Hi there. I'm sick. Just a cold, but it still sucks. What does that mean for you? It depends on how I feel and how bored I get. You'll either get a couple extra chapters, or maybe less than usual, or maybe nothing will change. Don't know yet.
Anyway, enjoy the chapter!
NOTE: I'm looking for a collaborator on another project. I need someone to bounce story and plot ideas off of and someone who can help me streamline my tales to better hold the audience's interest. If that sounds like you, email me...please.
If you're younger than 18 or find these kinds of stories offensive, please close up now and have a great day! If you are of legal age and are interested, by all means keep going. I'll be glad to have you along for the journey. Please donate to Nifty. This is a great resource for great stories and a useful outlet to authors like me and readers like you.
Crown Vic to a Parallel World: Stolen Love The third and final installment of the ongoing adventures of Church Philips
7
Changing Clothes
I checked my phone again as I entered my kitchen from the garage. It was a little after four-thirty and I still had over an hour to kill before I could go get Paul. I leaned against the counter next to the culinarian and thought about another cup of coffee, but I didn't really want one. I thought about having a snack, but I wasn't hungry. I thought about going back up to the mountain to sit with my stone friends, but I didn't feel like it. I didn't feel like anything. I wanted my husband's attention, but I wasn't going to beg for it. I still had some pride...somewhere.
I felt Shawn as he made his way through the house. He was using a route that would take him to our apartment without leading him through my kitchen. Avoidance,' I thought, step one on the path.'
Usually, when Shawn and I had a disagreement that we didn't solve right away, Shawn had a predictable series of steps he went through before he was ready to deal with whatever happened. Step one was always avoidance. He would avoid me until he could reason out whether he was wrong, or I was wrong, or we were both wrong. The next step was like a `choose your own fantasy' novel that depended on what conclusion he arrived at during step one.
If he felt that he was wrong, he'd continue to avoid me for a while longer until he could figure out how to apologize to me creatively, usually with sex. If he thought I was wrong, he'd seek me out and offer to talk about' what happened. What that actually meant is he'd force a confrontation where I could admit that I was wrong, after which, we'd have sex. If he felt we were both wrong, he'd put himself in my path and just sort of be' wherever I was until I prompted conversation about what happened, after which, we'd usually have sex.
Lately though, the disagreements had been happening more frequently and the resolutions less often. It seemed that Shawn was less motivated than he used to be when it came to settling problems. Things were festering longer. Our communication seemed to be breaking down and I didn't understand why.
I usually looked to myself when something was wrong between him and me, but I didn't think I was any different than I had been. I still wanted our relationship to work and was willing to do whatever it took to make that happen, but I was less certain about what that meant.
I needed someone to talk to. I needed someone sensitive and understanding. I needed someone like Shawn. I missed Beni, the bartender at the Capital Hotel, who had talked me through the struggles of my first few days on Solum. He would have known what to do.
As an act of desperation, I ran through the list of people I counted as my friends and came up with a double handful of nothing. I knew a lot of people, but not many, or maybe any, that I felt I could expose my doubts to. None came to mind who I felt comfortable enough with to figuratively strip myself naked before them.
Once upon a time, I would have been able to do that with Bem, but no more. I couldn't burden him with my bullshit. He was really the only one. I couldn't talk to Joe; he had his own demons to contend with. Mary was busy. The young people were too young. Even my twenty-seven-year-old nephew was too young to really understand, in my mind he was anyway. Cass was a non-starter. I could talk to Paul, but I'd already unloaded on him about Joe. I couldn't add to his stress by telling him my doubts about my relationship with my husband. He'd think I imported him as a general-purpose therapist.
I was stuck dealing with it on my own. "Well," I said aloud, "we've been here before."
"Yeah," I answered me, "and how well did that work out?"
I reached for my bracelet and diverted my hand to the back of my neck. "FUCK!" I shouted to the empty room.
I gave up on the kitchen and went to the door that led to the rumpus room. I went in, crossed that room to the front wall, and pulled out my phone. I told the building management system to make the wall clear so I could look out over the plains and sat down to do just that. I tried to let the vast nothing soothe me. I tried to meditate, but as many times as I tried to do that, I was never successful. I always wound-up brooding. I was a great brooder, but a shitty meditator.
I dropped my eyes from the view that failed to soothe and saw my hand wrapped around my bracelet again. I told the hand to let go, but it didn't seem to want to listen. "Oh, fuck it." I said to myself. "That's where that hand wants to be. Hopefully I can hide it from Shawn, but I doubt it."
When I thought about him, I realized I hadn't felt any emotion from Shawn in a few minutes and that meant that he was asleep. It wasn't unusual for him to come home from a long day at his practice and take a power nap before dinner. Thoughts of dinner reminded me of the pending event and what I still had to do to prepare for it.
I realized to my dismay that I was still wearing the clothes that I'd worn to Earth. I needed to change before I went to get Paul ready. I'd had a plain pair of slacks and a shirt made for my trip to Earth along with a pair of flat shoes, so I'd blend in. The idea had worked, but my outfit was unsuitable for a dinner party on Solum.
I didn't want to encounter Shawn until we were all together at dinner, because I was nowhere near ready to deal with the rejection that still stung. I instantly regretted not changing before I went up to the statue. I wanted to blame my encounter with Joe for scrambling my priorities, but the simple truth was I simply hadn't thought about changing until that very instant.
I weighed my options. I could go to dinner dressed as I was, but that wasn't a good option. I wanted to put my best foot forward for my guest and that meant I had to change. Another option was to wait for Shawn to wake up and hope that I could get into the apartment with enough time to change after he left it. That option left too much to chance. My last and only viable option was to sneak into my apartment and change while Shawn was asleep.
That seemed like the best option, if only I could pull it off. I reminded myself that since Shawn's naps usually didn't last more than twenty-minutes or a half-hour, I didn't have much time. I shoved out of my chair and hurried to the third-floor apartment.
I let myself in and crept into the closet. As Shawn was a light sleeper, I didn't even look his way. It was just possible that he would feel my scrutiny enough to wake from it. Once I was in the closet, it occurred to me that I should have cleaned up a bit. I quickly decided that, with the limited time at my disposal, I should just get changed and worry about having a wash later. I told myself that I could always have a quick birdbath in the sink in my kitchen if I felt I really needed it.
I went through the closet and found an outfit that seemed casual enough for a family dinner but formal enough that I wouldn't look like I'd just tossed anything on. It was a pair of tapered, low-rise pants in medium yellow, with a teal buttoned-down shirt worn untucked, paired with luminescent purple wedge heels that matched the collar and sleeve trim.
The outfit was an official Andy Philips, and was based on the colors of the Parrotfish, whatever the hell that was. `Andy Philips' was the name my nephew used for his fashion firm. On Solum it was a super exotic name and one that popped on advertisements. No one outside of the family knew that it was just Andy's real name and a very mundane one at that.
When my family had arrived on Solum, Andy and Joe needed a new last name. Ars had already had their identifications made using my old last name of Incolumitas. It was as good a name as any and made the records cleaner because it was a name I had already used. It was therefore easier to show that Joe and Andy were related to each other and to me.
I originally assumed that when Andy and Joe met people, and eventually married them, they would take their spouse's last name, the way I had. I figured that Incolumitas would then disappear as would anything that was no longer useful. Andy was on track with his boyfriend Comet, but Joe...that was another matter. I shoved the thoughts of my brother aside and tried to focus on getting dressed.
The closet was divided into halves, one for me and one for Shawn. Each half of the closet was technicolor rainbows of garments. The difference between the way my half was organized as compared to Shawn's was reflected in the fact that Shawn possessed a sense of style, and I did not.
Shawn's clothes were organized based on garment type; all long pants were grouped together, as were all shorts, all long sleeve shirts, and all short sleeve shirts. Shawn then divided his main groups into subgroups, like his short sleeve shirts also contained a section of buttoned-down shirts and a section of pullovers. He had the luxury of picking a garment and matching others to it using his sense of style.
As many times as he and others had tried to teach me, I remained tone deaf to all things fashion. Therefore, my half of the closet was carefully arranged as individual outfits. Almost everything I wore was supplied either by Andy, or Rubi, my original outfitter from Epistylium. They selected all my clothes and paired them up for me so I wouldn't have to make any decisions. Each outfitter kept a record of my wardrobe and alerted me when things were out of style and needed to be retired.
The Parrotfish outfit that I put on was almost new and had been part of the semi-annual update that Andy did for the entire family except his father. He'd sent Joe new clothes several times, only to have them rot in Joe's closet. Andy finally gave up in frustration and stopped sending them.
I'd finished tying my lace-up heels and gathered my previous outfit to shove into the oversized hamper I shared with Shawn. I opened the lid and looked in to see how full it was. Inside, right on top of the pile, was Shawn's lime green hip hugger pants, and his form fitting yellow shirt.
I paused for only a second before I shifted my cast-off clothes to my left hand and reached into the hamper with my right to pull his out. I tossed my clothes into the bin and stared at Shawn's outfit clutched in my hands. I was mad at him, more disappointed than mad, and more confused than anything. That aside, in spite of my hurt and my worry, I still longed for my husband, I still craved his touch, I still wanted his love.
Since I couldn't have what I wanted, I gave into my more prurient instincts and pressed Shawn's outfit to my face. I felt pathetic doing it, but I loved the way Shawn smelled. I breathed him in from the clothes. I imagined I could still feel his heat in the garments, though I was certain they'd been off his body long enough to cool.
From the very first time I'd smelled it, I'd loved Shawn's natural scent. In the years we'd spent together, I'd come to love it even more. I'd also come to recognize all the nuances of his scent according to activity level and individual part of his body. I'd never tested it, but I'd theorized that if blindfolded and given scraps of his clothing, I'd be able to identify what part of his body he'd worn them on, how long he'd worn them, and what he'd done while he'd worn them.
Shawn's scent was one of the earliest things I noticed about him, and it was part of the reason he and I had an emotional link. Had I not been so excited by his musk, Shawn's attempted addiction removal might have been successful without causing a sympathetic link between us. When we started having sex, my attraction to how he smelled only intensified. His scent continued to press my buttons eighteen years later.
Something about breathing him in activated my primal, animal side. The musky, male, scent that was his alone drove me wild. Even though I was sad and angry at his lack of enthusiasm when I greeted him in the hangar, I still got aroused from breathing his essence. I exhaled fully through my mouth and huffed my husband in through my nose. I felt my cock tingle and start to inflate as I inhaled. Even my hole quivered in anticipation.
"Do you need it that bad?" Shawn's voice asked me from somewhere very close by.
I lowered Shawn's clothes from my face and looked into his smirking expression as he leaned in the closet doorway, clad only in his black briefs and black socks. `CAUGHT!' My brain shouted. I dumped his clothes in the hamper and felt a little sheepish at being discovered sniffing his cast-off clothes like a creep. "Yeah, I do." I admitted. "I told you I miss you."
Shawn stepped forward and let me gather him into my arms to hold him against my body. I lifted him and felt his legs wrap around my waist and tighten. They supported him on my hips without help from his arms. I ran my hands over the muscles corded under the smooth skin of his thighs as his living scent rose from his body and filled my nose. I wanted to devour him, but I knew we didn't have time.
Shawn ran his hands over my shirt, tracing the muscles underneath. "I'm sorry about earlier. I had a tough day. I hate conflict. I hate it. I had to speak to Met again about how he treats patients. He's too rough with them once they're unconscious. I don't like it. What he does, it doesn't hurt them, but he's too rough. I don't like having to remind him that those people are...they're people and they deserve our respect and our help."
Shawn's body seemed to clench as he explained the struggles of his day. He seemed to relive the conflict as he related the facts to me. His eyes met mine and softened. "None of that is an excuse for treating you the way that I did. I'm ashamed of myself." Shawn breathed over my face as his hands roamed over my chest and shoulders. "I'm sorry, love. I'm sorry about a lot of things. I know I haven't been around much lately, but I need you to trust me. I need you to know that everything I do is for us. Do you believe me?"
"Yes." I lied.
"Can you forgive me for taking you for granted?"
"Yes." I said truthfully.
"Good." Shawn said and kissed me gently, sweetly. "How's Paul?" He asked to open a new subject. "Cellarius already told me about the collar thing. I guess I'm old enough to call him Paul and not Mister Paul."
"He's good, excited to be here. He wants to see you."
"And I want to see him," Shawn admitted, and gave me an up-from-under look that I felt between my front pockets, "but right now, I wish we were all alone for about a week, or at least a few hours."
Shawn leaned into me and licked over my lips. I opened my mouth and sucked his tongue in, kissing him, and adding his taste to the senses that were already overwhelmed with the experience of him. I wanted him so badly. I wrapped him in my magic to feel his entire body at once and made a quick tour of his erogenous zones that left him flushed and breathing hard. He laid his head on my chest to catch his breath. "We can't." He gasped.
"I know." I whispered and buried my face in the thick nest of hair on top of his head to kiss him and to breathe him in some more. "How about tonight?"
The current of Shawn's emotions swelled. He felt erotic and naughty, and I knew something good was about to happen. "I'm all yours. You pick."
"How many?" I asked, referring to how many orgasms we'd give each other before he made me stop.
"How many do you want?"
"Ten." I proclaimed, knowing full well he'd never agree to that many. I also knew to hit that number; we'd have to have sex through the night and well into the next morning. Not even I had the stamina for that. That aside, we'd both long ago realized that the orgasm count wasn't really the point, but we still negotiated over it for the fun of the discussion.
Early in our relationship, when we discovered that my constantly overflowing magic supported our energy to the point where we could have sex for hours with almost limitless orgasm potential, the act became very much about the number. Later, we realized that our ability to have sex for hours and hours had more to do with my cravings for intimacy, than with the energy my magic provided. Yes, it was my magic that supported our energy, but it was also my desperate need for human contact that drove the endless arousal of the sessions.
Not that it mattered to us where the fuel for the fire came from. The fact that my magic always conveyed a portion of my emotions was interesting. It was slightly more interesting that the more intimate someone was with me, the more influence I exerted on them. That explained our ability to have marathons of sex, but the explanation was just so much trivia as long as we enjoyed the sex.
As my and Shawn's relationship deepened and we learned more about our own pleasure, the importance of the summit of the orgasm gave way to the intensity of the climb. More often than not, even our marathon sessions would only total two orgasms each, but it would take us hours to achieve them, and the results would be beyond mind-blowing. Each climax bordered on a religious experience.
"How about four?" Shawn countered to remind me of what we were negotiating over.
"Eight?"
"Four physical and one virtual." He countered again.
"Two virtual." I wheedled. A `virtual' orgasm was one that I gave Shawn using my telekinesis alone. It didn't do anything physical for me, but it was a huge head rush of power. When I felt him through my magic and watched him moan and thrash as I got him off with my power, that was probably the single most erotic thing I'd ever experienced. It made me feel like his personal god of sex.
"Alright." Shawn agreed. "Now, put me down. I need to get cleaned up and dress for dinner."
I reluctantly set him down. My body missed him as soon as he disengaged from it. He sensed my loneliness and put his right hand flat on the center of my chest. "I love you."
"I love you too." I replied and leaned in to kiss him again.
He leapt away from me. "Later. You can have all of me later. Anything you want." He promised. "So hot." I breathed. "Later." I agreed.
Shawn turned on his heels and left the closet. I felt him pause when he was just out of sight, and I heard the very faint rustling of fabric on skin. He felt spontaneous and silly and naughty. I figured he was about to do something sexy, but I couldn't imagine what.
Shawn's hand appeared in the doorway and tossed his briefs and socks in my direction. I snatched them from the air, separated the briefs from the socks, and pressed the undergarment to my face like a surgical mask. I closed my eyes and imagined I was nuzzling my face around between his smooth, sculpted legs, or at the base of his perfect ass, or under his balls where the best scent lived.
I was turned on enough to storm the bathroom and take him by force, but I didn't. Instead, I used all my willpower to command my hand to release the underwear to the hamper and close the lid. I had a passing impulse to put the briefs in my pocket.
I imagined how hot it would be to press them to my nose to rile myself up at different times through the evening. I thought that it would be fun, in anticipation of the night I planned to have with Shawn later, but I didn't follow through with the impulse.
Had that night's dinner been a normal family dinner, I would have. I would have excused myself from the table to slip into the hallway to sniff his briefs, or I would have rolled them in a handkerchief to press to my face between bites of food. I would have used his intoxicating scent to dump gasoline on my lust, and therefore his lust, at every opportunity until we could get each other alone.
I reminded myself that we had a guest and that I needed to be on reasonably good behavior for Paul. I gripped the top of the hamper to steady myself and to let the excitement that was pulsating between my legs deflate. When `junior' had settled down, I headed out of the apartment toward Paul's place. Just before I left, I stopped to grab a copy of Fidum's bible from the shelf in the living area. I turned my steps toward Paul's place with more pep in my pace than I'd had in days.