1. Fever Dream


    Date: 10/4/2017, Categories: Lesbian, Author: MadMartigan, Source: LushStories

    Rich shades of orange and yellow flames flicker and crackle, their chaotic dance sending waves of soothing heat over my naked body. It’s a small comfort, but only just. I’m bound and blindfolded next to the fire, cold metallic cuffs locked loosely about my wrists, my slim arms stretched above my head to dangle helplessly, but not uncomfortably so. I can hear my heart in my ears, pattering hard against my ribs, much like it did during that hail of bullets punching through stone a foot above my head during an assignment in Fallujah. Fear. Powerlessness. And a strange fascination in not knowing what would happen to me. The feelings are cinched tightly together, humming like butterfly wings in the pit of my stomach, strangely similar to that day at the neighborhood pool as a kid, toes curling tightly over the edge of the springboard for the first time. And yet, oddly enough, the imagery winning out in my brain is something else entirely; an inexplicable desire to burrow deeper into the sheepskin rug beneath me, the flames reaching out with gentle warm hands until I’m consumed in hot primal energy, until I’m only a lick of flame, floating along a fever dream to something…more. Something different. But honestly, that’s probably just the copious amounts of wine talking. If Miranda were around, she’d probably agree, but add a longwinded caveat about how my id is suffering an existential crisis that my ego hasn’t realized yet. Smart girl. Makes absolutely no sense half the time. I ...
    smell her before I hear her and my mouth forms into a dopey kind of a smile. I can feel it stretch along my lips, tugging at the corners, barring the white teeth below. It’s the smile you get when you teeter on the edge of hug everyone tipsiness and fall over giggling drunkenness. Or, in my case, throwing your glass on the floor and proudly declaring you want another in a slurred and terribly over the top impersonation of Chris Hemsworth’s Thor. My breath hitches as she crosses between the fireplace and me before continuing on. She’s a shadowy blur beyond the blindfold, light on her feet, like a ballerina. She’d have to be, considering the work she used to do for National Geographic. There’s a loud squeak of a window being yanked open, followed by a rush of cold mountain wind that sweeps into the room. It isn’t powerful enough to snuff out the fire, but it’s plenty powerful to cast a chilly blanket of air over my flushed skin, leaving hardened nipples and raised hair in its wake. I pull instinctively at the cuffs around my wrists and try to pull my knees to my chest, to curl closer to the heat. I can’t of course. My back arches and I moan in protest, half of me shivering, the other half still warm, for now. I try to speak, form words on my tongue, but a delicate finger presses against my lips, stopping me. A soft voice whispers in my ear, the Spanish cadence relaxing me, reminding me, even if I can’t understand the language. Arabic was more my thing. Hence Fallujah. But my ...
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