Charlie looked around and said a bad word under her breath, quietly enough that her client wouldn’t hear. She knew she shouldn’t have taken on this viewing. It was in the wrong part of town. She had too much painful history here.
The client didn’t notice. He was some hotshot investor looking to make a fast buck on the back of the recession. He was young, maybe too young to shave properly, yet balding. He had an oily and overbearing manner, and he stalked through the property as if he already owned it. It wasn’t the building he wanted, anyway; it was the parcel of land.
The property was previously a bar-restaurant, now offered for sale by the brewery with potential for redevelopment. Ground floor: entrance lobby, bar area, kitchen, main room, games room, men’s and women’s rest rooms. First floor: function room, two offices. Second floor: bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. Basement: cellarage. Outside: off-road parking, patio area, boiler room, store. Location: fronting a main road in a commercial area due for regeneration, within walking distance of the town centre. Suitable for development as commercial units.
It was those redevelopment permissions that had drawn Hotshot’s attention. It was the property backing onto the car park that had made Charlie swear. She was standing no more than twenty yards from where Beautiful Ben had died.
It was bad form to cry in front of a client. She breathed deeply, put on a professional mask, answered Hotshot’s questions as best she could. Fortunately he didn’t make much more than a token pass at her, one she could fend off by blanking him, just pretending not to hear.
Beautiful Ben. A statuesque, long-haired and slim-hipped god of the darkness, and of the decks. He’d been a lifetime ago. Literally.
Three years previously, Charlie had been making a name for herself as a DJ. An unusual occupation for a woman, certainly, but no one had ever told her women didn’t do that kind of thing. She’d always been the nerdy girl, the one who dismissed the current boybands as trash and bored her friends with discs she’d found in obscure record stores. When it came to DJing, she’d just gone ahead and done it. Built a whole persona and look around it, and then made a success of it.
She’d been a goddess of the night. Black hair, black leather, six-inch heels and a magical touch that kept the energy running and people dancing all night. It had been a rough-and-tumble, full throttle world and she’d enjoyed every minute of it. Splendidly aloof above the dancefloor, headphones around her neck and the bassline thumping in her chest, she knew every man in the club wanted her. She could have a rough tumble with anyone she picked, and she was extremely picky.
Charlie’s regular gig had been a residency at Fluidity, the club she was looking at from the old bar’s car park. Benedict had come in, at first as a visiting DJ and later with his own slot, immediately before her usual 2am stint.
It hadn’t been a quick fling. Not like the other men she’d hooked up with before he’d come along. It had been a slow burn. They ended up talking obscure tracks, tech stuff – she’d been the first at the club to DJ straight off her laptop. They got a competitive thing going, a three-and-three where she’d play three tracks, he’d play three, and between them they’d keep Fluidity on the boil, steaming hot.
Famously, she’d once found him in the DJ booth with a skinny blonde on her knees, her lips wrapped around his cock. Equally famously, she’d grabbed a microphone and added the characteristic glup glup sound of oral sex into the mix. She knew he slept with other women; he knew she slept with other men. It was a working relationship for a month before it was a friendship. It was a friendship before it was a sexual bond. They were legend, king and queen of the dance, even before they ever got into bed together. Though the first time they had sex was nowhere near a bed.
The club had finished at four. On a whim they’d turned down an invitation to an afterparty at someone’s house. Instead she’d driven them, an hour and a half out of town, to rolling hills and a crag looking out over the sunrise. She’d wanted to feel the wind and the openness of it. It was there that she decided she not only couldn’t keep her hands off him, but wanted to feel him inside her. It was there she discovered for the first time that he had a Prince Albert piercing. It was a novelty for her, and very moreish. Afterwards they’d found some roadside mom-and-pop café, had coffee with hash browns and bacon. They’d looked hugely out of place, black leather and tribal hair among the lumberjack shirts, and been amused at the way the locals seemed to think they were exotic creatures from another planet. Which, in a way, they were.
And then eight months after they’d met, a couple of months into their being an item, it all came crashing down around her. Her car was being serviced, they’d shared a taxi back from the club. A drunk, drugged kid had tried to run a set of lights at sixty and slammed his hot hatch into them. It was stolen, he’d already lost his license. She’d spent three days in a coma, waking up to the news that her Beautiful Ben had been DOA at the hospital.
She walked away from the club scene. Started a new life. Nine to five, with the real estate agents. Kept herself to herself, didn’t answer the phone, cried in the evenings. She was still surrounded by little things that reminded her of Beautiful Ben. The thin leather thong with the Chinese coin he used to wear around his neck. He’d forgotten to put it back on after showering at her flat, and it was still on the bathroom window ledge. The wax on the living room carpet, where they’d made love in a circle of candles and one had dripped. She’d never cleaned it up.
Hotshot said something about letting her know what he decided. He climbed into his Merc and disappeared into the river of light that was the evening rush hour traffic. At this time of year dusk came early. And Charlie finally let herself give in to her private grief. Wiping tears from her face, she approached Fluidity. From this direction there were the remains of a low brick wall, then the side access that ran to the club’s stage door. She stepped over the brickwork, stood in the shadows beside a row of dumpsters.
A breath of wind came out of nowhere, tousling her hair. It was like a fond greeting. She tossed her head, looked around in surprise. Cars passed twenty yards away, on the main road. But there was no one around her.
“Hello, lover. I’ve been waiting for you here, hoping you’d show.”
Charlie jumped in surprise, then froze in fear. There was no one around and yet the voice was clear and low. She knew exactly whose it was. Maybe this was the moment she’d been most dreading. The moment when the voice in her head became real and she knew her sanity had departed.
The sense of pressure, something like a hand, trailing down her arm. “You’re wearing a business suit? What’s that about? You didn’t… Oh, you did. You gave up on your music.”
Arms enfolded her. Arms Charlie couldn’t see. She would have staggered, backed away, but they held her tight. Not in a bad way. Like a hug. Like a hug where fingers lightly pinched her nipples, making them pert and hard the way Ben used to. Her lips parted in a half-gasp. Despite everything, despite doubting her own senses and reason, the feeling was hot.
The way it always had been with Ben.
A soft chuckle sounded in her ear. “Gotcha. You always liked that, didn’t you!”
The hands moved, roaming up and down Charlie’s body. Impossibly, they felt like they were under her clothes, on her skin. It was intense enough, scary enough, that she had to reach out for support. Her hand found a rough edge of brickwork and she clung to it like a drunk holding on to a bottle. When she closed her eyes, she could see Ben’s face. Long and thin, a ring in his nose, crinkles around the eyes and permanent creases from smiling.
“I’ve waited a long time. But I think you have too. Grief, anger, despair— it’s time to move on, girl. You can’t live life in the shadows, you’re too good for that.”
The hands were on her thighs now, stroking gently with fingernails the way he used to do it. The way she somehow wanted it… Whatever was happening to her, she couldn’t deny it was making her moist and needy. It was real, more real than any fantasy or vibrator she’d ever had.
Charlie bit her lip, trying not to cry out. Who knew whether people were walking by on the street?
She planted her feet that little bit further apart, feeling the tight fabric of the work skirt against her thighs and even then the fingers were somehow inside it, running over her ass, low in her belly. She felt the twitch and flutter of excitement there, the moment Ben would feel too and then he’d…
He’d gently part the folds of her labia, using his tongue, exposing her, making her impossibly wet and greedy. And only then would he begin to fill her sodden cleft and its demands. She was wearing a black lace-trimmed thong—but the way her pussy reacted to the stimulus, she might as well have been wearing nothing at all. It felt like an actual, physical cock entering her, filling her up, hot, yet with the metallic coolness of his PA ring. It felt like the moment on a roller coaster ride when the train starts to move, and there’s no way to stop it or get off.
“This is for old times’ sake. Then I should let you go. You should let me go, too.”
Ben had been six foot three. With body parts all in proportion to his height. Even in her trademark six-inch clubbing heels, he’d had four inches on her. In bed, he’d had ten inches in her. And right now it felt like twenty of those ten inches were moving inside her, as if his cock was occupying the whole of her body, as if each stroke was lifting her up on tiptoe and taking her whole body weight. The sensation was old and familiar, but new and thrilling. It was strange in a literally out-of-this-world way, yet exciting and comforting. It was…
It was overpowering. Charlie just stopped thinking and stayed in the moment, grinding her hips against an unseen body. Nothing else mattered now. Everything was instinct, the tornado whirling inside her body, sucking up pleasure and concentrating it to a tiny spark-like point…
…that burst into a whirling constellation of tiny hot suns up and down her body, along her arms and legs, in her head, a direct connection from pussy to brain that blocked out everything except the vision, behind closed eyelids, of Ben’s face, his smile, and the feral effort of the fuck.
The brain-pussy connection built like noise, a bass beat shaking her and taking her higher until she was the tornado, the whirling sun, the wild animal, the beat itself. She opened her mouth and let out a wild howl. Ready or not, she was going to come.
At that moment the voice in her hear told her, “Remember, you’re a star. You can be a star, nothing can stop you. And you’ll meet someone new. It’s your destiny. He’s your destiny. And I wish you well.”
Part II published tomorrow (29 December).
The pic used in this post was supplied by a friend of ours, Jon Wilson. His website isn’t online at the moment but if you like his pic and are interested in buying prints of his work we can put you in touch with him. Use the contact form on our ‘About’ page.
If you like this story, both Fulani and Velvet Tripp have other (and stronger/more explicit) paranormal stories published with Xcite, including –