Black Opal Magic

I'm not sure what happened. The phone started blaring the reminder, and I glanced around. I still had most of my soup to eat, all of the toast, and a half a cup of now very cold coffee. I shook off the disorientation, and chalked it up to still being tired from the journey. I quickly finished my meal, drinking the coffee even though it was cold, and then taking the dishes to the kitchen. I turned the coffee pot back on.

When I went to the bathroom a few minutes later, I realized that I didn't have on any underwear; no bra, no panties. I sat on the toilet, shaking my head.

"What has gotten in to me?" I wondered.

I'd occasionally go around without a bra. It wasn't something I made a habit of, but on a lazy Sunday, or if I wasn't feeling well, I'd opt to not wear one. But panties? I always wore those. Always. And here now, I'd slept naked, and then gotten dressed without putting on undergarments. I figured, this late in the day it was too late to worry about putting them on.

"I'll just have to remember not to wear these pants again until I wash them."

I cleaned up and went back to the set up I had at the table, stopping by to pour another cup of coffee. Then I settled in to work again. I revised and extended the outline, and came up with back stories for two of the main characters. I'm not a critical darling. I'm a pop fiction writer, and I'm fine with that. But the novel I was imagining had a more complicated plot. It had different kinds of conflicts, and I wanted to be able to pull off a couple of twists. I was planning things much more carefully.

And enjoying every second of it.

So much so, that I didn't realize it had gotten dark until my stomach growled again. I closed the laptop, satisfied with my day's work. I made myself a real supper, not just soup, and I enjoyed it while catching up on the news. The local news was charming. It was great to be in an area where the lead story was the foliage and the anticipated tourist revenue. It was easy to believe that nothing bad could happen up here.

I ate my dinner and read for a while. I let myself have another beer. When I decided to get ready for bed, I pulled off the yoga pants and kicked them into the corner of the room. I only had on the t-shirt when I slid under the covers.

The cool soft sheets on my naked legs felt really good. And when the hem of the t-shirt eased up over my hips, I kind of liked that too. In fact, I lay on my back, arms stretched to the side, and spread my feet as far as they could. Spread eagle, with my eyes closed and my back slightly arched. The pendent pressed down on my chest, and the bracelets seemed to make my hands too heavy to move.

It felt glorious.

I remember my dream from that night. I still remember it, every detail clear and visceral. It was strange and disorienting, and I chalked a lot of it up to the new environment.

In the dream I was naked, blindfolded, and being led through a forest. My arms were bound together in front of me. They were secured with rope and ended with a length spilling out through my hands. I was holding that rope, and someone had the other end. He was pulling me forward through the woods. I knew it was a man leading me the same way I knew I was in the woods; it was just something I knew in the dream, even though there wasn't a clue for it.

I couldn't see, and all the sounds were muffled. I wasn't afraid. I felt a great sense of importance, like I was participating in something sacred and vital. I walked easily, knowing that I was being seen by dozens of people, and completely comfortable in my nudity.

I felt body heat around me, and passed through what could only be a ring of people into a clearing. The person leading me stopped and I knew to stop as well. A hand pressed gently into my chest, and I stepped backward until my back and butt hit a tall wooden structure. I smiled in the dream, prepared to complete this ritual, happy for my part in it and highly aroused.

I felt a hand around each of my ankles, tying something around them. Then my feet were spread wide. I was being shown off to the crowd. Everyone was supposed to take me in, to look at my sex, my breasts, the space between my thighs. Everyone was supposed to see my erect nipples, the heaviness in my breasts, the glisten of moisture on both sets of my lips.

The rope was drawn up, so my hands stretched over my head. My arms bent at the elbow, over the top of the wooden structure, and the rope tugged until I stretched my spine, walking my shoulders up the thing behind me. My breasts swayed, heavier still, full of some kind of promise. In the dark, behind my blindfold, I could only imagine all the faces of the people looking at me. I drank in their stares, their adulation, their lust. I laid my head back, resting on the wood behind me, as the rope was secured, and my position was finalized.

There were soft sounds of people moving on grass, through leaves. There was a gentle breeze flowing around me, carrying smells of humanity. I breathed it in deeply, feeling my chest heave and my pussy pulse. I started crying, softly. Tears of joy.

There was murmuring, as though the crowd had started talking at once. The noise resolved into a quiet chant, the same syllables and cadence. My breasts grew, and filled, and then the milk came down, and leaked from my painfully erect nipples.

The chanting stopped. Then a mouth latched on to my left breast. Just a mouth, there was no touch, no preamble, not a word. Just the warm wet suck of a mouth drawing two or three times on that breast, taking a measure of sustenance from me. As the person let go of my left breast, another mouth engulfed my right breast, and did the same. Two or three mouthfuls, then gone. At that time a different mouth engaged my left breast. I knew it was a different person.

And I knew my purpose. The village needed to drink from me. They needed this ritual of my body giving them this sacred food. I was respected, revered and desired.

I loved it. The sensation of my milk flowing down, out into these needy greedy mouths. The knowledge of providing this magical link. I loved the feel of each person's mouth, their different techniques. Some of them barely took in just my nipple. Some covered the whole tip of my breast. Most drank gently, but some sucked hard, as though they were desperate to get all they could. I knew every adult member of the village would take their turn. And I knew I could give enough so that all could get what he or she needed.

I felt my supply draining, my breasts emptying. My nipples began to get sore. My vagina throbbed, my arousal unmet and an ache grew from deep in my belly. My left breast emptied, and then the right. I was exhausted, but still exhilarated and desperate for a sexual release. The last mouth detached from me, and the crowd stepped back.

The cool wind wafted over me again and now I shivered. The tears of joy had dried, but my sex continued to drip and spasm and clutch for something to fill me. I opened my mouth, prepared to beg or cry or demand.

Then a touch on my labia. The barest brush of a fingertip, spreading my lips apart. And then the fat, bulbous head of a penis, gliding into me. It was thick, long, as hard as velvet covered steel, and entered me like a torch. He didn't touch me anywhere else. I felt his body heat, and the gusts of his breath on my upraised arms. His cock rammed into me, plunging into my deepest recesses and meeting that growing ache with a very different pain. A pain my body welcomed.

I couldn't move, and I didn't want to. He plowed into me, ruthlessly, ferociously, and my body took him in. But somehow, only the length and breadth of his cock touched me. That was enough. I climaxed around him over and over and over until I was lost to thought, lost to any sensation but his shaft in my tunnel.

When he spilled his seed into me, I screamed in pleasure, knowing that the circle was starting again.

I woke up cumming. I woke up cumming so hard that the reverberations pulsed through my cunt like tidal waves. I woke up cumming so much that the sheets were soaked and sticky. I woke up panting, crying, and a scream one millisecond from being hurled across the room. I sat up and flopped back down. I threw the covers off, now unsurprised at my nakedness. My nipples were sore and distended. My breasts felt enlarged and somehow depleted. My cunt throbbed. My clit burned. I stared up at the ceiling, my head spinning. I felt so empty. So, physically, achingly empty.

I shuddered. I thought I might go back to sleep. But I was suddenly restless. I needed to be filled. I needed something inside me. I couldn't bear this sensation of emptiness.

I grabbed the vibrator I'd brought with me, and used it furiously. It didn't satisfy the desire for something inside me. I switched to my hand, pumping three and then four fingers into what suddenly felt like a gaping hole that had been my vagina. It wasn't enough, but it was all I could manage. I rubbed my clit so hard it actually started to burn.

All I got for my trouble was one weak orgasm that bubbled up and faded away before I'd even registered it was happening. But my body was done, no longer responding, and my wrist had started to cramp. Reluctantly, I got up and washed myself, then took a long, hot shower.

My pussy still throbbed, both aching and painful, and my stomach was unsettled. Right on that border between ok and nauseated, when you know you're not going to throw up, but you kind of want to. I kept touching myself, fondling my folds, caressing my breasts, even tugging on my nipples in a much more forceful way than I usually enjoy.

Nothing satisfied, and yet I could also feel the desire fading. A disappointment washed over me, and suddenly I was very tired. I went to lay down again, but saw how wet the sheets were, and by the time I'd stripped the bed and made it up again, I was too wired to sleep.

I decided to work on the book, and got nowhere for almost an hour. I kept replaying images from the dream in my mind. It had been so vivid, and so unsusual. Granted, all dreams are a little weird. Most of them don't make sense. But this was something else again. The sensations were so complete, and the sense of purpose so fulfilling.

I paced around the house, still touching myself obsessively. My fingers reaching in under my pants, up my shirt, and stroking my own skin like they had minds of their own. The opals glittered and flashed, and the braclets seemed warmer than my skin. They slid up and down my forearms, caressing me.

Every time I sat down, I wanted to stand again. Every time I stood I had to walk. Every ten steps I wanted to lay down again.

I made it back to the kitchen table and thew open the laptop. I started writing in a new document. The words flowed out of my with hardly any thought. I wrote the story of the dream. The story of the heroic maiden who sacrifices herself for the good of the desperate village, and is rewarded by being taken to the heights of pleasure by the lord of the manor. Who is feted and revered for saving them from some great unnameable disaster.

I wrote fifteen thousand words in a few hours. It felt like minutes. I saved it and emailed it to my editor without even proofreading it. I knew it was the one perfect piece of writing I'd done in my life. As soon as I hit send on the email, the restlessness and arousal died.

I could sit quietly, alone with my thoughts. I wondered about how I'd been acting for the past couple of days. Some of the things bothered me more than they should have. I mean, who really would ever care if a grown woman alone in a house chose not to wear underwear one day? Or slept naked? Lots of people sleep naked, so why was I unnerved about having done so? The fact that it was literally the first time I could rememeber sleeping that way was irrelevant. Wasn't I up here, alone in this house, cut off from everyone who knew me, precisely so I could do different things?

The confusion in my mind didn't last long. I decided it didn't matter, I was going to enjoy myself, and as long as I kept working on the novel, I wouldn't think about attire, or worry about vivid dreams.

But when I turned to the document with the novel, I was lost. My mind was suddenly foggy and I was very tired again. I realized I'd gone most of the day without eating, and that I wasn't even sure what time it was.

I made food, got the book I was reading, and settled in on the couch again. I sat up late into the night, drinking tea and reading.

**~~** 2 **~~**

I spent most of the next week happily working on my literary offering. I was really pleased with how it was going. I had a good handle on the characters, and just a few more things to work out with the plot.

I kept having vivid sex dreams. In them, I could feel myself enjoying activities that I'd only written about, or that I'd done but not really enjoyed. Dreams of marathon blow jobs and licking cum off my face. Of propositioning a stranger for a one night stand. Of gang bangs, with cocks in all of my orifices, and one in each hand. Of women. I dreamt about sex in all its great varieties, with partners of every possible description. I'd wake up happy and horny and the sheets once again soaked.

Then I'd feel uneasy again. I'd strip the bed, throw the sheets in the washer, and wonder at what could possibly be causing this. My life was surrounded by sex. I wrote sex and romance for a living. Most of the acts in these dreams were ones I'd described in my book, but were larger than life, almost cartoon like in their set ups and action. I couldn't remember ever before having dreams that stuck to me, physically, like these did.

I couldn't understand it. I thought about calling my therapist. I thought about calling my best friend. But each time I reached for the phone, something would distract me. I'd find myself out on the back deck, staring off into the trees, enjoying the chill breeze on my face.

I'd find myself pulling off my t-shirt, letting the breeze roam over my bare breasts and stomach, and imagine some kind of lover. Then my hand would slip under the waistband of my pants, and find my clit, and I'd masturbate until I was throwing my head back and crying out.

Masturbation has always been the most reliable way for me to orgasm. I enjoy sex for the most part, but I'll admit I have a lot of hang ups about it. I always thought that it was somewhere between ironic and hypocritical for me to make a living writing about romance and sex when my own love life was down right boring. I talked to my therapist a lot about that. She kept saying that it was possible that I picked the kind of stories I did to try to get over some of the sexual repression that had been instilled in me growing up. And to get over some of the not quite traumatic, but definitely bad experiences I'd had as a younger woman.

I secretly thought her line of reasoning was bullshit, but she was otherwise very helpful, so I never argued with her about it. But on day three or four at this house, having masturbated to exhaustion more than once, and now thinking seriously about ditching clothes altogether, I wondered if she'd had a point.

It still troubled me though. The next moring and the next, I put on the comfy t-shirt and yoga pants, only allowing myself the freedom of going braless and without underwear. But the pants seemed to itch, and the t-shirt felt weird, and the more I exposed myself, the more I liked the feeling of the warm air in the house, or the cold air outside, on my skin.

I think I abandoned the pants first. Most of my t-shirts were a size or two too big, and so they hung down well enough to cover my butt.

That felt better. But still not quite right. But I refused to think about why being naked was 'right' and being dressed was 'wrong'. I made myself get dressed and run errands. I went to the grocery store every day. I found out about a local farmers' market and went there. I tried going to a movie, but as soon as the lights went down, my hands were in my pants, and I jumped up and left before I did something obscene.

Then I quit changing the sheets, even though every morning there was a spreading wet spot from the orgasms I'd had in my sleep. I rationalized that it was just too many loads of laundry, and no one else was going to come over or sleep in the bed, so what did it matter?

Some time at the beginning of the next week, a package arrived from one of those online mega-retailers. When I heard the delivery truck drive up, I was confused. No one was supposed to know where I was, and I had no recollection of ordering anything.

But when I saw the box, my heart throbbed, and a wave of heat and desire flowed through me.

I put it on the dining room table and rummaged for a knife to slice it open. That's when I noticed something odd about the bracelets. I knew that when I first bought them, they were loose enough to slide almost to my elbows. Now they were both much smaller, just large enough to be comfortable on my wrist. I tried to pull one off, and it wouldn't fit over the heel of my hand. I tried again, tugging harder, confused, and the bangle still wouldn't budge. On the third attempt, I felt a sharp pain in my heart, right where the pendant clung to my skin between my breasts.

I was still confused, but decided to turn my attention to the contents of the box.

Having no idea what to expect, I sliced open the tape carefully.

I found an assortment of sex toys, lingerie, and what could only be described as slutty outfits.

I sat down hard on the chair, and pulled each item out.

Dildoes in various sizes from average to Oh My God There's No Way. Three different remote controlled vibrators.

Tiny, lacey bras in bright colors, with sparkles. One had fringe along the midline of the cups. G-strings and thongs, and two sets of crotchless panties. A garter belt. Stockings. Fishnets.

Two pairs of stiletto heels higher than I'd ever contemplated attempting. A pair of strappy wedge sandals that I couldn't imagine actually staying on my feet.

And the clothes. Micro miniskirts; one was denim, made to look like it was cut off of a longer skirt. One was a thin silk like material, and I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have covered my whole ass even when I was standing. Low cut tank tops, t-shirts with extra deep V-necks. A blouse so sheer it was basically transparent. A lace dress with no lining.

Ever more amazed as I pulled out each item, and ever more confused because I still had absolutely no recollection of the order. Then furious, assuming someone had hacked my account and played some kind of trick on me.

But also, kind of intrigued, and aroused.

I grabbed my computer and logged into my account. I found the record of the order, every item in the box. A few that were on back order. I realized that I'd made it sometime in the lost hour the first day I was in the house. Stunned, I leaned back in the chair.

And immediately spread my legs and started fondling myself with one of my brand new dildoes. The pendant on my chest warmed and a sense of calm washed over me.

Twenty minutes and two decent orgasms later, I got back to work on my novel. But I could feel a restlessness growing in me. I'd type for a few minutes, then glance at the pile on the table. I examined the shoes closely when I got up for some more coffee. I went to the bathroom, and before I sat back at the computer, I tried on every piece of clothing.

When I did go back to work, I'd shoved a dildo inside me, slid on the thong with the most coverage, and put on the bright red bra with the fringe. I rocked back and forth on the chair, feeling the dildo sliding inside me, hitting all the wrong spots. The action arousing me further.

I opened a new document, and wrote a simple erotic short story about a girl picking up a guy in a bar. After a quick spell check, I sent it off to my editor.