Susannah Indigo - Readerotica vol.1

…Martha bucked and came, and came, feeling John spurting deep inside her, tasting his mouth, bearing his weight, drumming her heels on his broad back. She let herself drop flat to the mattress, her arms and legs starfished, and rode out the afterglow. It was always an odd experience — the rapture of the climax, the joy of togetherness, the feeling of loss as the memory faded, and the relief at being just Martha again. This one had been more exciting and more painful than usual. A happy, loving relationship was Martha's own secret fantasy; this pale version was like watching through a locked window.

She wrapped her hand in the sheet so she could safely move the nightgown aside. Painful though it was, that one would get saved for later. Psychometric memories never lasted long — her own experiences quickly overrode the traces of former owners. But they were usually good for two or three times before they became too faint to read — and she already had a crush on John. She often got crushes on the men she experienced. They never lasted. Abruptly knowing everything about a strange new man was heady, but another one could always replace him in the next touch.

It was a source of amusement to Martha that she had become such a psychic slut. Whatever would Mother think? One more sip of wine and she touched the next pile…

…tug it down over hippo hips and butt. Dunno why I wear stuff like this, no one else will ever see it, and God knows it's not as comfortable as a t-shirt. But, oh, it feels so nice on my skin, and with the lights off I can pretend I'm a beautiful model. These hands aren't mine, they're the photographer's, because I'm so beautiful. He's seen a thousand women but he can't resist me…

…Off came the gown, and Martha resisted the impulse to throw this one even farther. She hated, hated hearing the thoughts of single, unloved women. They were too close to her own inner anguish. Fantasies were supposed to be better than life; that was the whole point. More depressing still was that in those few seconds while she hated herself, she remembered seeing a perfectly good body that was probably more attractive than Martha's own. She felt a moment of pity and sadness for Jill. At least Martha had a reason to avoid people. Jill's isolation was self-inflicted.

She looked back longingly at the nightgown John had bought for Anne, but steeled herself to move on. Not good to obsess on a perfect lover who's never met you, she thought, and reached for the last one. It was the color of peaches and cream; it eased over her head like smoke…

…and John, her John, was over her again, thrusting and grunting, the old fool. Anne/Martha tilted her hips to speed things up so he'd pop and she could go to sleep. Faking arousal did begin to wear on you after awhile. John was a good man, a decent husband, but oh Lord, Rick was incredible and young and the things he did drove her wild. Anne/Martha let herself remember what Rick had done with his tongue in the motel and for the first time tonight she felt her juices flow. There we go, she thought and closed her eyes. That isn't John on me, it's Rick, and he's sucking my cunt 'til I see spots, and he's jumping up to ram it into me and it hurts and it feels so good and I'll be damned I think I'm going to come…

…A tiny Martha voice cried out in betrayal and pain. How could she?…

…The phone rang. John lunged to pick it up with a movement that nearly sent Anne/Martha over the edge, but his words sent a torrent of ice water down her spine.

"Yeah?" he gasped.

"Jimmy, look, I can't talk right now…what? They were where? The Motel 6?" Terror captured Anne/Martha's mind as John looked down at her, pain blossoming across his face. "No, I — No, thank you for telling me, Jim." He hung up, looked at her for a long, questioning moment, then got up and left without a word. Emptied and alone, Anne/Martha shook quietly for a long time before the wracking sobs broke free and consumed her…

…Martha tore the gown in half, ripping it off her body with a strength that would have surprised her if she'd been capable of noticing. How could Anne have done that? How could she have hurt such a good man? For Martha knew John now, knew both him and Anne intimately and completely. John was the most handsome, responsible, loving man she had ever encountered. She could hardly conceive why any woman would stray from him, even having just been inside the mind of one who did. What fool would throw that away? John was perfect. The memory of his tortured face looking down on her, pleading for explanation, tore her heart.

Riding Anne's mind, she had learned all there was to know about him, his tastes, his loves, his life, their wedding day, his favorite Chinese restaurant, everything that Anne knew. She had felt their thundering passion — and Anne had cut out his heart. Living through both events in a matter of moments was enough to tear her soul in two.

Anne's lover seemed a poor replacement. Young and rough and…Martha realized with a shock that the first nightie she had touched in the store, the one with the brutal penetration, had been Anne's as well. She had worn it in the motel.

Numb, Martha realized something else. This had happened recently. The feelings were too fresh, too intense. John finding out about Anne's infidelity somehow led directly to Anne's lingerie ending up in a thrift shop, and the possible reasons kept Martha awake for the rest of the night. Did he leave her? Did he kill her? No, John couldn't do that. She knew him too well; he was a truly good man.

With a shock, she realized she could find him. She knew where he lived, what his phone number was, what time he got home. And now, right now, he was alone. And hurting.

Sunday morning at the thrift shop. The cashier opened the front door and jumped aside as this crazy lady rushed in, yanked an old lace glove off her hand, and began grabbing at every article of clothing in the store. It was the weirdest thing the cashier had ever seen, in a business where weirdness was part of the inventory. The lady would grab a nightgown, her eyes would pop and she'd sag a little, then she'd shake it off and grab the next one. It was like each one gave her a migraine or something, and she was desperate to get 'em all. She went from rack to rack, shuddering with spasms, and almost fell to her knees in the underwear bins. But she never once slowed down.

Martha drove herself on, memory after memory, life after life. She dashed through the thoughts and lives of thousands of people, searching for clues to John. She had to know if he was all right, if he was recovering, if he was dying inside, if he needed her. All she could think about was a man she had never met, a man she had worshipped completely and betrayed utterly in the space of ten minutes, a stranger with whom she was deeply in love. Waves of second-hand thought washed over her mind, threatening to overwhelm her, but she kept grabbing everything within reach, looking for traces of her lover.

If I don't find him here, she thought raggedly, there are an awful lot of thrift shops out there. It's amazing the perfectly good things people throw out. And she reached for the next memory.

The night after I won the lottery I made a list of all the men I’d ever slept with. I’m not one of those girls who pretends she can’t remember. There’s only been a coupl e dozen, an d I ca n recal l ever y moment tha t my skin h as b een s t roked, every time a no t h er hu man being has spent their energy pleasing me, no matter wha t thei r rea l intention s migh t hav e been. This is something basic that men would be wise to tattoo on their hearts- women remember. We

believe that it all matters, even when we’re drinking and dancing at the clubs and acting like post-second-wave-feminist — entrepreneurial-sex-goddesses with tattoos on our breasts and condoms tucked inside our stockings. We remember. Girls want dreams to come true.