by Casey Morgan
Soon my head’s almost swirling too much for my fingers to stay inside. Stay with the maddening rhythm I’ve started to do, but I can feel the itchy, clenching warning signs. The pleasure-pain of pre-orgasm. I breathe into it, forcing my wet, pruning fingers to keep stroking. Keep plundering my depths, though I keep wishing I had something longer. Something better.
Like an actual man’s cock. An actual thick and massive tool, ready to spread me. Use me. Abused me with love and lust. Stretch and bend all of my secret places. I moan low and long, the sound sad and sweet. Lonely and mournful, but also lusty and wild. As the sound escaped me, my walls tighten around me. Clench around me, and begin to throb.
In my ears, I can hear is my ragged, hungry breathing. My rapid, irregular pulse. The way the blood is rushing through my veins. Now I can’t hear anything that I might be imagining Charles says. All I can do is feel him. His strong hands bearing down on me. Pushing me into the rock and earth, as he bends upward in release. Pushes himself as deep in me as he can go, and unleashes his torrent of cum.
The exact moment that I imagine the thick warmth rushing into me, bulging into all of my nooks and crannies, I experience a wet, warm and wild ride of my own. My muscles clench. Almost to the point where I find myself worrying about whether I should stop.
And then, as if to shut that thought completely and totally out of my head, my body releases. Snaps the tension inside like a water balloon popping. Wet and viscous, warmth rushes through and out of me. Creates a lake that quickly spills over and out of my thong and into my pants. As it does, I let go of the book. Almost fling it away from me, and press my now-free hand hard over my mouth to keep myself from screaming.
I’ve never had an orgasm that good, and I don’t want to sour the experience by letting my parents hear me and come check on me.
As I let the orgasm ripple and smash its way through me, I enjoy this bit of freedom. This moment of being able to be myself, and imagine that I’m in the arms of a sexy, strong werewolf. A being that is beyond all time and traditional sense of morality.
I imagine his eyes are locked on me. That he gives me a brilliant, earth-shattering smile. Sweat drips from his brow, but I imagine I enjoy the taste of it on my lips.
As I imagine looking into his brown eyes, now beginning to burn with flecks of gold and copper light, I come down off my pleasure. My little slice of heaven I’ve been floating around on, and renew my vow.
I don’t care what anyone says. I’m doing something that I want for my birthday. And that something is a beautiful, magical man. I’m losing my virginity the moment I turn twenty-one, and setting myself free from being a virgin. Being “pure and sweet.”
The phone rings and I carefully I unfurl my legs. It’s Cami. Time for my one phone call of the week. I smile and answer.
Chapter 2
Tabitha
I’m lucky to have my friend Cami. The few hours I’m allowed on Friday night to be on the phone, talk about whatever I want, and feel like a normal twenty-year-old.
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror mounted to my dresser. Despite being twenty, and into darker, edgier music, my room has been left just the way Dad wants it. As a time capsule. A time warp, in which everything is the way it was when I was between three to five years old. Covered in pink, roses, ballerinas along with Bible verses. Girly crosses and religious artwork.
When I turned eighteen, I moved on to werewolves and other wild boys, at least in my head. My room remained the same. I read about shape shifters, every book I could find. While my other friends, Cami included, went through a phase falling in love with sparkly, emo vampires, I was into wolf-boys.
These thoughts are interrupted by something my friend has just said. Some bubbly comment of hers about Halloween plans. How cool it would be to go to a party, or go trick-or-treating. Though Cami still lives at home too, she is sure that her parents would let her go to something like that. She says how it be cool for me to join her.
“I’ve heard there’s this really bitchen Halloween Rave going on close by,” she says. Over the speakers, I can just make out the faintest of notes from her German death metal. Another thing I’m in to, but could never admit to, given who and what my parents are to this community: substitute pastors and spiritual counselors for our church. “We could go in some cool costumes, meet some cool and cute boys.” The way she’s talking, it’s a as if all of this is already a done deal. Including my going with her.
I sigh, glowering at myself in the mirror. At my long, chestnut-brown hair that keeps falling into my face. The dorky, grade-school cut it’s still in, when I would love nothing more than to have a fauxhawk. Something shaved on one side, long on the other. Just to disrupt my parents’ expectations.
“You’re forgetting one important detail, Cami,” I say. “My parents are not your parents. They’re not cool. They’re not easy-going. And if I’m being perfectly honest” — I sigh, remembering every bit of the conversation Dad went out of his way to have with me earlier today — “I already have plans. Plans I’m not allowed to tweak or change, even though I’m almost twenty-one and am an adult.”
Cami sighs, a soul sister to me. A real sister in some ways. Especially on nights like tonight, when I’m left contemplating another year of being under Dad and Mom’s combined thumb. Being forced to celebrate my birthday with cake, candles, balloons, harmless cartoons on TV all weekend, and maybe a little candy. Maybe. If the candy’s packaging doesn’t depict ghouls, goblins or other fairytale nightmares. Such things that would be an affront to God. Which pretty much leaves out any Halloween-themed candy.
“Let me guess,” she says, “You have Birthday plans. Plans made by them, not you. Keeping you to the house, as usual.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh, almost growl. “As usual.”
I wish I could go to that rave. I wish I can go to any party, any Halloween party, ball or whatever. Anything that any normal, culturally-with-it person would find fun or cool to do on that one special night of the year.
My mind wanders away from the conversation, and to my fate tomorrow. The one my parents planned and informed me of. Me sitting at home, blowing out candles on my birthday cake; opening religiously-appropriate presents, eating candy and cake in moderation, before settling down to an impromptu sermon by my dad. A sermon dedicated to shaming and damning the neighbors putting up their Halloween decorations. Being reminded of how this holiday does not belong to us godly people, but everyone who’s depraved, amoral and should have no place in our neighborhood. If I have to sit through one more birthday party like that, I would prefer to be among the depraved and amoral.
Momentarily I feel guilty about that thought. I think about repenting it, and then I remember the simple fact that this isn’t the first time I’ve wished to be out of this horrible place. Out of this clustered and fucked life of mine. This isn’t the first time I’ve daydreamed that I would be at home with the devil when it came down to it, not damned.
“Hello?” That’s Cami. Checking to make sure I’m still with her.
I shake my head, clearing it of thoughts and emotions. “I’m here. Anyway, I would love to be able to go do something like that with you, Cami. But unless something amazing happens, and I’m able to be whisked away from this ivory tower I’m in, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not getting away from my parents and their plans for this year, or any year following.”
My stomach twists at this realization. Yes, even when I go off to be married—to a good Christian man—I’m not going to be free. I’m not going to be allowed to make my own decisions. I’m going to be nagged into coming home every weekend, the minute Friday comes around.
Cami intercedes on my bleak outlook. “All the more reason we need to make plans to go anyway, T,” she says. “The longer you care about what your parents think, the more you allow them to control your life”—like the touch of an evil spirit—I can sense the hour of my doom approaching. The moment Dad will come in
and tells me to get off the phone—“the more they will always be in control of your life, T. If you don’t start trying to break away, they will never realize that they can’t control you. They will never be forced let you go, if you never go beyond their boundaries.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Cami.” I comb a hand through my hair, and try to have faith in her. I try to take solace from her words, even though they won’t really make a difference. If she had my parents, she would understand that what she’s asking me is impossible. That I have layers and layers of suffocating control to overcome.
My ice-blue eyes gaze back at me from the mirror on my dresser. Tonight their paleness seems even more intense, turning what would be a baby blue, to a frosty, almost white color. My eyes are something that people have commented on ever since I was little. Ever since I can remember, people always said it really set me apart from my parents. It’s something neither Mom nor Dad ever liked, or liked to hear comments on.
But, as I let the color of my eyes, the energy in them grow on me, I decide I’m going to try. I’m going to make an effort to be my own person, make my own choices. Even if it is hard.
“Fine,” I tell Cami. Behind my door, I hear footsteps approaching. “I’ll make an attempt to be an adult. A grown-up. If you and I meet up tomorrow, we can try to do something on our own, Cami. Go to that thing, but don’t hold your breath.” The footsteps are getting closer, and I can almost feel the weight of his hand coming down on my doorknob. “And that’s only if I can get away.” I pause, quickly spotting the werewolf book still on my bed. I grab it up and shove it under my pillow and comforters, hoping Dad isn’t in the mood to help “make my bed” so I can lie in it tonight. “I got to go, Cami. My phone time is over.”
Cami snorts, and I can just see her in my imagination. Her beautiful, sour expression with her nose ring glittering with her irritation. Her full, darkly-colored lips pulled into a frown. She’s the exact opposite of me. “You really are in prison,” she murmurs. “I’ll do a ritual for you tonight. Help set you free,” she says, before hanging up.
It’s just in time, too. Dad’s just opened my bedroom door. As always, he’s does so without knocking.
I hang up and smile at him.
Dad comes in and immediately sits on my bed. Like my room, he is a walking time capsule. His dark, slicked-back black hair, thin features and the clothes he dresses in all remind me of something out of the nineteen twenties or thirties. Maybe even earlier in history. The way his energy is, even that feels old, more ancient than he looks.
“Have a nice chat with your friend, sweetie?” he asks.
“It was great. It was fine,” I say, putting on the tone of voice I know he wants to hear. Gentle, sweet and agreeable. Even though I’m feeling anything but.
“Good,” he says, looking straight at me as he takes the phone out of my hand. It’s a mobile unit, with its holder on a stool downstairs. “Because I gave you a little extra time. More than I normally would, knowing that you needed some time to talk things out.”
Oh my God. An extra few minutes. What divine grace, I think, knowing there used to be a time where I would be praying for forgiveness for hours if I had ever any thoughts like that.
Seemingly oblivious to my thoughts—I’ve tried to keep them from my face after all — Dad continues, “Well, since it’s your birthday in a few days, I figured you deserved a little leniency.”
Leniency. A funny choice of words, considering he spent most of dinner tonight reminding me why any of my birthday plans weren’t a good idea, and weren’t something he was ever going to approve of, no matter how reasonable I tried to make them.
Under these thoughts, I can’t let this go. I purse my lips and say, “You talk like you’re being generous and lenient, but Dad, you shut down everything I wanted to plan for my birthday. I know you’re protective of me. I know what you think is wrong with Halloween—”
“What I know is wrong,” he corrects, his stern brown eyes piercing me. “And what you should know is wrong, based on how your mother and I raised you.”
I don’t care that wrath is considered a sin and I allow myself to feel it toward him. “But it’s not fair to label everything as a thing of the devil, every piece of this holiday as though it has nothing redeemable!” I’m shaking, both from my words, and the look in his eye. It’s not a good one. If I don’t change directions quickly, there could be trouble. Lots of it. “It makes me think that because I was born on Halloween, that you might just start thinking I’m a bad girl. That I’m somehow shamefully made, the way you keep going on about everything!”
I’ve said this, not because I actually believe it, but because it’s the only way to make Dad be reasonable. To make him listen to me, without getting out all of his “I’m right and you’re wrong” labels and sticking them on everything.
As I hope, Dad’s expression changes. He softens. He takes on a bit of love and light for me.
As he does, I add, “I just think you should allow me to have some freedom. Some ability to do something different this year. With Cami.” I pause, making myself look innocent. Fragile. “Please, Dad. I’m going to be twenty-one this Halloween. I’m an adult. Would you please let me do something for myself? If you’ve raised me as well as you say you have, shouldn’t I be able to make a good choice for myself? Something that you and I both won’t regret?” I’m looking at him now, hoping I look responsible, sweet and honest. Like just the kind of daughter he won’t want to refuse or be overly strict with. Lucky for me, it seems to be working, the old “puppy dog eyes” I’m giving him.
He never likes it when I use my innocent eyes on him, but I don’t care what he likes. I only care what’s effective. And, based on his more melting expression and warmer, more pliable energy, it’s done the job.
“The Lord had you be born on Halloween as a gift,” he says, putting his hand on my cheek, and brushing back my thin, silky chestnut hair. “A spot of light and goodness on the Devil’s Night. I would never think of you as evil or bad because of that. That would be unfair. Unjust,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. As he gets up from my bed, he adds, “Since you asked nicely, I suppose I will consider allowing you some freedom in how you spend part of your birthday. But I still don’t like it. I still think you might get into too much trouble.” His face goes from soft to stern. “The best things are the safest things, Tabitha. If I give you this bit of freedom, you better repay me with making a wholesome, righteous choice. Not giving in to the desires and hormones that plague your age group like a disease.”
I don’t answer this. I just dutifully nod. In the back of my mind where I know Dad won’t see, I think of a few of my plans. Plans involving those desires and hormones that supposedly “plague” my age group. Plans to lose my virginity right on my twenty-first birthday to a sexy, handsome guy.
Safe isn’t fun. Wholesome doesn’t exist. And righteous, that’s just another way to control me and to judge others. No, thank you, Dad.
“I won’t let you down, Dad,” I say, not knowing what else to say. Even though what I’ve just said is a lie, I don’t care. Now I just want him out of my room. Out of my head and heart, so I can get back to playing fire with that “plague.”
“There’s my good girl,” he says, and kisses me on the top of my head. He then leaves me be, telling me to have my lights off and my butt in bed in the next hour.
I say I will, and watch as he closes my door. The minute he’s no longer within hearing distance, or likely to come back and check on me, I dive under the pillow for my book. I pull open the
pages like they are the paper version of my real life, and begin to read again.
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