tagNonConsent/ReluctanceCamilla Ch. 084

Camilla Ch. 084


Before black-haired, 'Goth-looking' Camilla started stripping at Club Ritz on Saturday evening, she--hardly talking to Candice at all--was going through Facebook on her iPhone: a female friend of Marcel's posted an explanation for his lack of communication over the past month. He'd died, and nobody even knew until a few days ago, when his decomposed corpse had been discovered in his apartment. He'd been behaving erratically and reclusively over the past month, and it was discovered that, as with Mr. Hanson, Marcel was having prostitutes piss on his face till he drowned in it. He'd psychically willed them to leave after finishing their pissing, just as he was dying, so no one was made aware of his death.

Camilla, still emotionally numb from the psychic dome she had around her, reacted with relative apathy, resolving to set up selective psychic barriers that night, allowing Marcel, Hanson, and any other desirable incubi to have her in her dreams. Her only grief over his death was in how she'd recently posted sexy photos of herself on Facebook, and she was hoping to read some silver-tongued comments of his; now she'd never read his bon mots again.

After reading this sad news, she checked her e-mail: there was a message from Dr. Singh, but she quickly deleted it.

"Sorry, Ravinder," she said. "You're nuts." I don't wanna read any more about your conspiracy theories: Satanists trying to use Nigrovum to make everyone slaves to their desires, she thought; then the Satanists will be able to take over the media, government, and banks. Please.

Just then, Patrick the banker came into the strip joint. Camilla changed all her body colours back to their original look, and went into character as ditzy 'Dolly'. She walked up to him.

"Hi," she said with a giggle. "You feeling better now?"

"Yeah," he said. "A bit better, anyway. Sorry for all my crying last night. You were hoping for some fun, and I was so out of it. Tonight, however, I was thinking: maybe if I spend some time with you, I can forget about my dead wife."

"OK," she said, unzipping her black dress--the one he'd bought for her in the Eaton's Centre--and dropping it on the floor. Wearing no underwear, the naked blonde kicked off her high heels. Standing so he had a view of her right side, she bent over and stuck out her ass so he could appraise her curves. "Is my body still pleasing to you?"

"Yes, as always," he panted.

She lay on her back on a sofa, spread her legs, and brought them up over her head so he could see her pussy and asshole. He squatted down, with his face an inch or two from her cunt. She calmly allowed him to look, as if he were merely checking out a new pair of shoes of hers. She opened her labia wide, and he tried to see inside that mysterious blackness. It amused her to see him try to see what he'd never be able to see--that small room where all life begins.

After allowing him to look for a few more seconds, she rolled over and, on all fours on the sofa, she pushed out her ass so he had her pretty, wrinkled, brown asshole an inch or two from his eyes. She looked back, watching him sniff: no faecal odour at all.

"So, what do you wanna do, Patrick?" she asked. "Lap dances? Table dances? Take me home tonight?"

"I'm not sure if I wanna rush into this, Camilla," he said. "As much as I like you, I'm still getting over my dead wife. Sometimes I think I feel her spirit, watching me, angry about my disrespect for our marriage."

"Well, what are we gonna do, then?" Camilla asked, still with her ass in his face.

"I'll be busy with funeral arrangements until Monday night," he said. "I can take you out to dinner when that's all done."

"OK," she said. "We'll take it slow."

"Exactly. I need time to recover. In fact, I'd better get home soon. Her family's probably wondering where I am."

"OK. Meet me at Giovanni's on Monday."

"Good. I'll see you there at about 7 PM, OK?"

"OK. Bye," she said, watching him walk out of the bar.


When she'd got into Dr. Martin's house that night at around 2 AM, he was already asleep; so she quietly got into the bedroom, got naked, and got in bed. She set up selective psychic barriers, visualizing only Marcel, Mr. Hanson, and the incubi of her former teachers being able to get through the barriers to fuck her in her dreams. She soon fell asleep.

Only Marcel and Mr. Hanson appeared, for the masked incubi were restraining all her other former lovers. Marcel and Hanson were with naked Camilla on the ground floor of the burning mansion. She was sucking Marcel's cock, and Hanson was fucking her pussy.

The bed was rocking with her shaking of it, and Dr. Martin soon woke up, shocked to see her with her spread-out legs up over her head, with her pussy apparently being stuffed with an invisible cock, and with her mouth seemingly sucking another invisible cock, the knob poking out in her cheek. After a half minute more of watching this extraordinary sight, he was even more surprised to see her come fly out in an arc onto the bedsheets. Then she squinted, as if the 'cock' she'd been 'sucking' had just come in her right eye. Her feet come down on the bed, but the dream didn't stop there.

"Did you guys enjoy that?" she asked Marcel and Hanson.

"Oh, yeah," she answered together.

"Want a golden shower?" she asked.

"Oui," Marcel said. "Douche doree."

"Douche doree, douche doree," he and Hanson chanted.

They lay on the floor with their heads close to each other, and she squatted over them, with their heads between her legs. She pissed on one man's face, then swayed her hips to the other side to piss on the other man's face. She would sway back and forth like that for both men. When she squirted out her last few drops, she saw that the two men had seemed to have lost consciousness, dead and drowned again; she giggled at that.

Marcel suddenly woke up. "You killed me, Camilla," he said. "You know that, don't you?"

"What?" she said.

Then she could feel a hand shaking her shoulder.

"Huh?" she said when waking up with a start, feeling Dr. Martin's hand shaking her shoulder. He was standing at the side of the bed. She looked down at the piss on the sheets between her legs. "Oh, no! Not again! Sorry, sir." She was so annoyed and disoriented that she forgot to re-enact her 'Anna' persona, with the Russian accent.

"Darling," Dr. Martin said with a frown. "I'd much rather watch you piss into my toilet than on my bed, as lovely as it was to see the golden arc that flowed from your urethra onto the sheets."

"Sorry," she said, still in her original North American accent. "Incubi were fucking me; I gave them golden showers."

"Camilla, I don't believe in incubi; and why have you suddenly lost your Russian accent? Was that all an act, my dear?"

"Sorry," she said, now with the accent and blushing.

"You don't seem to be as stable as you were before."

"I'm seeing a therapist."

"If your dreams are going to continue to be as--well, intense--as that, I think you'll need to see a therapist. What's more, I think you'd better find another place to stay, my dear. I'm terribly sorry, but between your coming home so late at night and your apparently pathological behaviour when sleeping, I don't think I can tolerate this sort of thing. Perhaps you should find a new place first thing tomorrow."

"OK," she said, frowning. "But we can still fuck sometimes, right?"

"I don't think I'll be able to resist more of that; but only with you as a visitor here. Sorry."


On Sunday, Camilla packed her things and, before leaving Dr. Martin's home, called Dr. Lawson, who gladly agreed to have her live with him. Now her erotic literature prof imagined he could enjoy her without all the faculty gossiping around his office.


Don Josiah returned to his old Catholic church, not so much to take Communion as to have a chance to talk to Agape about Camilla. Carrie was there at the front pew, too. When Mass had ended, Don went up to Agape and Carrie.

"Hi. Do you know where Camilla is?" he asked Agape. "I'm very worried about her."

"We're all worried," Carrie said. "She's been in therapy ever since...um, her falling-out with Agape."

"Isn't she staying with her friend, Candice?" Agape asked.

"No," Don said. "I asked Candice, and it seems there was a falling-out with her and Camilla, too. Candice wouldn't say much, but I could sense that Camilla's been thinking violent thoughts."

"Oh, no," Carrie said. "She isn't contemplating suicide, is she?"

"I'm not sure--I don't think so--but she seems to have something vaguely violent on her mind," Don said. "Anyway, I'll continue looking for her, and I'll tell you as soon as I know something. Bye." He started walking away.

"Bye," Carrie and Agape said.


Don returned home, sat on his bed, and began meditating. He could feel Nigrovum's energy flowing all through his body.

He was in an intense conflict: he desperately wanted to have Camilla back, the girl he was not only in love with, but also the girl he had compassion for and wanted to save from her self-destructive behaviour; but he also knew that he had to let go of his desires if he was to have peace. He wanted to help her find peace, but he couldn't help her if he didn't help himself first; so before doing a psychic search for her, he resolved to use Nigrovum to calm himself.

He breathed slowly and silently, visualizing the whole universe as he was increasingly coming to understand it, in its truest, most mystical sense. He saw everything as an ocean that went forever in all directions; the waves moved up and down slowly and serenely, and he felt himself as but one drop of water submerged in that wet infinity. The oneness he felt with everything was giving him a spiritual repose that neither the Church nor prayer had ever given him.

He so badly wanted to share this epiphany with Camilla, since he was convinced it would liberate her from her addictive desires as well as her hate. But she increasingly found 'spiritual talk' boring.

Now that he had reached that state of profound peace, he would be able to use Nigrovum to find her; but he was enjoying that peace so much that he forgot all about her. He would search for her another day. Sunday is the day of rest, after all.


Since Agape and Carrie were just as worried about Camilla as Don was, as soon as they got home, Agape went up into his bedroom, sat on his bed, and began meditating too.

His plan, identical to Don's, was first to use Nigrovum to calm himself before using doing a psychic search for her. Because he, like the former priest and Dr. Singh, also had a religious, spiritual bent, Nigrovum tended to intensify those feelings in him just as it did in Don and Ravinder; so after several minutes of intense concentration, he, too, felt himself at one with that infinite ocean Don had experienced. He felt a communal love with everyone and everything in the world; even those people he normally disliked or despised, he now felt a sense of pity and compassion for, for the first time in his life. This was the sweetest feeling he'd ever had, and he was greedy for more.

Agape, too, found himself enjoying that serenity so much that he lengthened his bliss to the point of forgetting all about Camilla.


On Monday, Agape badly wanted to look for Camilla; but his schedule of lecturing had him too busy in the morning and afternoon even to try to find her on the York campus. So when his work was done for the day, he sat in his office and meditated again, this time more intent on finding her.

After several minutes of deep concentration, he could feel the vibrations of Nigrovum emanating out of his body unswervingly in the direction of downtown Toronto, somewhere on Yonge Street. He sensed that she was in the middle of a conversation with a man, someone he didn't know, but someone he vaguely sensed had been in trouble with the law because of his relationship with Camilla.

His protective paternal instinct pushed him to come out of his meditation quickly; he grabbed his jacket, got in his car, and left the York campus.

Using the psychic powers of Nigrovum to lead him to the man he'd sensed Camilla chatting with, Agape drove in as straight a line as he could to Yonge Street. In twenty minutes, he found the man--Mr. Berman--walking alone on that long street. Secretly having antisemitic tendencies, Agape winced at the sight of Berman's wavy hair and aquiline nose.

"Excuse me," he called out to Berman from his car. "Do you happen to know a girl named Camilla Mennon?"

"Yeah," Berman said, going over to the car. Agape let him in, and Berman sat beside him. "I just talked to her a little while ago. I think she went to the Eat--"

"What's your relationship with her?" Agape asked.

"I've dated her," Berman said. "How do you know her?"

"I'm her father," Agape said with an icy look. "Why are you dating my daughter?"

Berman had had enough experiences with anti-Semites to know them just from their facial expressions, and he could practically smell prejudice on Agape. "I'm dating her because I'm in love with her. I'd do anything for her, but she asks the impossible."

"Oh, she does want absurd things--and people--sometimes. I must be blunt with you: I don't want you dating her. She's emotionally messed up right now, and if she gets mixed up with, with--"

"With a member of the Tribe?"

Staring right into Berman's eyes, Agape said, "She is a Palestine I won't let you occupy, my friend."

"I'm not going to harm her, Mr. Mennon. Actually, she accidentally harmed me many years ago. I used to be her fifth-grade teacher, and she had a crush on me at the time. She kissed me on the lips one day, and--just my luck--a teacher with your attitude towards Jews saw us. He had me fired and arrested."

"Your version of the story naturally frees you from all blame. I'll bet what really happened was quite different. Stay away from her."

"My version's the truth!" Berman insisted defiantly. "I was ruined for a crime I didn't commit; I received real sexual abuse--rape in a jail cell awaiting trial--because I'd been falsely accused of perpetrating sexual abuse. It was like how certain people were once falsely accused of betraying Germany, and their accusers truly betrayed Germany and killed six million of those they'd accused. Of course, people like you still accuse us of that false crime, as well as many other false crimes!"

"Now that you've been victimized for this crime you supposedly didn't commit, you want revenge on my daughter," Agape said coolly. "An eye for an eye, and a tooth--"

"No! I don't want revenge on anyone: I just want redemption. I see her as that redemption--my salvation. I love her, Mr. Mennon, and I mean to be with her--with or without your approval. If you disapprove, find a legitimate reason to: don't waste my time with your Jew-hating. Good-bye!" Berman got out of the car, slammed the door behind him, and walked away.

As Agape watched Berman walk down the street, he thought about the feelings he was psychically getting from the man. Berman was assuredly sincere in his love for Camilla, and Agape could feel the pain of a terrible injustice heaped on the poor man's shoulders.

Collette's lawyer in divorce court, a Jew, had pushed the false idea that Agape had molested Camilla as a child, and this experience ignited the fire of antisemitic hate in him. Now that Agape could see a fellow sufferer in a Jew, one who had suffered the same slander, all over Camilla, he could feel that fire being put out.

Nigrovum had correctly inspired in him indiscriminate, unconditional love--even in the people he'd for a long time hated.

Camilla was right, he thought; this power can be used for good.

Berman continued walking off his rage. I don't wanna kill that man's fiancee--what's her name, Carrie? he thought; but the idea of killing him sure is tempting.


That evening, Patrick was with Camilla in Giovanni's. She had her original blonde hair, blue eyes, and peach skin; she was also wearing that black dress he'd bought her. They were finishing their meal.

"She visits me in my dreams," Patrick said.

"Your wife's ghost?" Camilla asked, always in her 'Dolly' voice.

"Yeah, so it seems," he said. "It's terrifying, and I feel guilty about being with you now, but you're...so addictive."

"Thank you," she said with a giggle. Then, carelessly, she added, "You know, I dream about ghosts, too. All the lovers I've had who've died. I feel them inside me at night."

I thought 'feeling people' wasn't one of your psychic powers, Patrick thought; you lied to me. My wife's dead because of you. Though she could psychically sense a vague hostility briefly brewing in him, he would hold his anger deep inside, out of range from her 'radar' for the rest of the date, so she didn't think much of that hostility.

He drove her to her new home, in Dr. Lawson's apartment building. He, knowing nothing about her living arrangement, took her up to the floor of Lawson's room.

It was 8:20 PM, and Dr. Lawson was still at York. Patrick and Camilla were standing by the door of Lawson's apartment. She psychically sensed her prof wasn't in the building, but she had no sense of when he would be coming home, which could have been at any moment. For this reason, she didn't want to get too slutty with Patrick...but that didn't mean she didn't want to get slutty with him at all...

"You still need time to get over your wife, eh?" she asked, unzipping her dress and dropping it on the floor. Without underwear, she was naked.

"Yeah, I want to take things slowly," he said, ogling her body and putting his hands on her hips. "We won't do too much tonight."

"Good," she said, kicking off her high heels. "I don't want my...roommate to see us together, so we should make this quick."

"Sure," he said, kissing her softly on the lips and feeling her up. He put his hands on her ass, opening up her butt-cheeks and gently rubbing his finger against her asshole. She moaned softly at his sensitivity.

His other hand went between her legs, fingering her already hard clitoris. She put her hand on his bulging groin, rubbing his pants where the tip of his cock was and getting him harder. He slipped his finger inside her wet pussy, massaging her tingling G-spot. Her moans turned into soft squeals. She took her hand off his boner and put her arms around his neck while French-kissing him.

Too distracted by her enjoyment of his expert fingers and electric tongue, she didn't take psychic notice of his growing anger towards her. Nor did she, over her sighs, hear him unzipping his pants and pulling his hard cock out.

It's your fault my wife's dead, he thought; I think I'll take things fast tonight after all--even if you don't want to.

He picked her up by the legs and brought her tits level with his lips; he briefly sucked on her left tit while feeling his erection pointing upwards at her soaking wet vagina. He slowly lowered her onto his cock. As soon as she felt the tip of his cock touch her vaginal orifice she felt a surprise, but didn't show it with any jerking of her body. He paused for her reaction.

Doesn't he want to take things slowly? she thought; We can't fuck now--what if Lawson comes home and sees us? Still, I just love to fuck...

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