With a frustrated grunt, I throw the garment into the corner of the room.
I feel no relief. If anything, the smell of my cum on her clothing, mixing our scents together, makes me hard again.
I lean against the wall, slowly stroking. My cock is oversensitive, but I can’t help myself. I stomp over to the dirty clothing and hold it just under my nose. Imagining filling Marta with my seed and having it drip from her swollen cunt, has me coming again in record time.
I will get no sleep tonight.
CHAPTER15
?MOURNING WOOD?
?MARTA
I am small again,sitting on the shore and playing on the beach.. Frustration overwhelms me as I kick at a castle. The chunky shell-filled sand doesn’t form the neat towers seen in movies.
I look into the waves, expecting to see my mother swimming in the water.
“The ocean makes me feel free, the vastness of it, the life teeming just under the surface—it’s like another world, something far away from the troubles on land,” she would tell me when I asked why we spent every summer at the beach.
My eyes scan the horizon, but I still can’t find her.
I blink.
I’m an adult, laying in my bedroom. Bruno’s gray and scarred head rests gently on my chest. Soft puppy snores puff from his lips.
I’m happy and safe—I am home.
I blink.
I sit by my father’s side, his lip trembles and he tries to keep the burgeoning tears at bay.
Mom’s right in front of us, in her favorite white dress. Her chest is unmoving—her skin is unnatural and waxy. The makeup she’s wearing isn’t right either. She always wore a red lip.
She’s in a light blue coffin, with her dark curls arranged on a silky white pillow, her lips are painted a pink that’s not a color she wore. Everything in this church feels wrong, the lights are too bright and organ music is too loud.
A hand tugs my own.
“Marta,” my father says, “Marta, wake up.”
I open my eyes. My hand is twisted up in a blanket and I’m covered in sweat. I shake it from my grip and shoot up.
I haven’t dreamed about Mom in a long time, but I’m grateful my subconscious didn’t sprinkle in bad memories of Bruno.
As terrible as it is to think, her death hurts less than Bruno’s right now. The wound of having to euthanize my sweet pup is just too fresh.
I grab the robe from the nearby chair and stand, tying the belt. Thankful to have this weird icy alien water so close at hand, I grab the frosted pitcher from its lighted pad and pour it into a tall, thin glass.
When the water hits my mouth, I am instantly restored. I gulp it down quickly, not realizing how dehydrated I must have been yesterday. I pour another glass and drink half of it before my thirst is quenched.
But after chugging all that water, I face a new problem. I have to pee.
Setting the glass back on the table, I suddenly become nervous. The feeling of having to walk into the duke’s bedroom to get to the bathroom reminds me of the anxiety of being the first kid awake at a sleepover.
Maybe I would have eventually gotten over that fear, but after Mom died, Dad stopped letting me spend the night anywhere—not even my cousin’s home was deemed safe enough.
The adrenaline of yesterday seems to have worn off. I’m feeling a bit more like myself now, and despite this bizarre situation I find myself in, I’m glad for it.
I pull my shoulders back, take a deep breath, and take my first step into the duke’s dark chambers. The curtains are pulled, thankfully, and I tiptoe across the room.
