This piece was inspired by the most recent Wicked Wednesday prompt, this is my first time getting involved in this particular prompt, but I am so excited to finally be a part of it. Please do visit the Wicked Wednesday site and read the other submissions, and maybe even get involved yourself.
Seth slept peacefully beside me, his bare chest mesmerising as I watched the rhythm of its slumbering rise and fall. I traced the lines of his fingers with my own, travelling up his toned and muscular arms, across his shoulders and finally coming to rest to feel his heart beating against my palm.
My eyes fluttered shut as my thoughts drifted to his hands running up and down the curves of my flesh, from tentative first fumbles, to the deep, knowing caresses of a devoted lover and to those times when we were strangers, faces hidden, few words spoken, and yet the intimacy engulfed us.
A brief flicker of guilt rises within me, I know only I can appreciate those last set of memories, they come to him like a dream he can’t hold onto, staying only briefly in his first wakeful moments, and fading by the time he’s finished his first cup of coffee. I tell myself I should stop, that I’m somehow betraying his trust, knowing what I do but being unable to confide in him. Those thoughts are quickly banished though, by the promise of his body against mine, the feeling of him pushing inside me, for what for him will be the first time.
The initial idea had struck me when I discovered we’d been at the same event some 10 years earlier, both trying something new at what can only be described as a fiasco of a sex party. The ‘Eyes Wide Shut’ theme did nothing to invigorate the atmosphere, masked faces seemed to make everyone present more uncomfortable rather than less and the best thing about my night had been the beautiful and elaborate mask I’d had made for the occasion.
Neither of us prospered that night, I left early and Seth spent the night trying to find a woman that had caught his eye. When he described my mask and dress with unnerving clarity, I just sat there. I was urging myself to declare that it was me, that I’d been there too, but I didn’t, I kept quiet and to this day have never shown him the mask sitting in the bottom of my wardrobe.
It had been such a long time since I’d pulled the old and inconspicuous looking timepiece from my bedside table. I’d forgotten how good in felt in my hands, as I brushed my thumb over it’s smooth, cold surface. How the adrenaline started to build within me as I held it, knowing it granted me the power to journey into my past. A power that had left Seth feeling unwell and disoriented when he returned from work the day of my first visit, the unwanted side effects of someone dabbling in his personal timeline.
That first time I’d been shaking with nerves as I pulled on my outfit from those ten years previous, thankful that an inability to throw away good clothes meant it had remained in a drawer unworn until that day. Then I sat on the edge of my bed, cast my mind back with focused and unwavering clarity and turned the dial. My body became weightless and the world blurred until my feet landed in the venue that hosted the night Seth and I never met.
Tonight as I watch him sleeping beside me, I feel none of those nerves. Just a deep rooted need to experience him as man emboldened by a sexual encounter with an amorous stranger. Knowing our meeting would seep into his dreams, his past and present self always connected. He would wake and reach out for me, sleepily muttering how he’d had that dream again, about the stranger, never knowing it wasn’t a dream and that the stranger was me.
Once again I was ready to journey into our past, to find the man in the golden mask, so I could seduce him three years before we would ever meet.
I found him as I always did, propping the bar up, his mask wonky and a tumbler of whisky in front him that I knew he wouldn’t drink. He looked crestfallen, like a man who’d had enough and needed a new adventure.
When I sit beside him at the bar he doesn’t even turn to look at me, until I take his drink and down it one. As he moves to scold me, he stops in his tracks, taking in the mask that earlier caught his eye. I take his hand and lead the way. Behind closed doors it doesn’t take long for him to get the measure of things and with a swift movement he has me pinned against the wall, his lips tracing the line of my neck and collarbone, his hands ravenous against my dress as he traverses the contours of my body.
I unzip his trousers, and even though I know what to expect, a small gasp always escapes my mouth as I see how hard he is. At how hot, and primal this anonymous fuck with a stranger gets him. I take him in my hand, my grip making his mouth fall open in a achingly familiar way. As my hand begins to move up and down, his sense of urgency increases. My dress is up and my knickers are down, and I’m bent over a conveniently situated table.
As he runs his fingers between my labia, he swears through a groan, as he feels how wet I am. I hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper, that causes me to throb with anticipation, after all these times I never want him less in that moment. When he pushes himself inside me, balls deep with that first thrust, I feel like I’m going to die from pleasure. He strips me of my worldly self, and just pulls me into him, as he does in our present he makes me feel like an ethereal being when we fuck. I think some people call that making love, but to me it’s more like transcending love, and passion and flesh and bones.
I orgasm hard, gripping his cock with every muscle I possess, when that starts to ebb away he begins to thrust again and I hear his pace of breath changing, his body tensing and the noises he makes when he comes nearly tip me over the edge again myself.
Each and every time it is the same, and each and every time it is fucking glorious. He removes the condom, fixes his clothes, and plants a kiss on my back as he steadies me on my feet. Our eyes lock, as I briskly exit the room, knowing that when he wakes the next day he won’t remember me in this timeline, due to my stay there being all to brief to take hold and change time.
When the door closes behind me, and I prepare to return home, my heart aches with love for this past version of the man I’ve left in our bed at home. Knowing his passion and sexual desires will go unchanneled for a little while longer. That, I tell myself, is why I keep returning, to help him, for those brief stolen moments, explore and unleash the deviant within.