if it’s the result of my pseudo stalking or wishful thinking that conjures him in my bed each night, and to be honest, I don’t really care. I’m not hurting anyone, and he isn’t cheating on his girlfriend with his wife. And it’s not my fault my sleep mind fancies him over Bradley Cooper these days.
So I sleep lots and dream plenty, and though I’m tired, I manage to wake with a smile on my face most days . . . and a hand down the front of my pyjama pants. It doesn’t take Freud to work out why. And there are worse ways to start the day, even if horny doesn’t begin to cover how I feel, because masturbation is nothing more than a helping hand. It’s not quite the real thing . . .
According to my pregnancy book, a mixture of progesterone and emotion might be responsible for my dream life.
‘Vivid dreams are quite common during pregnancy and can reflect both fear and anxiety; that is to say, both the excitement and apprehension regarding the physical and emotional changes your body is experiencing.’
It’s gone six o’clock, and the salon is closed as I close the cover of the book and, leaning around Natasha, place it on the shelf in front of the gilt-framed, floor-length mirror then pick up the plastic dish.
‘So,’ Nat begins, her pondering expression reflected back at me. ‘Your brain is either worried about your widening hips or the possibility of your kitty being left in tatters?’
Her face is a picture, or rather, her reflection is. Covered from neck to waist in the obligatory black cape, I’ve plastered her hair to her head and covered it with an ashy-coloured goop. Beauty is sometimes ridiculous. It’s a fact, and something we’re both very well-versed in.
Leaning forward, she picks up the book and flicks through it, freezing halfway through. ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph; why the fuck would they use a picture like that?’ Pages wide, she thrusts the book over her shoulder, open at a page depicting—
‘Ah, the miracle of childbirth.’
‘Looks more like something off Alien. It’s a wonder people ever have sex again! I see now why you’ve been dreamin’—that there is the stuff of nightmares.’
My own reflection shrugs as I paint the rest of the tint on her hair. ‘But I’m not having nightmares, am I? Still, it sounds reasonable, doesn’t it? What the book says—that my brain is working overtime while I’m sleeping? Sounds logical, right?’
‘Sounds daft,’ she scoffs. ‘Worried, I understand. But what you’re dreamin’ of makes no sense.’
‘It’s not like I get to choose.’ I can hear the harshness of my response and regret my tone almost immediately.
‘I ken that,’ she replies, unconcerned. ‘But even without the scary alien stuff’—she gestures to the book on her lap—‘wouldn’t a mind full of worry leave you dreaming of scary stuff? Of ghosties and ghoulies. Of being stuck in your own birth canal.’ I begin to laugh as her pale complexion suddenly takes on a similar hue to her hair. ‘Why the hell would you dream about being shagged senseless by the mighty aubergine—by Dylan dickalicious Duffy himself? Because you’re worried? It doesn’t make any sense; Brad’s your go-to cad.’
Yeah. Why would I be dreaming of Dylan over Bradley Cooper? It’s not like I’m worried about what I have to tell him. And it’s not as if I’m afraid of what he might say about my pregnancy.
‘It’s what the book says, and therefore, it’s the expert’s opinion,’ I reply instead.
‘Bollocks.’ And with that announcement, she claps the cover of the book shut.
‘All right, Confucius. Let me know when you’ve written a pregnancy book, and I’ll be sure to buy it.’
‘Confucius says, woman who wakes with sticky fingers—’
‘Stop!’
‘Craves cock,’ she finishes, ignoring my distress. ‘Plain and simple; your body needs a good shag.’
‘Well, then.’ I make a show of rubbing my small bump for effect. ‘I’d best get myself on the internet to see if I can find someone interested in tubbies.’
‘My arse. There’s barely a picking on you, other than you look like you might have swallowed a small, round ball.’ She eyes me critically through the mirror. ‘Your pregnancy body is a bit like an illusion—first you see it, and then you don’t.’
‘What are you blethering about?’
‘Sometimes, you don’t look pregnant at all. Depends on what your wearing. Maybe.’ I glance down at my black skinny jeans and loose peasant top. They’re my jeans. Pre-pregnancy ones. I’ve just got one of those belly bands over the top. ‘And,’ she adds, glancing quickly away, ‘now that the vomiting has stopped, your hair is fabulous, and your skin is all glowy and stuff. You smile more these days, too.’
‘Thank you.’ My voice is small on account of the lump I have in my throat. By the looks of it, she’s tearing up, too.
‘It suits you, this being up the duff,’ Nat adds a little more brusquely before her head comes up quickly. ‘I’d do you,’ she says, one ribald eyebrow raised. ‘I would if I was into muff. Anyway,’ she adds with a sniff, ‘it’s not the chubby chasers you need to find. Pregnancy sex has its own niche. There’s even dedicated porn.’
‘And,’ I reply, leaning over her shoulder to grab the timer from the shelf, ‘I think we’ll leave that conversation there.’
That evening, my dream life continues, and as I wake the following morning, I find dreaming hasn’t quite hit the spot. As usual, I wake with the image of him in my head, the taste of him against my lips, and the scent of myself against my fingertips. But it isn’t enough. This morning, I’m like an addict needing a fix. My skin feels almost too tight for my body—as though it can’t contain my need. I stare at the ceiling for precisely three breaths then I jump out of bed like a woman on a mission. Okay, maybe jump isn’t exactly the correct description. My baby bump is definitely small and sort of compact, but it’s still there. And whether hormones, fears, or little Vlad is the cause of my current craving, I have a plan.
My dreams might be hazy. Indistinct. But how I feel this morning is anything but. I might’ve loosened my grip on social media these days; I might allow myself viewing rights to my husband—pap shots of him grabbing coffee, and the magazine covers of him and Georgia looking red carpet fine—but there’s a whole host of stuff I haven’t watched. Stuff I thought I’d never watch again.
Our recordings. Yes, the very ones I’d deleted from my phone, laptop, and cloud. But I’ve refused to acknowledge the other copies. The ones lurking on an external hard drive in a box under my bed.
I know how seedy that sounds—like I’d stashed multiple copies of personal porn all over the place, but that’s not it. Not really. I just happen to have multiple copies according to the hardware used. No, not the vibratory kind of hardware. It’s just, sometimes Dylan recorded us with his phone—it might be a quick screw somewhere illicit or just unexpected. Or we might be at home when a simple kiss turned hot and heavy in the space of a breath. In those instances, a look would pass between us, something hot and implicit in its consent. And those following moments—those snapshots of moments, of me and of him—usually ended up on my phone immediately following.
Afterwards, post-coitally, or as soon as possible, according to the space, Dylan would curl around me, or maybe I’d be splayed out across his chest. Wherever we’d be, he’d forward a copy to my phone. And we’d . . . well, we’d watch. Together. Our commentary might be giggled or hushed, but they were always low on critiques because these viewings almost always led to more sex.
Other recordings, other times, there might be preparation; maybe a discussion of where we’d like our passion to head. A direction. Maybe we’d wanted to try something new. Maybe roleplay. Those times could be fun, though mostly contrived, but I didn’t mind pretending for the camera, even if I’m no actress. I could be the naughty schoolgirl or the slutty maid, but Dylan never wanted to play a role himself. Not with me. He’d said he wanted to keep that side of himself for work. For other people. For money. For fame. He only ever wanted to be the real Dylan
with me. The sweet and the sexy. The slightly dominant and extremely hot. I got the real deal—all of him, including the large portion stashed in his pants. The long schlong or the thing Nat has begun to refer to since that damned leaked video as his mighty aubergine.
And it does have a pretty spectacular purple head . . .
Not helpful, brain.
No, really. Stop imagining his head.
Anyway, for those recordings—the longer ones—Dylan would use a pretty snazzy camera and tripod. And we’d watch those recordings afterwards, too. Sometimes with beer and popcorn. I know—a little silly, but it worked for us. It was fun. We were fun. And afterwards, we’d still have sex. Shocker, right? On the sofa. The floor. Once or twice with me hanging onto the archway near the door for dear climax.
It’s footage of these sessions that I know are beneath my bed. I may have deleted them from my laptop in a teary fit, but I know they’re backed up externally. I just refused to acknowledge this until now.
On my hands and knees against the shaggy cream rug, I drag out two boxes from under my bed, desperate this morning to find my external hard drive; as in, the need to be driven hard tingling between my legs.
‘Bingo.’
Beneath an old mobile phone and a pile of bills, the silver hard drive beckons, and I’d be lying if I said my hand doesn’t tremble as I reach for it. Throwing it on the bed next to my pillow, I start reloading the contents of the box, slamming the lid on and shoving it back under the bed with one push.
‘Laptop,’ I announce to the empty room. I say this with resolve, as though it’s my counterargument to anyone who might be likely to talk me out of this. Silly, considering the only person in the room is me. ‘And not likely.’ Since when did I begin talking to myself? ‘No, I’m doing this. It might not be healthy for my mind, at least. But maybe for my body? Hell, yes. I need this.’
I’m in the kitchen now, giddy and lightheaded as I unplug the cable from the socket before carrying my laptop back to my bedroom. I pause as I pass the old dresser, catching a glimpse of myself.
What are you doing?
My face is flushed, the deep red marking a path down my neck and disappearing beneath my pyjama shirt. My heart dips as my laptop, crushed to my chest, almost tumbles from my grip as I reach to push a tangle of hair away from my face.
‘Close call.’ I address my toes rather than the mirror. Wonder how long it’ll be before I can no longer see those. I make a note to book a pedicure with Nat.
My laptop takes but a moment to fire up, and as it whirs through the motions and differing screens, I shimmy out of my pyjama pants, hesitating at the matching shirt. It’s ridiculous that I consider it a little indecent to whip the whole lot off for what I’m about to do, but I can’t help how I feel. I eventually strip naked, pulling the cooling sheets over my chest, ready, resolved, and a little desperate as my nipples, already hard with expectation, tighten at the brush of the cooled cotton.
Pulling the laptop closer, I sign in, plug the hard drive into the port, and then open the folder creatively titled Moments and click indiscriminately.
A one-time thing, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter which scene. Just get in, get off, and get out.
My every nerve ending flicks and draws tight as the screen flickers to life. I sit up suddenly and shove a pillow under the keyboard, settling myself under the sheets again. A bit like a teenage boy concerned at being caught playing with himself.
On screen, the dark of Dylan’s clothing passes the camera set across from our bed, the room behind suffused with a soft, warm light. It was daytime, as I recall, though the drapes are drawn. I remember we were going out. Nothing fancy, just an afternoon barbecue at a friend’s place, one of the few couples who knew about us. It was the couple whose wedding we met at, in fact.
The room fills with sunlight as Dylan opens the door into the hallway, not that the camera shows; I just know, given this place was once my home.
‘Babe,’ he shouts. ‘Come help me look for my keys. I can’t find them.’ The door closes once more, and the room grows dim. A moment later, I hear my own voice, though not the words, just its teasing lilt before sunlight cuts into the room again.
‘You’d forget your head if it—oh, my God!’
Shock fills my tone as, out of focus, Dylan grabs me from behind, kicking the door shut with his heel.
‘Surprise.’ He chuckles, dark and low, followed by the sound of our shuffling feet and his lips smacking exaggeratedly on my skin somewhere. My neck? Cheek? I can’t recall. Then we’re there, in the shot, he so much larger than me. Looming behind me almost. One arm wraps around my waist, clasping me to his chest, and his other hand moves over my mouth. My eyes are so wide—like saucer wide. There’s a mirror on the far wall, and the camera’s in front stood on its tripod. Strategically placed. I’m watching myself through the mirror, and that’s why my gaze is wide and clear—the excitement and trepidation that comes from being grabbed, from being filmed. From watching yourself screwing.
‘God, I love this dress.’ His voice is a rumble against my neck. ‘You look like icing on a fucking cake.’ The dress is pale blue and pretty plain but for a row of ruffles at the hem. I shiver as he licks the length of my neck, his lips at my ear, his eyes watching me through the mirror. And that gaze? He could capture cities with one look. Demolish. Wreck defences.
And he does.
‘You taste like cake, too. So good . . . ’ I can almost feel the word rumbling against my skin. ‘So fucking edible.’ I melt against him, the warm brush of his lips enough to visibly weaken my knees.
‘And you know you have the sweetest cunt I’ve ever tasted. I’ve told you that, babe.’ There’s an upward inflection to his words like he wants me to confirm he’s always so base. So crude.
My insides tighten with need as I watch myself nod behind his fingers.
‘Such a sweet, good girl.’
Above his hand, my eyes roll deliberately, and Dylan laughs again, a little harder this time. Meanwhile, the hand at my waist slides upwards, slipping the strap of my sundress from my shoulder.
‘Such a good girl,’ he repeats. ‘So nice, so pristine. You going somewhere nice, darlin’?’ This time in answer, I raise a solitary brow. ‘Because you look so pretty, baby. So pretty, and it makes me want to defile you.’ From soft and teasing to implied menace and threat; his tone—the words—their effect has my fingers working faster, between my legs becoming slick and wet.
On screen, I shake my head, my gaze clear and wide.
‘This dress makes me want to fuck you so hard . . .’ His fingertips trail along my collarbone, gliding down to the lace trimming my strapless bra. ‘You make me want to fuck you so hard. I can’t play nice all afternoon, watching you parade yourself in this dress. Not without getting under it first.’ His smile is feral and his eyes gleam. ‘I need you, baby. Or I’m following you into Joe’s bathroom later and bending you over the tub.’
I make a muffled mewl behind his hand as he slips his fingers into the lace cup, rolling my nipple. And that sound? It’s a response to his blend of promise and threat; to the way he’s touching me. It’s a response to all the things I know he’s capable of making me feel.
‘Think you could keep quiet?’ I moan, my nipple now exposed and pebbling, despite the room’s warmth. ‘Maybe with your panties in your mouth.’ His answer is half threat and half tease. So familiar. So bittersweet. ‘What’ll it be? The later or now?’ His hand moves from my mouth to cup my chin, his other sliding between my legs. ‘That looks like a yes to both,’ he purrs.
I don’t answer, not with words, my body rising in greeting, both now and on screen, when he suddenly pushes the past me onto my back, spreading me diagonally across the bed. His head is immediately beneath the layer of pale cotton ruffles, and I’m breathless, my chest rising and falling as he bites the lace of my knickers, growling and shaking his head.
‘Stop! Stop that!’ My arms are flailing, hitting the mattress; his head we
dged tightly between my thighs. But back in my bedroom, in Scotland, here and now, my heart aches. I’d expected to feel passion. To see sex. I wanted fucking and sweat and sounds. Not intimacy. Not this.
Tears prick against my eyelids as, on screen, I let out a long, tremulous moan as Dylan’s head emerges from the fabric, pushing my knees wide apart.
‘Ivy, you slay me,’ he whispers, his gaze glued to the lace between my thighs. ‘Was the dress not enough torture for one day?’ I giggle as he traces one finger the length of me, sliding the fabric between my wet slit. The giggle trails off, turning more purr-like, and that would be an apt description as I watch myself push up into his hand, like a cat enjoying being stroked and demanding more.
‘You like that? You like my fingers?’
‘Not as much as I like your cock.’ My voice is husky and laced with want, and with those words, the tone turns.
‘Tell me,’ Dylan demands, the words low in his throat as he dips his fingers under the elastic at my leg. I’m writhing against his hand. Against my own hand.
‘Dylan.’ His name hits the air like a sigh, as if it’s the answer to all the questions I’ve ever had—the answer to my every thought. ‘Your cock is the business.’ Or maybe it’s only the answer to the mysteries of my world. Especially as he loosens his belt buckle, the leather tongue sliding free with a schlick. He pulls the long, sleek hardness into his hand.
‘I thought it was for pleasure.’ He strokes once, twice, and I push up onto my elbows to watch; the hunger in my eyes unashamed and clear.
‘Your cock’—I push out the word with defiance and a pout—‘is my business.’
‘That’s right, baby. All for you.’ How can those few words sound gentle and feral all at once?