March 15, 2012

The Gothic Doll (Pt 1)

It all started innocently enough: she appeared in the campus coffee shop, a quiet, fair-haired girl, a little gothic doll.  She wore lipstick the color of a red rose’s deepest petals, her gray eyes framed by dark lashes and silver, smoky eyeshadow.  She held back her hair with a black headband decorated by the skull-and-crossbones symbol of poison, and her off-the-shoulder black blouse showed the tattoo of a Chinese dragon winding around her right shoulder.  She sat in the corner, sinking quietly into the cushions of one of the sofas to watch the readers with silent interest.
Darren first noticed her during one of his poems, her head tilted slightly to the side as she listened, fingering the heavy pewter pendant around her throat.  She was instantly captivating: dark and elegant, beautiful in a way he might never have expected.  He wrote poetry, studied it; she was poetry, a lonesome and mournful verse like something out of Dickinson.  Why had he never seen such a fascinating creature as this before?

He noticed her ears: elfin and small, very slightly pointed at the tips, decorated by a series of winking studs, three on each side, black and lavender and silver.  In the left ear, a fourth stud was connected to a delicate chain which ran up to a cuff anchored in the curve of her pinna.  A tiny charm, made of some black stone, dangled from the cuff—he thought it might be another dragon, and made a mental note to wander close to her when his turn at the mic was over, and see for sure.
When he left the stage, though, she seemed to lose interest in whatever had brought her there.  She glanced away, almost skittishly, and stood up again, hurrying out the door.

That night, Darry woke in a cold sweat.  The thin sheets of his dorm-room bunk bed tangled up with his legs; his arms trembled as he shot up from his mattress, dripping and feverish.
He’d been dreaming about her.  Her mouth… her lips…
Her gray eyes, turned shyly up to him as she knelt in front of him, silently asking permission to touch him.
He drew in a heavy breath and ran a hand through his damp hair.  The sound of his roommate’s steady breathing below him told him he hadn’t woken anybody up.  He’d had wet dreams before now, of course he had, but never had they been so vivid… so real
Beneath the cool sheets, his cock gave a petulant throb.  It stood fully erect, almost annoyed that the dream had stopped, that the velvety feel of that strange, mystifying girl and her gentle hands had been stolen away from it.
As he lay back down, he reached absent-mindedly for the stiff member and started kneading it.  He hardly thought about what he was doing—the memory of her pretty face would not be pushed away.
The eager arousal was still very real, even if his fantasy girl was gone.  Putting his other hand behind his head, he closed his eyes and tried to remember how she had looked to him in the dream: naked, slender, on her knees with her dark, dark lips pouted in a little cupid’s bow.  Her skin was pale, almost white, like wintery frost—her fair blonde hair almost silver and gossamer, like feathery silk between his fingers.  She’d never spoken; she was silent, and bashful, and eager for him.
Another throb.  He let out a tiny sigh as he closed his fingers around the head of his penis and slowly stroked the length of it, squeezing gently as he thought of her pale, slender hands.
Who is this girl? he thought.  She’s driving me crazy.
He thought of her black-cherry lips kissing his flat stomach, just below his navel… her pert little breasts pressing softly against his groin, nudging against his erection, her nipples grazing against his thighs.  He imagined her delicate fingers closing preciously around his shaft, almost like a prayer, and he could see her shy expression again, those big gray eyes gazing up at him as she brought those lips to the head of his cock and brushed them almost unperceptively across the tip, her warm breath tickling his skin.
He moaned to himself, closing his fist a little tighter, moving it a little more quickly up and down his shaft as he imagined her pert little tits pushed up close to his thighs, imagined tiny, stiff nipples tracing against him.  Those cherry lips opened just a little, just enough to taste the head, to brush it, to kiss it shyly and then trace the tip of her soft, pink tongue around it, like licking the frosting off the head of a cupcake.  His cock jerked in his palm; the first bead of semen formed like dew on the head of it and he felt the climax building, tense along the lines of his groin.
Her mouth, warm and wet… her tongue, like soft, rolling sugar around his stiff erection.  He imagined those long dark lashes closing over those beautiful eyes as she moaned around him, her purring pleasure thrumming against his skin. 
His rhythm grew faster now, desperate: in his mind he felt her dragging her tongue up and down his cock, closing her mouth around it and eagerly taking it deep, savoring it, adoring it, hungry for his come.  His free hand came out from under his pillow and fisted in the sheets. He choked back a cry of release as his cock jumped, the first jet of semen spurting into his palm—in his mind he was no longer in her mouth but in her pussy, her tight little cleft convulsing around him as he came in her heated, lithe little body.  He came hard, squeezing his cock with a soft moan as he imagined himself deep in her warm, wet sex. 
When the last trembling spasms of his orgasm gave off, he found himself breathing heavily, still clutching the sheets, shaking with release and surprised at himself.  The intensity of his fantasy—it had been almost frightening.
“Hey,” said a voice in the dark.  It was his roommate, awake now.
“Do that shit when I’m not here, would ya?”

“Do you think she’ll show up again?”
Winnie—Darry’s longtime best friend—didn’t seem nearly as enamored by his story of the strange girl in the coffee shop as he’d hoped she’d be.  “I mean… it was just a random stranger in a coffee shop, Darry.”
“I’m hoping she’ll be back at tonight’s open mic,” he muttered sulkily into his burger.  The sounds of the university marketplace clamored around them; he found himself scanning the crowds for the girl he has caught such a fleeting glimpse of three nights ago.  Winnie was right though, it had been a chance encounter on a campus of over a thousand students—he would probably never see his mystery girl again, and even if he did she would probably not be nearly as perfect as he remembered her. 
So why couldn’t he stop thinking of her?
“I can’t explain it, Winnie,” he said, feeling his ears go warm.  “I keep dreaming about this girl… she keeps me up at night.”
Winnie frowned.  “I’m eating.”
“Well, I’m serious,” he replied.  “I can’t get my mind off of her.”
“You’re insane,” his friend said.  “You’re obsessing.”
He sighed.  “Will you come with me?”
“Maybe.  I have a paper due Thursday.”
“That makes two of us.  Come anyway.”
She rolled her eyes.  “Why do you want me there?”
“You can be my wingman.”
“You want your ex to be your wingman on a mission to meet this fantasy dream girl you’ve never met before and probably don’t have a chance with anyway?”
He flashed her a sheepish little smile.  “You’re not my ex.  You’re my best friend.”
She threw her head back with an exasperated groan.  It was enough, though; he knew she’d come.  Who could resist the best friend card when it was played?
As he finished his burger and got to his feet, stooping to pick up his books, a curious sense came over him—the same feeling he’d had lingering just over his shoulder for days.  He saw the flash of something out of the corner of his eye, and he spun, for an instant sure that the little gothic doll was standing across the university quad watching him.
But he didn’t see her.

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