Shara – Moonless River – Part 1

One of my favorite tales!

I’ll just admit it: I looked at her pictures first.

I did that with everyone. I looked at their pictures first and then, with my immediate physical interest either whetted or withered, go back and read their profile. If I found their profile suitably charming or at the very least cogent, I would craft a brief introduction relevant to their interests that established common ground, ask a question or two, and end it, nearly always, with some variation of: “You seem interesting and I think we’d get along well. Let me know if you’d like to see if that’s the case sometime.”

Sometimes they did want to see if that was the case. And sometimes it was the case, and sometimes it was wasn’t, and sometimes it so very much wasn’t that I’d begin to imagine while the date was still in progress how I would retell the story later that night in a bar to my friends. By the summer of 2015 I’d been split from my girlfriend (See: Annabelle – Nice to Meet You) for over a year and a half and was largely finished with the sudden solitude induced frenzy of fear driven dating that I’d forced myself to endure immediately following my newfound status as a single adult male. Also, for almost a year I’d been in an on-again off-again on-again relationship with someone who I cared for but knew without a doubt would eventually be off-again and never, ever on-again.

Which is, in part, why I continued regularly meeting new people, not in search of someone better, but of everything better… better friends, better talks, better laughs, better misunderstandings, better in-jokes, better love, better life. Around that time I often claimed that I didn’t want to be a part of any relationship that precluded any other relationship, which I do still believe to some degree, as far as that goes. No one can be everyone else for another person, nor should they be expected to try. But there’s always that one person that no one else can ever be for you, and I had yet to meet that person.

I was hopeful.

As I said, I looked at her pictures first. I can still recall the dark-haired, doll eyed, almond skinned beauty in each of those first images. Here she is, petite as a teenager, standing in front of a graffiti wall, her hips at an awkward cant. And here, in a black summer dress with white polka dots, holding two dogs, her smile the brightest thing in the photo. And this one, her hand smashed against her face, soft nose and lips squishing out between small fingers, almost daring me to find her attractive. And finally, there’s that smile again as she strums a guitar, her downward glancing eyes forming the bold semi-circles of a particularly adorable Sanrio character.

Her online dating profile mirrored mine in the fact that they both tread a delicate path between witty condescension, feigned disinterest, and actual, useful information. Her intelligence was immediately apparent, as were her pop culture, gourmet, and internet meme credentials, but if I had to choose one reason for contacting her, I would have to say it was simply that I recognized a familiar voice (echo?) behind all of it, a voice I liked tremendously, and I suddenly wanted to hear what else it had to say.

Eventually I sent the girl a message that detailed my interest in cooking large meals from scratch and my love/hate relationship with food poisoning, which were both topics mentioned in her profile. Later that day she replied, and for the next several hours we volleyed messages back and forth until phone numbers had been swapped and plans had been made for the following evening. Our initial exchanges were playfully guarded, like two unfamiliar boxers dancing around each other, neither very interested in being the first to connect or be connected with.

The following day I worked and then met friends for drinks at a much buzzed about bar that had opened only a week before. Unexpectedly, my ex-girlfriend had also been invited, and so we chatted cooly with each other while sipping cocktails with names like “The Coltrane”, “Joe McCarthy’s Ghost”, and “The Chimney Sweep.” “The Chimney Sweep” was a eye-watering concoction of scotch, ouzo, vermouth and bitters, and it was the last thing I drank before saying goodbye to everyone (“What, no hug?”) and began my journey up Ben Franklin Parkway. It didn’t hit me until I was riding just how drunk I’d managed to get myself in such short a time. This did not bode well for the date to come, which I had been allowing myself to feel cautiously optimistic about. My biggest concern at the moment was that she’d ask me if I was drunk, because I most certainly was.

We’d agreed to meet at a small hipster bar in Fairmount that neither of us had ever been to. Earlier in the day the battery of my phone had died, so I hoped my date wouldn’t try to call and reschedule with a voicemail I’d never receive. I walked inside and found a spot at the bar. Then I went into the bathroom to splash some water on my face and squint at myself in the mirror. My disappointed reflection shook its head derisively before sighing and shrugging its shoulders. As I walked out of the bathroom back to my seat, she walked through the door and identified me immediately. We then shook hands efficiently, our arms as stiff and fully extended as soldiers at attention.

She wore a white tank top, jeans, and a pair of black Chuck Taylors faded to gray. Her inky hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her large eyes were boldly outlined with makeup. A long, well structured nose hovered above a full pair of cupid’s-bow lips. But the most striking thing about her face was the uncommonly potent mixture of youth and world-weariness that it possessed. She was pretty and petite, but seemed both aware of this and tired of it being mentioned, so I didn’t.

I don’t recall what introductory pleasantries were exchanged, but within seconds of arriving she eyed me suspiciously and then asked if I was drunk. “No,” I lied, “but you’re going to have to play a little catch up.” This turned out not to be an issue for her. A round of gin and tonics were ordered and downed, followed by a second round that we consumed with equal ease. I remember liking that she drank to drink.

My plan, pre-happy hour overindulgence, was to meet her at the bar, chat for a while, maybe walk around the neighborhood, and then go to a nearby house show where a band that I wanted to see was playing. It was still very early when we stepped out of the bar and back onto 21st Street, which was glowing warmly in the fading sunset. We briefly debated ducking into another bar, but then she made this suggestion: “So, I’m not trying to be too forward or anything, but my roommate has a bunch of liquor we can have and I live really close by, so do you want to just go there?”

Yes. Yes I did.

 

Tune in tomorrow for the conclusion!

 

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A Unique Gift – Chapter 1

This is part one of a new series I want to write that mixes mind control with transformation elements. This is the first time I have written something primarily based on mind control and while this first part is very smut heavy later parts will have more focus on the mind control aspects for other purposes (as well as smut). I hope you enjoy and please give me feedback, it would really help!

*****

Jack sighed as he made his way to college. At nineteen he felt he should have more of a handle of his life than he did. He was stuck taking classes he didn’t enjoy and working a job he hated to pay for those classes. He had barely any friends and he hadn’t had sex in almost a year. Overall life was pretty dull. He sat down in his least favorite class, economics. Not only did he find the subject exceptionally boring it was taught by his least favorite teacher Miss Jameson.

She was extremely attractive and Jack, like most guys in the class, had grinned when they first saw her walk into their classroom. She was tall, just shy of six feet tall, with long legs, curved hips, a small waist and generously sized breasts. There had been quite the debate over whether they were D or DD. She didn’t just have the body, she had the face to match. She was very pretty with green eyes that was typical of someone with her red hair which she always wore in a neat bun.

Obviously with a teacher like that it was no surprise all the guys had been excited when they first saw her but it had been short lived. They had all soon realized she was a complete bitch. Always serious, always angry and always willing to berate her students for the most minor of transgressions. Jack had quickly learnt to keep his head down, keep quiet and stay under her radar. Which for the most part had worked. He folded his arms and rested them on his desk with his chin perched on top of them as she began her lecture.

She droned on and Jack felt himself getting sleepy as he listened. He wasn’t in the mood to take notes so instead he rested his head on his arms. He didn’t even realize he had fallen asleep until he suddenly heard someone shouting, loudly. He looked up to find the whole room staring at him and Miss Jameson seething with anger.

“I’m sorry am I boring you?” She asked.

“No sorry,” Jack apologized. This was the last thing he needed today.

“So what have I spent the last ten minutes talking about?” Miss Jameson asked. Jack tried to think, he looked at the clock and felt a pang of panic, he had been asleep for almost forty minutes.

“I don’t know,” he admitted to much smirking from his class mates.

“Come see me this evening, we need to have a talk about your performance in this class,” Miss Jameson clipped before turning to the rest of the room and continuing her class. Jack groaned, the last thing he wanted was to spend another hour with her at the end of the day. It wasn’t like detention like back in high school, no that was easy. Turn up, sit there for an hour, catch up on homework and leave. No this was worse. This was going to be an hour of being lectured and berated by the queen bitch.

By the time he got home Jack was exhausted. He made his way back to his house, which was a short drive from campus. It was the only time in his life he had ever been lucky. It was actually his sisters house, she was seven years older than him and seemed to be the lucky one of the family. She had graduated from the same college he was now attending and landed and extremely high paying job, which to Jacks fortune, meant she would be spending most of the next four years out of the country.

As such she had let Jack live in her house. It was close to the college and meant that she didn’t have to sell her house or worry about leaving it vacant for months at a time. So other than a few weekends here and there when she would be home, Jack had the house to himself. He unlocked the door and almost missed the small box someone had hidden behind the plant pot by the door. He picked it up, briefly wondering what was in the small package and went inside. He put the package down and made himself some dinner.

 

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