Author’s note:
This is part three of the Ghost Writer story - a long time in coming. For that I apologise. I hope it was worth the wait.
I thank everyone who has sent words of encouragement, criticism and eagerness. I’ve been bad - I wont do it again.

 

Ghost Writer

by: Circe
circe@girlmail.com

Part 3

--
For Laurie
--

I have never felt as cold, or naked, in my life as I felt that morning. My whole body shivered as I felt Charlie’s hands at work, removing appliance after appliance, storing them carefully in an array of drawers. My skin was clammy, sweaty and goose-bumped, in raw contrast to Charlie’s warm, smooth and delicate touch. My eyes were closed, concentrating on the blackness, swimming with images of the past 24-hours - of Rebecca, her boyfriend, of Andrea. My breasts were in a glass jar, floating side by side in bubbling water. My chest felt empty; my heart heavy.

Charlie said little, every so often directing my head this way or that, leaving me to my thoughts. The chances of me leaving this chair today, she had said, were slim to none. There was a lot to be done. What this was I had no idea, but I trusted her completely. My hair was warm, floating in a bath, the cold porcelain around my neck. I felt Charlie at work on my hands, removing false finger-nails; filing away glue deposits and smoothing my nails. At the while she was working I could only think of one thing: I had kissed a man. Well, a boy really. And he had thought I was someone else, and had wanted more. What bothered me was that, for one split second, I had been ready to give it to him. From Joan Collins to Jackie in one night!

His mouth had been so warm though, his hands touching me in ways so new, and exciting, and that lust! I had never seen that before. I felt powerful; I felt... So much pain! I pulled my chest in, scrabbling for air, trying to concentrate on anything else that where Charlie’s hand was and what she was doing. Oh my God! The relief as I felt the catheter removed from my body. I must have shivered, because I heard Charlie give a soft chuckle.

"Its not the most pleasant of things is it?" She asked, as I heard the sound of rubber gloves being removed. My eyes were screwed shut, my head was starting to sting, my tongue was tonguing the brace still in my mouth.

"Its not something I could get used to," I replied, after a while. Andrea’s soft and high voice escaped my lips. "Can you take this out please?" I opened my mouth, and felt rubber-clad fingers push inside me, unclipping the brace and pulling it out. I coughed. "Thank you." Tom’s voice. My voice, sorry.

"You’re welcome." Charlie replied cheerily. I heard her rooting around. "You can open your eyes now you know, we’re almost done." I didn’t dare, but didn’t tell her so. "Come on, sweetie. You’re gonna have to at some point." Her voice came from behind me, as her hands slipped into the water, massaging my hair.

"This will sound stupid," I said, after a moment. If there’s one think I love its someone playing with my hair. "I don’t want to be me just now." I felt Charlie’s smile.

"It doesn’t sound stupid at all. Why do you think I spend time as a man?" I gave a low inquisitive purr. She was good at this. "I mean, I understand that just being someone else can be fun." She pulled the plug, and I felt the warmth leave my hair. "Besides, seeing how you men cope on a day-to-day basis is really funny!"

I opened my eyes.

I looked a mess, although I could only see the tip of my chin and my chest, which was red and swollen. There was a stretch-mark along the top of my rib-cage where the corset had been, and a layer of stubble on my chin, where my goatee had been, and where Andrea’s smooth features had adorned. I looked up, attempting to stare at the ceiling. Charlie’s smiling face leant down over me, and I felt her work my hair into a bun. A shower-cap was snapped over my forehead.

"There, you’re done for now. Want a coffee?" I laughed.

"Not going to offer me a magazine as well?" I towel was wrapped around my head, and I moved my head down, looking at my red, spread-eagled body in the mirror, and seeing Charlie standing behind me. "I thought you were a guy. I mean, really." She shook her head.

"No. Although, this isn’t me, really," She dwelt on the word, tasting it, "either. There are advantages to my profession." She walked over to a near-by cupboard, her hips swaying deliciously under the kimono, accentuated by the plastic ties of her apron, which sat proud above her derrière. I looked down, and saw a medical filing cabinet. Each little drawer was labeled "Andrea" with a different body part. My boobs floated in a jar at the top, alongside a case for my contact lenses, and long strands of auburn hair. I looked up to see Charlie untying the apron, and removing another kimono from the cupboard, which she handed to me. "Can’t have you walking around naked, sweetie."

"What is your profession anyway?" I asked, as I tied the kimono around my larger waist, my body feeling strange to me. "And I know you’re not a ‘friend of a friend’ of Suzanne’s either." I heard a laugh from the kitchen, accompanied by cups rattling.

"She told you that! God, she’s hiding a lot from you, isn’t she?" She handed me a warm cup of coffee, and gestured to the sofa. I smoothed the kimono under me, before sitting down, legs crossed. I was surprised when Charlie sat right next to me, rather than in the chair opposite. I felt her hips brush mine as she shifted slightly, turning to face me. "Ok, we’ve got half an hour to kill," she gestured at my shower cap, "so I’ll tell you what I know, ok?" I took a slurp from my coffee and nodded.

Warm water cascaded over my head, as Charlie went to work massaging the dye out of my hair. We had talked a great deal longer than intended, and it was when I’d felt my scalp burning that I mentioned that perhaps I should rinse the dye out before I lost all my hair! The story had been an interesting one, all the more so because of the distraction of having Charlie’s shapely ass brushing against mine. The combination of these things had put me at ease; or at least, more at ease. My body still felt clumsy and bristly, but at least I could think of other things. I had no idea if Charlie was telling the truth or not, but what she had said had made some sense to me, although its easy to say that when the girl in question is massaging your hair.

Charlie had met Suzanne, not through a friend, but through an agency. The Thursday before I had so spectacularly met her (some of that had been real, she had confided in me with a giggle - my mind boggles) she had met Suzanne in her office, although dressed as Charles. Suzanne had hired her for a month (which put her services long past the TV interview) with an NDA of gigantic proportions, and a salary to match. She told me the figure. I made that in a good year.

Charlie normally worked for exclusive clients, she told me, and most of them were NDA contracts. If you could afford her, chances are you could afford the privacy, it seemed. I had asked her if she had done any work for Hollywood, and she had laughed. I took that as a no.

The curious thing about the meeting was that it was two days before my name had been in the Saturday news. However, I’d kept my mouth shut on the matter.

Charlie had then spent the weekend with Rebecca ("lovely girl, really chatty, not at all what you might think" - I cringed) taking casts of her face, and detailed measurements. At this point, I still had no idea this was even necessary. Suzanne hadn’t mentioned to Charlie why this was necessary, and she hadn’t asked, but she had heard of Andrea Thompson and had assumed that I had to make an appearance. I had told her about the TV guest show, as had Suzanne, and Charlie had nodded. She knew more about that than I did! She had told me that the show wasn’t live (thank God!) and that, considering my performance over the last two days it wouldn’t be a problem. She had put her hand on my knee then, smiling at me, and I had felt such relief that she thought I’d be OK. That and that my legs needed shaved again.

Charlie applied conditioner, moving her fingers through my hair in long lush sweeps. I had asked what she had to do with me for the two weeks after the TV, and she had shrugged. She didn’t know, but she had been asked to provide a low-maintenance disguise for me, as Andrea. She told me that I could wear the suit, as she called it, for up to five days, without her assistance. Looking at my body after only a day’s wear, I hated to think what I’d look like after a week!

My hair was wrapped in a fresh towel, conditioner making it slick. We continued to talk now, as Charlie unwrapped my robe, massaging oil into my red skin. I was warming up now, and feeling better, especially as Charlie had said that I would be Andrea again by tonight. I was missing her.

Charlie told me that she used to work for the music industry, doing make-up for music videos and live performances. She name-dropped a few people, most of whom I had at least heard of, and some of whom I admired. She had then gone to work for the Intelligence agency (the money was better) and, some new skills under her belt, had gone freelance. She had been in some of the roughest, most dangerous parts of the world, for various reasons, and had disguised herself, and others, successfully through them.

I told her about my life, the events leading to just now. Bizarrely I felt more comfortable with her now, than ever, even as she waxed my legs and chest - just when I’d thought the redness had gone! - we talked, and laughed. Something told me I could trust her. I’m sure it was a calculated effort on her part, but every so often I caught a glimpse of flesh; a breast nestling in a kimono fold, or a thigh sliding between the hem. The effect of this was predictable, and, with my bare legs apart to allow an ease of waxing, fairly obvious. What was bothering me, apart from Charlie’s ignorance of this, was the thought of Rebecca’s boyfriend flashing in my mind.

It felt good being in the shower, washing off the oil and the conditioner; just standing there, my head under the stream, arms crossed around my middle. My body was a healthy pink, smooth and glowing. It had been hours since I had wrapped on Charlie’s door this morning: the sun was setting through the frosted glass. Any doubts I had had just the day before were fading fast. I had been a woman, just for one day, and no-one had questioned that. I flicked a strand of auburn hair behind my neck, letting it soak. I was amazed at Charlie’s skill - no more could I appreciate it now than being out of it. I suppose the point of the strip-tease in Suzanne’s office was to prove to me that she could turn me into a believable woman, but it was the strip-tease I had undergone myself today that had convinced me.

And what a woman! Andrea had been perfect; perfect skin, perfect figure. My dreams come true, and I itched at the thought of being her again. I looked at my fuzzy reflection in the tiles, wishing that I was curvier, shapelier. Charlie had said soon, and like a child at Christmas, I couldn’t wait.

I toweled myself off, dusting talcum powder on my legs and chest and wrapping a huge fluffy pink towel around my waist. Pausing, then hiked it up so that it circled my underarms, and feeling a whole lot better for it.

"So Tom, was I right or what?" It was Suzanne, phoning me on her mobile. I could hear traffic speeding by, and felt the urge to ask her if she’d witnessed any motorbike accidents. "I told you Charlie was great!"

"Uh-huh." I replied. "He’s terrific. We might almost make this work." I paused, hearing Suzanne lighting a cigarette. "So, what’s the plan now?"

"Well, the show’s in ten days, so that gives you plenty time to prepare. Although, considering your performance last night, I don’t think you need it." That word again, performance. It made me feel uneasy - who was I performing for, exactly? "So thought we’d do a dress rehearsal. Are you still there?" I was, and said so. "Good, well I phoned the paper, the one that published that story on you. You remember?"

"Could I forget?"

"Well, the guy that wrote it wants to meet you. Write another story on it, you know, the comeback angle?"

I nodded, then remembered I was on the phone, so said "Sure. Sounds like a good idea. Although..."

"What honey?"

"Well, doesn’t kind of spoil the surprise for the TV thing?"

"No, not at all!" she gushed. "You do the interview on Friday, they can’t publish it till the following Saturday, by which time you’ll have been on TV and all will be peachy. Double the exposure, half the effort." I wasn’t sure about that at all, but kept my mouth shut. It did, to be honest, seem like a good idea at the time.

"So where are we meeting this guy?"

"He booked lunch, Italian OK with you? Good. It’s just you and him though. I can’t make it." She exhaled, a long cool puff of smoke I could almost taste.

"Won’t it. . . Suzanne?" I waited for confirmation of life. "Suz? Won’t it look weird just me and him without my publisher? Or agent, or whatever it is you are to me now?"

"Agent, publicist and publisher, honey. Three in one." She was talking to someone else now, I heard. Thankfully a different conversation. She sounded distracted, so I felt I had to end the conversation.

"So should I take Charlie instead?" I crossed my fingers on the cord.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever makes you feel better. I gotta go, I’ll see you tomorrow, ok?"

I was about to say OK, but the line went dead. Charlie and I hung up our respective phones.

It was late, and we were drunk. I was trying to come up with a new story (I still had deadlines) and was dragging Charlie into it, trying to find out all the gossip about being a make-up artist. Three bottles of wine later, and things were decidedly fuzzy around the edges. We were both sat on the floor, me in a toweling robe, Charlie in a kimono. At the start of the conversation, I had been taking notes on a little pad. By now, I was sitting there with my head propped up with my hands, rapt. My hair had dried into a light curl; a very feminine style which I was sure would look great on Andrea. I had wanted to tie it back, as it was getting in my eyes, but Charlie had refused to give me a bobble to do so, saying I’d better get used to it. I had gotten used to it. We talked and drank and laughed, swapping stories of girlfriends and boyfriends, college days and holidays. It was fun. I remember thinking at one point, when Charlie had gone for another bottle, than I would have had more fun as Andrea. Later on, drunkenly, I said so.

"Why do you think that?" Charlie had asked, her eyes big and suddenly serious.

"I’m not sure, "I replied. Unable to put my finger on it, but sure that something was missing.

I awoke the next morning in bed with Charlie. A quick check under the covers revealed that firstly, I was still a man, and secondly that Charlie was still very much a woman. I wracked my brains, trying to think what we had done, if anything, the previous night. My mind came up a blank. We had slept together, but had we slept together? I doubted it, for what could such an exotic woman like Charlie see in me; a rather boring, plain writer. It seemed so unlikely I almost laughed.

"We didn’t do anything, if that’s what you’re worried about." Charlie’s voice, clearer than I felt, came out of the blue. "I was a perfect gentleman." Her lips curled into a sweet smile.

The familiar chair was a throne of power. I couldn’t sit still, I was so impatient. This time I watched every detail, the application of almost every appliance (my eyes closed at the catheter. What can I say?), every brush of make-up or air-brush of paint. In the course of a few hours my womanly hips returned, followed by my full and curvy ass. My waist shrunk as my corset dried, and my breasts left their temporary home in the glass jar, and returned to their rightful place on my chest, proud and delicious. The blending was quicker this time, I’m sure, as each appliance retained the coloring it had received before, and so blended into my body almost the moment it was applied. Charlie worked at my face, applying the mask of Rebecca, for such as it was, to my own features. Green contacts were placed in my eyes, and my nails (finger and toe) were painted a deep purple. My hair was styled slightly, retaining the subtle wave of the night before, with a few ringlets. I watched Tom disappear, and Andrea come out to play. I reached out to the table, picked up the brace, and slipped it into my mouth.

"Do you like what you see?" I asked the mirror, blowing myself a kiss.

"Could you hold the door, please?" My heels click-clacked over the flagstones as I struggled to reach the open elevator door. "Thanks," I smiled, brushing past his chest, as the guy pulled his hand in and gestured at the array of buttons.

"What floor?" He asked, his eyes flickering down my frame.

"The twelfth. Please." I smiled at him again, folding my arms under my breasts. He was dressed in a sharp dark-blue pin-stripe suit, gray shirt and tie. One hand was nonchalantly in his pocket, the other hovering over the "12" button. I stared straight ahead, catching his reflection in the polished glass of the doors. He leaned back, the lift lurching into motion.

"Andrea, right?" He asked, after a moment’s silence.

"Yeah, that’s right," I replied, turning towards him and brushing a strand of auburn hair behind one ear. "And you are?"

"James Adams," he extended his hand, which I accepted lightly. "It’s a pleasure to meet you in the flesh." I caught his eyes dart down-ward.

The lift came to a stop, numbers flashing five. The doors slid open, revealing three people bustling to get inside. I took a step back. So did James.

"Why do you say that?" I asked, crossing my arms again.

"Suzanne talks very highly of you," he whispered. "She doesn’t do you justice."

I looked at him. "Who are you?" The elevator slowed to a halt.

"Your floor?" He smiled, never taking his eyes of me.

"You look great!" Suzanne welcomed me into her office like a long-lost stranger, slipping her hand around my middle and ushering me inside, closing the door behind me. I felt twenty pairs of eyes on my back as I walked through the office; the sound of work returning as her door closed. I smoothed my skirt under my thighs and sat down, crossing my bare legs and loosening off my suit jacket.

"Thanks." I smiled at her. "Who’s James?"

"James?" She looked at me blankly. "Which James?"

"Adams. I met him in the elevator just now." I reached up and pulled the gold-rim glasses off my nose, folding them on my lap.

"Oh, that James. He’s that writer I was telling you about; you’re to meet him tomorrow for the interview. He just dropped by to run the questions over with me." She held up a piece of paper. "Want to have a look?" I shook my head.

"I’ll deal with whatever he has to ask." I took a deep breath. "Suz?"

"What is it honey?" She turned to face me.

There were so many questions buzzing through my head. Why had she paid off Rebecca? Why was Charlie hired for four weeks? How did James know Suzanne? Why did she hire Charlie two days before I’d even known there was a problem? Suzanne had suddenly turned into a great unknowable to me - a black hole that sucked everything and everyone inside of her, but remained, at the core, a mystery. I felt I couldn’t deal with that just yet.

"Just about the book," I lied. "I just feel with everything going on, you know, that my deadline . . . " She put her hands over mine, cool and soft.

"Honey, don’t worry. The way things are going, and with all the extra publicity, you could even have a year off." She reached down into her desk drawer, and, producing a brown envelope, slid it across the desk towards me. "All I want you to concentrate on just now is being Andrea. Have some fun; improve your performance." That word again. "Were you thinking of wearing that tomorrow?" She asked, gesturing to the copper tailored suit I now wore.

"No, I just wanted to look business-like for you." That had been Charlie’s suggestion. Work on different looks, she had said, because everyone pretends to be different people every day. A lesson I learnt very early on. "Do the guys know?" I gestured outside to the other writers, editors and illustrators in the office. The rest was unspoken.

"A little. Not the whole story, of course," she said quickly, at my wide-eyed expression. "Just that Andrea needs some publicity so that Tom was going to be off for a few days working on training an actress on the right answers to some questions. That’s all." I must have breathed a sigh of relief, because she smiled at me. "Not too far from the truth really, is it?" She showed an even row of white teeth, and I remember thinking that must be the last thing a rabbit sees when a fox catches it.

Riding the elevator down the lobby, I fingered the brown envelope Suzanne had given me, turning it over and over in my hands. Have some fun, she had said, concentrate on being Andrea. What does Andrea do? I wondered. I had no idea. I looked at my warped reflection in the elevator doors. What’s wrong with this suit anyway? I looked down, and tore open the envelope. A credit card slid out, the letters "MS A THOMSON" embossed on the platinum surface.

"Hi Becky? It’s Andrea. Hi! I’m good, you? Cool. Listen, are you doing anything this afternoon?"

"It’s not that I mind him kissing you, it just. . . " She took a mouthful of coffee. "He had to tell me about how great I looked then, you know?" I nodded, wishing that we could talk about something else. "And yeah, ok, you do have a better body than me, but there are reasons."

"Just rub it in why don’t you?" I teased. "Not all of us can be born perfect."

"Yeah," she laughed, "some of us have perfection thrust upon us!"

We had met in a local café I knew. She had walked in half an hour after the phone call, tight tailored bell bottoms and low-cut top, looking fabulous. We had laughed about the change in hair color; reminisced about the photo-shoot ("I didn’t think I suited that hair color, but hey,") and then conversation quickly turned to her boyfriend - whose name was Jack - and the fact that we had kissed. She wanted all the gossip, how I’d felt, what I’d wanted. At first I was reluctant, but after a while I just opened up. Told her I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Becky offered to set us up on a date, provided I dye my hair back - she said she could do with a night off. I told her about the conversations with Charlie, and Suzanne, and about James. I was in the middle of describing our elevator encounter when she sat back and grinned broadly.

"What?" I asked, leaning back."

"You!" She laughed. "You crack me up! A guy looks at you twice and you memorize what he wore, everything about him, what he said! You’re just a schoolgirl sitting there playing with your hair, legs crossed, leaning forward with a big grin on your face."

"He’s not my type, ok?" Was I really behaving like a crush-stricken school girl?

"Oh, and why’s that?"

"Well, for a start, he’s the wrong sex."

"Oh my, Andrea." Becky grinned mischievously, "are you telling me that you’re a lesbian?"

"Well, no, Andrea’s straight." I replied, thinking my way through her character.

"And you, my darling, are Andrea. Case closed." She sat triumphantly. "I have a uniform you can borrow."

I threw a napkin at her.

"Andrea, it’s a pleasure to meet you again!" James stood up from behind the table - set for two - and stretched our his hand, smiling broadly. His black waistcoat was buttoned, a black shirt underneath and a bright orange tie. I assumed his suit jacket had been taken. I reached out my own hand for his and we shook, lingering slightly before releasing, pressing my white nails against his skin.

"Its good to see you too," I smiled at him, "now that you know who you are, anyway." I set my clutch-bag at my feet - careful to bend at the knee - and sat at chair the waiter had pulled out for me, clutching the pleats of my skirt to my stocking-clad thighs. The waiter lit the candle between us as I crossed my legs, bumping my foot against something hard. James winced.

"Oh, sorry!" I brought my hand up to my mouth.

"Its ok," he laughed. "What do you want to drink?"

I settled myself on the chair, wriggling backwards whilst trying to refrain from kicking him again and from making my skirt ride up so much that I’d need the napkin for modesty.

The outfit had been borne out by yesterday’s conversation with Becky, who’d thought it was the most tremendous laugh she’d had for ages. With plastic in tow, we had set about buying some of the most ridiculous things we could find (Becky now has an inflatable chair in her bedroom) as well as some clothes - for her and for me. She had said that if I was going to act like a school girl, I should dress like it. Charlie had found the whole episode hilarious. I personally thought the short, pleated skirt quite businesslike and professional, although the effect was slightly compromised by the white shirt I wore on top, tied at my waist and unbuttoned to my cleavage. The black bra didn’t help either.

"A glass of wine, thanks," I looked at the waiter, who ignored me and continued to face my table-partner.

"A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, Chilean. Thank you" The waiter turned and left.

"I seem to be invisible," I smiled, realizing the irony of the comment.

"Yeah, it seems that way," he looked back at me. I mean, directly at me. It occurred to me then that this was the first time I’d had to properly interact with someone who didn’t know who I really was. I felt butterflies in my stomach.

"You certainly are a hard person to find stuff out about," he looked down, grabbing a notebook - one of the old-fashion school jotters - and flicking through pages. "School, college, first job at a publishing house," he read through the list, slowly," unpublished work for magazines. I know all that," he paused, "stuff." He dropped the notebook, clattering against a fork. "Did Suzanne prepare you then?" His face took on an almost conspiratorial grin.

"No, I like surprises," I twisted a strand of hair between my fingers, "besides, my mother prepared me for guys like you." What the hell was I saying?

"Good, because I’m not going to ask you any of those questions." The waiter arrived, bottle of wine in hand and offered it to James, who tasted, swallowed, rolled his eyes at me and agreed; following the established pantomime of wine drinkers in restraints everywhere. I stifled a laugh.

Lunch was nice. We ordered, we ate, we had fun. I drank too much wine. His questioning was light, playful, asking me about stories I’d written, if my life was in any of them. I appropriated history from my sister, from Becky, from one of my characters - saying that it was my most autobiographical story - and painted a picture of a neurotic, image-conscious, borderline alcoholic. The more we talked, the more open I got, leaning forward to listen to his part of the conversation. As I talked of my childhood - writing stories, climbing trees, finding out about boys - he talked of his - writing stories, playing football, ignoring girls.

By the time the coffee had come round, two leisurely hours had past, including two bathroom breaks (check make-up, tug skirt down), an unbuttoned waistcoat and the notebook banished to the floor. Making fun of our waiter had reached such proportions that, upon the arrival of our cheque, we dissolved into helpless laughter at his mere appearance. We left a large tip.

"Thank you." The door closed behind us, the street cold and busy in stark contrast to the warmth and laziness of the last two hours.

"You’re welcome," he smiled at me, pausing, "for what?"

"Good food, good wine, good company," I laughed. "That was easier than I expected. I’ve never been interviewed before."

"Interviewed?" He smirked, "that was just lunch. I was going to interview you later."

I looked at him for a moment, hands on hips in, what I hoped was, a school-matronly expression. I tried to look down my nose through my gold-rimmed glasses.

He appraised my stance for some time, pursing his lips in a badly-contained smile.

I slapped him, playfully, on the shoulder.

"Yes, yes I admit it, its over. You passed. You passed!" He grabbed his shoulder in mock hurt as I giggled.

"I’m really sorry," he said, suddenly serious. I must have look confused because he added, "about the article. Last week?"

Last week seemed a lifetime ago. I hadn’t even formed the connection that this man was basically responsible for my predicament, for my outfit and for so much more that I didn’t even yet understand. I should be mad, irritated at least that my whole life had been thrown upside down and inside out because of basically 30 column inches and the opportunistic ideas of one man. My ironic dress took on a whole new meaning.

"It’s ok," I said, drawing my jacket around my middle, "you’ve made up for it."

We stood there, for a moment, looking at each other. A keen silence.

"Oh! My bag!" I exclaimed, biting my lower lip. "Hang on a second wont you?"

"Sure," he said, leaning against a lamppost as I dashed into the restaurant, walking purposefully towards our vacated table. My bag was where I’d left it, at the foot of a table leg. I reached down to pick it up, straightening and offering a smile towards our waiter, who was watching me intently. He gave a thumbs-up and a smile. I was glad to have invited Charlie along.

The two lovers kissed, softly at first, but with an electric urgency bordering on the desperate as their lips met, the mouths open and tongues intertwining - two serpents seeking offerings. His hands held her tightly, comfortingly, on her hips with fingers floating above her behind. She wrapped her arms around him, scratching lightly down his back through his clothes, her nylon-covered leg rubbing against his thigh, static powering their passion. She felt his hand softly caress her round behind, slipping under the pleats of her skirt to stroke the bare flesh between her stocking-tops; a mischievous smile on his lips she felt through her whole body. She pulled out his shirt, feeling his bare skin on her hands as she traced little patterns up his back, over his sides: making him laugh. He squeezed her round cheeks playfully, his fingers lingering on the waist-band of her underwear, stroking the flesh either side of her garters.

Still they kissed; his mouth tasting of tin, hers of vanilla. His skin warm, hers cold. They undressed each other slowly, meaningfully - strip poker without the cards; a childish game of copycat which left him naked and her in her underwear. She felt so powerful, teasing his muscled body relentlessly with fingernails, hair and her own curves. He teasing her; soft hands exploring around the boundaries of her lingerie. She was the spirit of the muse; full of sexual promise, but delighting in the chase.

It was good to get back to writing, in some form. My present form was pretty unchanged from this afternoon, except for a change of clothes. Charlie had been very accommodating as she shed her make-up from this afternoon, leaving me to my own devices. I wasn’t sure what I was writing, but it poured out of me - relentless. I tried not to think of James’ phone number in my bag at my feet.

 

To be continued . . .

 

 

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© 2001 by Circe. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.