away, to recede and leave her floundering in grief and loneliness.
The coachman lifted her, and she let him, but once settled in her seat, she bunched up the front of her gown, the volume of the fabric still covering her legs, but allowing her access to her inner thighs. Stroking herself as the carriage lurched forward, she felt the surge of desire, the perfect way to continue the thrill of her adventure.
As she buried a finger deep into her slick heat, Camille didn’t bother to prevent a small moan from escaping her mouth. The coachman turned, eyes widening, hands almost dropping the reins. She stared him straight in the eye and smiled, her hand moving faster.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he murmured.
But Mary and her son had abandoned Camille as surely as her parents and sisters had.
She closed her eyes and disappeared in the frenetic burn of physical pleasure.
Chapter Three
Regan woke up in her hotel room with a start. Glancing at the clock glowing on the nightstand, she tried to quiet her racing heart, her inner thighs throbbing with unsatisfied desire. 6 A.M. She had been dreaming.
It had been the most vivid one she’d ever had, placing her in the point of view of someone else, which was odd. In her dreams, she was usually still Regan, sometimes in her body, sometimes watching herself, but invariably herself.
In this dream it wasn’t that she was Camille, in the truest sense, but she had been watching her, privy to all her thoughts. She had felt every emotion, every physical sensation, including Camille’s desire.
Regan shifted her hand off of the front of her damp panties, evidence of her unmistakable arousal. Strange. Though not surprising, considering it had been months since she’d had sex. Maybe it was just a very imaginative sex dream. Pushing a sweaty clump of hair off her forehead, she felt under the pillow next to her for the journal she and Chris had found in the chest of drawers. It was still there, safe.
She had checked into a hotel right around the corner from her house the day before. She’d had no intention of staying in her new place without a bed to sleep on. Chris had offered her a couch to crash on for the night, but he lived Uptown and she wanted to be close to her house so she could meet the movers at eight in the morning. When she and Chris had called it a night and parted ways at one in the morning, both more than a little drunk, she had grabbed the journal before catching a cab, not wanting anything to happen to the one-hundred-plus-year-old book.
Maybe she should have stayed with Chris, because alone in the dark hotel room she was disturbed at the tenor of the dream, the manic desperation of it still clinging to her. She wasn’t sure what it said about her psyche that she could take the scraps of what she’d read in that journal and spin them into such a clear scene of the event, that she had made the woman even a little more nutso than she had appeared in the later journal entries they had read.
And that she would masturbate along with her dream. That was a first.
Where the name Camille had been plucked from in her subconscious, she had no idea either. She’d never known anyone by that name, and while the author of the journal had the initial C, she had never written her name in any of the entries Regan had read, so she had no explanation as to why her brain would ascribe that name to the dream figure.
Dreams were random, that was all. Nothing more, nothing less.
Flicking the lamp on next to the bed, she sat up against the pillows, her fingers running over the black leather cover of the journal, over the embossed initials CAC. While Camille might be random, it didn’t surprise her that she had inserted Felix’s name into her dream as that of a voodoo priest.
He tripped around the edges of her thoughts chronically since she’d met him, and he had grown more attractive with time than he probably was in reality, if she wanted to be honest with herself. The months
The coachman lifted her, and she let him, but once settled in her seat, she bunched up the front of her gown, the volume of the fabric still covering her legs, but allowing her access to her inner thighs. Stroking herself as the carriage lurched forward, she felt the surge of desire, the perfect way to continue the thrill of her adventure.
As she buried a finger deep into her slick heat, Camille didn’t bother to prevent a small moan from escaping her mouth. The coachman turned, eyes widening, hands almost dropping the reins. She stared him straight in the eye and smiled, her hand moving faster.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he murmured.
But Mary and her son had abandoned Camille as surely as her parents and sisters had.
She closed her eyes and disappeared in the frenetic burn of physical pleasure.
Chapter Three
Regan woke up in her hotel room with a start. Glancing at the clock glowing on the nightstand, she tried to quiet her racing heart, her inner thighs throbbing with unsatisfied desire. 6 A.M. She had been dreaming.
It had been the most vivid one she’d ever had, placing her in the point of view of someone else, which was odd. In her dreams, she was usually still Regan, sometimes in her body, sometimes watching herself, but invariably herself.
In this dream it wasn’t that she was Camille, in the truest sense, but she had been watching her, privy to all her thoughts. She had felt every emotion, every physical sensation, including Camille’s desire.
Regan shifted her hand off of the front of her damp panties, evidence of her unmistakable arousal. Strange. Though not surprising, considering it had been months since she’d had sex. Maybe it was just a very imaginative sex dream. Pushing a sweaty clump of hair off her forehead, she felt under the pillow next to her for the journal she and Chris had found in the chest of drawers. It was still there, safe.
She had checked into a hotel right around the corner from her house the day before. She’d had no intention of staying in her new place without a bed to sleep on. Chris had offered her a couch to crash on for the night, but he lived Uptown and she wanted to be close to her house so she could meet the movers at eight in the morning. When she and Chris had called it a night and parted ways at one in the morning, both more than a little drunk, she had grabbed the journal before catching a cab, not wanting anything to happen to the one-hundred-plus-year-old book.
Maybe she should have stayed with Chris, because alone in the dark hotel room she was disturbed at the tenor of the dream, the manic desperation of it still clinging to her. She wasn’t sure what it said about her psyche that she could take the scraps of what she’d read in that journal and spin them into such a clear scene of the event, that she had made the woman even a little more nutso than she had appeared in the later journal entries they had read.
And that she would masturbate along with her dream. That was a first.
Where the name Camille had been plucked from in her subconscious, she had no idea either. She’d never known anyone by that name, and while the author of the journal had the initial C, she had never written her name in any of the entries Regan had read, so she had no explanation as to why her brain would ascribe that name to the dream figure.
Dreams were random, that was all. Nothing more, nothing less.
Flicking the lamp on next to the bed, she sat up against the pillows, her fingers running over the black leather cover of the journal, over the embossed initials CAC. While Camille might be random, it didn’t surprise her that she had inserted Felix’s name into her dream as that of a voodoo priest.
He tripped around the edges of her thoughts chronically since she’d met him, and he had grown more attractive with time than he probably was in reality, if she wanted to be honest with herself. The months
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