The Broken Looking Glass by B.C.L.
Erotic Thriller. Cara Keene, a heretofore happily married artist from California. Her husband, Robert a successful software engineer. Everything seems to be going great for the young couple, except that Cara is haunted by a man in her dreams. He comes to her each night in heated, nightmare passion, becoming more demanding as time moves on. This shadow man satisfies her in a deep, dark, sado-masochistic way. Though she wants to be free of his seduction, her desire runs too deep. Following a tragic accident, Cara moves to New York in hopes of a fresh start. But even there, she cannot escape the shadow man. Her story continues on the seedy streets of 1990’s New York City where a new love interest, introduces her to an underground world of sex parties and counter-culture. Is this her dreams calling to her? But where will this fraught path lead and the madness end? We witness Cara growing into a new being, a fulfilled and wild creature. But danger is not far away. Something awaits that is far more real than dreamy shadows. This tale includes bdsm themes, a mistress, whipping, oral, anal, dominance and surrender.
Her essence seemed transmuted, something larger than real life—something unattainable, untouchable, enchanted, a living silhouette back-lit by the sun setting behind the abandoned house. She was always comfortable in her skin but it seemed now she was growing beyond it, beyond herself.
She extended her arms and began to spin in place like a dancing vortex, her long nightgown furling about her body. Dust blew down the shell road and the house was slowly sinking into the earth.
A truck rumbled in the distance, flushing a wake of vultures and further crowding the sky. This was the time when all the birds began to move, looking for a place to roost.
“Won’t they be cold at night?”
Everything pointing out of the earth became that color people call gold, but isn’t quite gold. It was getting cold now, the blue sky becoming paler by the moment and then red at the western edges, as if everything left behind had been set on fire. She walked into the woods.
He moved forward, closer to her. Her mouth was open and lipstick-smeared—the sounds she made, half echoing for torture and half echoing for praise, flittered through the canopy and vanished in the ether.
She playfully ran through the chill of the woods, hiding behind trees and giggling in contentment—he snapped again and again, moved like her, moved with her, moved with her grace—a dance of predatory-like consumption. There was nothing behind the camera, save the impression of a familiar face she had never known in material aspect. His features were impressed on her mind, though he had no tangible quality. His “body” somehow seemed always obscured in shadow. They had spent many overwhelmingly passionate nights together and she knew him from all others, his touch from all others, his disembodied prowess from all others. Flowing over the forest floor, her sheer-white nightgown billowed and addressed every shadow and seemingly vacant crevasse.
In her amorousness she felt as though she could melt into the trees. She raised her arms above her head and moaned, moving her body like she was riding one of the many beasts hiding in the dark. The heat inside her dripped from her sex. The wetness needed to be answered. The world began to spin; she saw brief moments in time.
Making love to her husband, the experience she remembered happening with her husband, though as it replayed before her this time, as she experienced it again, her husband’s face had been replaced by that of the disembodied man. She could feel his closeness, even now. Her skin was as a cloud, just before lighting forms.
She witnessed flashes, memories of things that never happened but seemed so real. Visions. Cara’s heart began to race, she didn’t understand what she was seeing, but it fomented in her a primal desire, her body began to undulate, and just as she felt she might surrender to this ethereal pleasure and plunge deep into the madness it surely represented, the visions began to fade.
The shadow fingers curled up her legs and teased her. She continued to run through the trees like returning to addiction—she could not stop the feeling. Her fingers pulled at the passing wisps of tall grass and feathery plants. She doubled over in pleasure and moaned again. He knew just how to touch her. He knew what she needed.
Her prone body now pressed upon crackling leaves—his hands brushed her face and the inside of her legs as she was laying in the grass. As his finger glided over the inside of her thigh, she felt an exalting shiver. Then she stood up, gave a look of impish reproach, and stepped back to take off the sheer and flowing nightgown.
“I want you, I need you I…”
She often dreamed like this, of an entity she only recognized by its face. It was the essence she felt. It was the idea of him that she recognized and this idea was etched into her mind. He haunted her.
He would come for her in dreams and ravish her. Bodiless and unforgiving, he was commanding, not violent, and she was his willing and impassioned lust-subject. It wasn’t about filling spaces, it was about the pleasure of a filled space. It wasn’t about sweat, power or a beginning or an end—it was about her—she was the only woman in the world when he was in her. She felt possessed.
Her eyes rolled back as she began to shake. The waves came from both sides, an indelible feeling from the center of her skull traversing down her body and meeting the pussy-tingle, growing into an orgasmic pulse and a yearning gush. Her body went limp and drifted into a satisfied torpor, a hazy drunk-like state. She felt warm, like she was vibrating.
Slowly, as the glowing feeling began to fade and the haze lifted, she thought of her husband. A chill began to crawl over her skin and a prickling heat climbed the back of her neck—regret or embarrassment. She loved her husband. Why would she do this to him? What had he done to deserve this? She felt the need to escape. She couldn’t do this anymore.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she whispered to herself.
She tried to sit up and push her body from the ground and felt a weight on her chest, holding her down. Now there were flowers all about her and…insects. The insects buzzed around but did not touch her. It was a swarm of such a number she could not see the sky, stars or the treetops. It was like being at the center of a storm. The sound was intense to a lulling point and a lulling end. Thunder.
Thunder, a crescendo until it seemed to be upon her.
The weight on her chest had relented and she was now alone in the forest, lost in a dark and unfamiliar place. She was cold, naked and scared.
She began to call her husband’s name. The trance refused to lift. She called out again. The thunder stopped and offered momentary reprieve. She called out again, her voice reaching the gravely quality of a scream. Again she called, this time a full scream. She turned in circles, darkness and trees in every direction. Suddenly she heard her husband’s voice, very far away. It was only manifest in echoes through the trees. Was he looking for her? How could he be, and even if he was, how could he ever hope to find her in this place?
A reverberant, panning laughter rang out.
“Does this flower open in the dark?” a voice seemed to whisper in her ear.
A distant candle blinked through the forest. The candle is still there, she thought, burning where she left it when her eyes closed in her room that night. She ran through the darkness in the direction of the flame. She ran, naked in the blackness—tear-blurred vision, frazzled mind, bespelled heart. Twigs snapped under her feet and branches scraped her face and tangled in her hair, she called out for her husband, she called out for anyone, she screamed in enchanted hysteria. The bugs were crawling on her now, dropping from the trees, flying by her ears.
She awoke to the gentle caress of her husband. He had been trying to wake her from what he imagined was a nightmare. He brushed her slightly damp hair from her face and kissed the corner of her eye. She could hear the dull whirr of the air-conditioner and the room became familiar, it was their house; the bed sheets she chose, her paintings on the wall. He had been finishing some work on his computer when he heard her shouting unintelligible, urgent, unfinished words.
“Are you okay?”
“You found me,”
“I guess so, I’m not sure…”
“Yeah, I’m fine…yeah,”
“I love you, I’m going to work a bit more, then I’ll be in,”
“Okay, love you too.”
He kissed her cheek, turned to walk away and looked back, pausing for a moment.
“By the way, you really shouldn’t leave candles burning at night.”
“Don’t leave candles burning at night,” she looked absently at the candle to her left, staring into it, hypnotized by the motion of it licking the dark away. “Right, okay,”
The candle was red and she let it burn the rest of the night.