Is it a good or a bad sign that my hands are shaking when I mix up the warm beverage? I'm not one to get addicted to things, and it's not like this is some illicit, illegal substance, but there's definitely something addictive that I'm scared to ask about. If I asked about it, I'd have to fess up about the side effects I've been experiencing.
When the microwave dings, I make myself count to five before I remove the mug from it. It's best not to seem too anxious, even if there's nobody else here with me. That's important.
I can't take a sip until I'm in exactly the right position. I don't even know what that means, but my instincts are screaming at me to sit in the chair at the little dinette table and lean against it. My knees slide apart, and I curl my fingers around the hot mug, inhaling the sweet aroma.
There's already flutters in my belly as I bring the cup up to my mouth, the promise of what it's about to deliver making me go out of my mind. I know there's nothing about this situation that's rational, but the longer I stay in Trash Haven, the more I understand that rationality doesn't really hold court here. The locals are starting to let their guard down around me, and I've decided to just take things I see at face value.
The cocoa slides into my mouth, coating my entire palate with its creaminess. It doesn't taste like I mixed water in and microwaved it; it tastes like it came from a gourmet pastry chef stationed at a fancy ski resort in the mountains. It's incredible. And it brushes against nearly all of my senses as I sip it down.
Another thing I've started doing when I make my cup of cocoa is to savor every sip. The first time I made it, it was so good that I drank it down too fast, and I didn't get to enjoy it as much. So now, I take a sip and let it linger as long as possible in my mouth before drinking more. That way, I feel every lingering tingle in my belly as it slides down.
It almost feels like it's whispering to me, seducing me. Once again, I try and grasp my dreams, and it feels like those two things are exactly right; that it's not ridiculous for a cup of cocoa to make me feel like I want to be fucked, that it’s perfectly normal to get more and more turned on as I drink it.
The second time I made this cocoa, I was thinking that maybe there was just some sort of aphrodisiac element added to it, but it's more than just a physical response. My entire psyche responds to this cocoa; it plays mind tricks on me.
I know later when I'm walking around town, I'll have random thoughts hit me telling me this cocoa wants me to return to my room, that it wants me to drink it again.
I'll see a storefront display, maybe a sweater in a nice brown for fall, and I'll instantly be transported to the rich dark chocolate color of the cocoa. Or I'll see somebody out enjoying a nice coffee with chocolate swirled along the cup, and I'll have to stop and cross my legs at just the memory of the way the cocoa makes me feel when it's completely depleted into my body.
I take another sip, a moan escaping me at the decadence. It's not overly sweet, which is maybe why I enjoy it so much, but it has such a pleasant mouthfeel. Thick without being an irritating texture, and it doesn't leave any residue in my mouth as it slips down the back of my throat.
By the third sip, my gulps have gotten bigger, the cup is in one hand only, and my other hand has somehow found its way inside my jeans. I'm soaking wet, which isn't surprising.
By the fourth sip, I get an insane idea that I can't stop thinking about. What if I were to drizzle a bit of the chocolate onto my fingers before touching myself? What if I full on got naked and started pleasuring myself with cocoa coated fingers?
It's not like there's anybody here to judge me, so it's only between me and this gorgeous cup of hot, melty chocolate. I know it wants to be between my legs. I don't know how to explain why I know that, but I do.
I've been alone a lot of my life. I'm not usually keen on finding hookups because men have let me down too many times at this point in my life. So I've gotten pretty good with my hands, if you catch my drift. But tell me why, when the sticky chocolate coating on my fingers touches my skin, it's like an electrical current runs through my body and I'm instantly screaming?
Next thing I know, I’m lacking pants and I’m lying prone on my too-firm motel bed, and I'm finding it difficult to remove my hands from my body; it’s like I'm being possessed to rub myselfin exactly the right place. And then it feels too good to stop, so I stop trying to. By my second screaming orgasm, I'm getting a little concerned, but it's not until the cocoa cup starts vibrating, that I’m really worried something may be wrong.
Okay, maybe that should have happened earlier, but it’sreallygood cocoa.
Just when I think I can't come again, I do, and I'm so over sensitized now that it's nearly painful, and the vibrating cup begins to froth over, splattering my skin with creamy foam.
That's weird, I don't remember putting whipped cream in the hot chocolate, but it’s dawning on me this too-good-to-be-true-cocoa comes with a heavy caveat.
Now I'm too tired to move, the exhaustion from coming so damn hard that many times in a row having completely wiped me out. So I close my eyes for just a minute, telling myself I'll get up to clean myself in the shower soon.
Spoiler alert, I fall asleep.
I find myself in a cloudy sort of space, with candles everywhere in an imitation of the room I've been staying in, but all the furniture is removed. It's cozier somehow, probably a lot to do with the candles or the fireplace that's been installed. It feels like a dream, but it also doesn't.
I spin around to look at everything in the room and find the silhouette of a man against the window. He’s leaning against the windowsill, legs crossed over the ankle with his hands in his pockets. He's got a dark brown chunky cable knit sweater on, and everything about him is different shades of chocolate. He evensmellslike chocolate as he smiles at me and walks closer.
“Hi there. How are you feeling, beautiful?”
He wraps an arm around my waist and it doesn't feel red flag-ish at all. It feels like something I've done so many times. There's something tickling the back of my head, telling me I know this man. “Do I... where do I know you from?”
He bats his eyes, these long dark lashes nearly hitting his cheeks as he does. “Don't play coy with me now baby, not after everything we just did together. You taste delicious by the way.”
I feel a flush rise in my cheeks at how forward he's being. This is just a dream though, so I guess it doesn't matter how much sense it makes.
“You have no idea how long I've been waiting for you. You’re exactly what I've always wanted.” He leans forward to brush his nose against the column of my neck, making my eyes flutter.
“You smell so good.” Was that words or a moan that resembled words? Why does he affect me so much?
“I'm glad you think so. Would have been awkward if you didn't care for chocolate. How are you finding my handle, love? Does it suit your hand? Let me see.”
