Dear Diary 1977

Her mouth sealed tightly around the woman's vagina, creating a perfect, airtight seal. She remembered the feeling of the woman's flesh against her lips, the soft, pliable skin that seemed to mold to her own mouth. She began to tongue the woman with a rough, relentless rhythm. It was not a gentle, teasing exploration. It was a voracious, almost frantic consumption. Her tongue moved with a will of its own, a hard, demanding muscle that sought to devour. She remembered the way her own jaw ached with the effort, the way her neck muscles strained as she drove her tongue deeper, harder, seeking to taste every part of the woman's interior.

The memory of the bite was the most shocking. She remembered the feeling of the woman's soft, delicate folds between her teeth. She remembered the way she bit down, not gently, but with a deliberate, calculated pressure. She remembered the woman’s fear. She remembered the way the woman's body arched, a silent scream on her lips as Jennifer's teeth sank into her most sensitive flesh. The memory of the woman's pain was a palpable thing, a wave of agony that washed over Jennifer, but it was not a deterrent. The woman’s pain acted as an accelerant.

The other woman began to scream. It was not a sound of pleasure, but a raw, ragged cry of pure, unadulterated pain. The sound was music to Jennifer's ears in the dream, a symphony of suffering that fueled her own dark desires. She remembered the way the woman's body bucked and thrashed, a desperate, futile attempt to escape the relentless assault. Jennifer's grip tightened, her fingers digging into the woman's thighs, holding her in place as she continued her brutal feast.

Her attention turned to the woman's clit. It was a small, straining knot of flesh, a beacon of sensitivity that beckoned to her. She remembered the feeling of it against her tongue, the hard, pebbled texture that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. She began to lash it with her tongue, a series of sharp, stinging strokes that sent jolts of electricity through the woman's body. She remembered the way the woman's screams intensified, a higher, more desperate pitch that spoke of a breaking point. She remembered the way she took the clit between her teeth, nibbling on it with a pressure that was just shy of drawing blood, a delicate, torturous dance between pleasure and pain.

The deep tongue movements returned, a relentless, piston-like rhythm that drove the woman to the brink of insanity. Jennifer remembered the feeling of her own nose buried in the woman's wet, matted pubic hair, the smell of her arousal and fear. It was an aromatic perfume. She remembered the way the woman's muscles clenched and spasmed around her tongue, a series of violent, involuntary contractions that spoke of a pleasure so intense it was indistinguishable from agony. The woman's body was a battleground, a canvas of pain and ecstasy, and Jennifer was the artist, painting her masterpiece with her tongue and teeth.

The memory of the woman's final, shattering scream was the most vivid of all. It was a sound that seemed to tear the very fabric of the dream, a primal cry of release and surrender. Jennifer remembered the way the woman's body went rigid, a taut bow of muscle and bone, before collapsing in a heap of trembling, sated flesh. She remembered the feeling of the woman's juices flooding her mouth, a warm, salty wave that she drank down greedily, a final, triumphant act of possession. The memory was so real, so visceral, that Jennifer could feel her own body responding, a deep, resonant ache building between her thighs, a dark, unwelcome echo of the dream's brutal ecstasy.

Jennifer finally sat up. The physical evidence of her experience chilled her now that the feverish heat was beginning to subside. She looked at the tangled sheets around her. There was a distinct, darker wet patch where she had been lying. It was a stark, undeniable stain on her reality, a dark map of a pleasure she could not consciously recall. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Her legs were unsteady, trembling slightly as they took her weight. She felt a deep, internal soreness, a pleasant ache that was deeply familiar.

It was the kind of profound muscle fatigue she would expect after a night of vigorous, real sex. Her body felt satisfied, sated, while her mind was reeling from the horror of the memories. The contrast was maddening, a perfect storm of physical contentment and psychological turmoil. She walked slowly toward the full-length mirror. It leaned against her bedroom wall. She stopped in front of it. She looked at her reflection.

The morning sunlight fell across her from the window behind her. It caught her hair first. Her hair was jet black. Pure black. Not the dark brown that most people call black. True black. It was rare for a white woman with her pale complexion. The color was striking. Almost unnatural in its depth. The sunlight did not penetrate it the way it did with lighter hair. Instead, it sat on the surface. It created a glossy sheen. The light bounced off each strand. It gave her hair an almost liquid quality. A polished gleam.

She reached up and gathered her hair at the back of her head. She pulled it through her fingers. The strands were smooth and cool. They slipped through her grip like silk. She twisted the mass into a high ponytail. She secured it with an elastic band. The hair swung heavy behind her. It caught the light with each movement. It gleamed. It reflected the sunlight in sharp flashes. Her eyes met her own gaze in the mirror. They were ice blue. Pale and clear. Almost translucent in the morning light. The window behind her cast its reflection in them. She could see the shape of the glass. The faint outline of the curtains. Her eyes seemed to hold the light. They looked bright. Almost luminous. They were the kind of blue that people noticed immediately. The kind that looked artificial in certain lighting.

Jennifer Meininger studied her face. Despite lucid dream. Despite the sweat-soaked sheets and the frantic awakening. Her face showed almost none of it. There were no shadows under her eyes. No puffiness. No redness. Her skin was smooth and clear. Her cheekbones stood high and defined. They caught the light from the side. They created elegant shadows beneath them. Her jawline was clean. Her lips were full. They held their natural color even without cosmetics.

She was surprised. She had expected to see the night written on her face. She had expected exhaustion. Evidence of fear. Some mark of what she had experienced. But there was nothing. She looked composed. She looked rested. She looked beautiful. She turned slightly. The light shifted across her neck and shoulders. Her neck was long and graceful. It curved smoothly into her shoulders. Her collarbones were visible beneath her skin. Delicate. Elegant. Her shoulders were straight. They were squared. She held them back naturally. Not with effort.

It was simply how she carried herself. She always had perfect posture. Even as a child her mother had never needed to remind her to sit up straight. It came naturally. It was part of how she moved through the world. She stood at five feet ten inches. Her frame was lean and well-proportioned. She weighed one hundred and thirty-six pounds. The weight was distributed evenly. Her body had clean lines. Long limbs. A narrow waist. She was aware of how she looked. She had always been aware. It was impossible not to be. People had been telling her she was beautiful since she was a child.

Men stared. Women either befriended her or avoided her. She had learned to navigate both reactions. She looked at herself for another moment. The woman in the mirror looked capable. She looked composed. She looked like someone who had control over her life. The reflection did not show the fear. It did not show the confusion. It failed to reveal the questions she'd had since opening the safe. She turned away from the mirror. She had work to prepare for. She needed to finish getting ready. The day was waiting. Whatever came next. She would face it looking exactly like this. Composed. Beautiful. Unshaken.

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You’ve officially reached the end of the first book in this journey, but the story is far from over. Book two is officially on the way! Stay tuned you won't want to miss what happens next.