I lost something that night with Cumster. I don’t know if that’s quite right, really, but the next morning I didn’t feel like the same person who had come home the night before. Even now, after everything I’ve witnessed, it feels so pivotal, even though it was so small, like something inside me had opened up. Sometimes, I see a door. Other times, it feels like a flower. More and more, it doesn’t feel like a thing, but like…an entity. I wasn’t entirely the same person, when I woke up on the floor of the basement, as the person who had gone down to interrogate Cumster the night before, but I was close enough to pretend that nothing had happened. Pretending was the last defense I had left, but I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t pretend that there is some mundane explanation for everything I’ve seen. There’s more in the world than he know, and as much as I wish I could close that door, or burn the plant to the roots growing inside me, I think I know that there’s no way back for me, or for any of us. I have to go though. I have to end this, one way or another, and I’m the only one in this city who can.
There was a dream, that night. I don’t remember much of it, but I do remember how it felt. Like a memory. Like I was reliving something, but not my own life–or parts of my life I had forgotten. I remember feeling alone, as well–not the sort of loneliness you feel when you are by yourself, but the loneliness of loss, the sensation that something is missing, or had been missing all this time, and then the opening came, and I wasn’t alone anymore. I felt surrounded by something, something tight and rough like a smooth skin against mine, pressing around and into me, though I was also certain it had always been there, somewhere. That all of my life, I had been struggling through without all of my pieces, and now, at last, I was fully…there. I don’t know how that can also feel like loss–but one can miss loneliness, I suppose. If you live with a hole in your heart for so long, and it’s suddenly full, so full it’s bursting and seeping through your skin, you miss that emptiness. I felt like a man who’d been starved for so long, that when I finally could eat, the sensation of fullness made me sick. I wasn’t made to be full. I wasn’t supposed to feel complete, and it made me nauseous. When I woke up, I threw up almost immediately, even though I couldn’t even remember the last thing I’d eaten. The bile was black like tar and clung to my lips. It was bitter, and did not burn my throat.
Cumster was awake, and still free. When I could stand upright, he allowed me to cuff him back to the pipes. It wasn’t necessary. I knew he would stay here until his task was finished, whatever that task might be, but I needed him under my control. The look in his eyes infuriated me, that morning, he was so pleased with himself. He could sense I was different as well, but I think that if he had known how different, or what I was feeling, he likely would have fled. This wasn’t what he thought it was. It wasn’t what he had led me to think it was, at least. Maybe he did know, but I don’t think so. I remember the surprise in his eyes, later.
Upstairs, still in my filthy, cum soaked dress uniform, which felt surprisingly…comfortable, somehow, I made breakfast for the both of us. I didn’t know how hungry I was, but I ate far more than I usually do, and then I went upstairs to deal with the filth. I was coated in cum–or at least, it had been cum at one point in the night, that much I knew, but for how long it had been, it was still wet against my skin. Wet and warm, making the fabric cling and stick to me, but not awkwardly. I remembered by dream, that sensation of being wrapped in a smooth hand, and it wasn’t unlike the uniform I was wearing, somehow. Taking it off proved to be difficult, both because I found myself dreading being naked, for some reason (well, not really naked, but now, wearing anything other than my uniform feels like I am naked) and also because nothing seemed to want to come free of my skin.
The gloves proved impossible, so I skipped them, and moved onto my shirt. The were impossible, the cum had glued them shut through the holes. Some of them couldn’t even be grabbed. I ended up prying it up over my head, tugging my arms through the sleeves with the gloves still on, until at last it came free. The pants were easier, though they were the same as the shirt, somehow both stiff and damp. My boots were a struggle, as were the socks, but I managed, until finally it was just me and my gloves, which I unstuck a finger at a time before they pulled free with a sucking sound from my hands.
Bracken's Corner 