3. The Mysterious Stranger #2
She drummed her fingers on the counter, thoughtful. “Body knows best, babe. You ever think maybe your subconscious is tired of being on mute?”
I wanted to joke that my subconscious belonged in a padded cell, but I couldn’t muster it. I swallowed. “It’s starting to bleed into real life. I…” I paused, searching for words that didn’t exist. “Today, someone called me by the wrong name. On the street. Scarlett. Like it was my name.”
Amanda’s eyes went wide, then wilder. “Ooooo, that’s spicy. Was it a meet-cute, or a crime?”
“Neither,” I said, remembering the way the man’s hand had fit so perfectly around me. “He just… knew me. And then he touched me. Like we’d done it a hundred times.”
Amanda fanned herself, theatrically. “I’m not gonna lie, that’s kinda hot. Creepy, but hot. Did you like it?”
The question shouldn’t have stung. I’d never been more aware of my own body. Every muscle, every nerve, buzzing and alert. I felt the echo of the stranger’s grip, the flush creeping up my neck. “I don’t know. I think I did.”
Amanda’s face softened, all trace of mockery gone.
“Hey. It’s okay. Sometimes we need a little shock to the system.
You work so hard at being invisible, but it’s obvious you’re dying to cut loose.
” She tapped my hand, fingers cool and precise.
“When was the last time you actually let yourself feel something? Like, not just ‘hm, that was nice,’ but really…” she mimed a little explosion at her temple, “…mind-blown?”
I wanted to lie, but my mouth was ahead of me. “Years. Maybe never.”
She gave a low whistle. “Girl. We gotta change that. You need to let go before you straight-up combust.” She grinned, wicked. “If you want tips, my DM’s always open.”
I found myself smiling, for real. “Thanks. But I think my brain would overheat.”
Amanda dropped her voice, serious again. “Lauren. Don’t be afraid of what you want. Seriously. Whatever’s rattling around in that genius head of yours? It’s probably normal, or at least fixable with lube and an open mind.”
Before I could answer, the door alarms chimed and a horde of patrons flooded the entryway, breaking the spell.
Amanda squeezed my hand once, then let go, smiling that infuriatingly warm, real smile.
She slid off to the circulation desk, leaving a waft of citrus and challenge in her wake.
I stayed at the front counter, scanning in books, my body a latticework of adrenaline and shame.
Every time my mind drifted, I heard Amanda’s voice: “When was the last time you actually let yourself feel something?” It was a splinter, but also a key.
Part of me already knew what would happen next.
****
The day passed in a haze of checkouts and shelving, my mind stuttering over the same three notes: the stranger’s voice, Amanda’s question, the memory of hands that were never quite my own.
By two o’clock, the world had faded into a gray hum.
I found myself wandering the 100s again, the psychology section, where the spines were thicker, the colors duller, the promise of answers always outpaced by the questions.
I pushed the cart down the narrow aisle, the wheels wobbling in protest. Every few feet, I trailed my fingers over the books, pausing on the ones with brittle covers and gold-embossed letters.
Sometimes, if you held a book just so, you could feel the static of the last person who touched it.
They had a warmth, a weight, or in some cases, a shiver.
I let my hand drift, half hoping I’d shock myself back into the real world.
It was in the dream section, call number 154.
6, that I saw it. An ancient, leather-bound tome, big as a brick, with the words “Nocturnal Consciousness: Dreams, Shadow Selves, and the Rewired Mind” stamped into the hide.
It looked out of place among the modern paperbacks, as though it had appeared just for me.
I slid it from the shelf, dust pluming up, and flipped to a random page.
The language was florid, almost cultish.
Case studies of “dual inhabitation,” speculation about the permeability of identity in sleep.
A chapter titled “Night Emissaries: The Eros of the Other Self.” My pulse leapt at the word eros, even though it was probably just a holdover from the morning. I scanned the lines:
“In dream, the self is both subject and object. The body becomes an altar; the altar, a site of possession. To desire is to fracture. One fragment hungry, the other fragment helplessly devoured.”
My cheeks prickled. I read it again, slower, tasting each word like an incantation.
The library air was thick, sweet with old paper and glue.
I leaned into it, letting the page anchor me, my breathing slowing for the first time all day.
I lost track of time, reading about patients who dreamed themselves into other bodies.
Bodies that were stronger, wilder, more shameless than in waking life.
Some woke up with bite marks on their shoulders, or bruises that couldn’t be explained.
Others confessed to “visitations,” a sense of being watched, or touched, by an unnamed companion who was always just out of sight.
There were diagrams, wild and beautiful, of mirrored faces and superimposed hands.
My favorite was a sketch of a woman with her hair loose, her eyes closed and two sets of arms wrapped around herself in a lover’s embrace.
The words crawled under my skin, rearranging the furniture in my head.
I sat back on my heels, the book open on my lap, and let my body relax for the first time all week.
My shoulders slumped, my thighs spreading just enough to feel the crisp polyester of my slacks tug at the seams. I imagined the stranger’s hand.
Imagined his palm, hot and certain, gripping my ass.
I thought about Amanda’s voice, softening when she told me not to fear what I wanted.
For a moment, the library disappeared. The metal shelves, the click of the old clock, the scuffle of distant patrons… all of it gone.
I let the book slide to the carpet and leaned back against the stacks.
I closed my eyes. My breathing deepened, became a slow rhythm that vibrated in my chest. I unbuttoned the top of my blouse, just one button, just to feel the air on my skin.
I touched my collarbone, tracing it down to the hollow at my throat, then lower, over the pulse that never seemed to slow.
The world was cotton-wool silence, a cocoon where only my heartbeat existed.
My hand drifted lower, trembling slightly as it traced the curve of my breast. My nipple was already stiff against the rough cotton of my bra, a hard point of need that sent electricity through me when my fingers brushed across it.
I squeezed, slow and experimental, gasping at the jolt that shot straight to my core, pooling like honey between my thighs.
I rolled the sensitive peak between my fingers, applying just enough pressure to make my back arch involuntarily, my body responding to its own touch as if it belonged to someone else.
In the silence, every sound became a symphony, even the whisper of fabric against my skin, the catch in my throat when pleasure spiked, the wet sound of my tongue as I licked my suddenly dry lips.
I slid my other hand down my stomach, feeling the muscles tense beneath my fingertips, anticipation making me dizzy.
My fingers fidgeted at the waistband of my pants, teasing myself with the promise of what was to come.
I hesitated, suddenly aware of the shelves looming around me, the vulnerability of my position.
The risk of being caught sent a forbidden thrill racing through me, making my skin flush hot and my pulse skitter wildly.
I pressed the heel of my hand between my thighs, rocking against it, finding a rhythm that made stars bloom behind my eyelids.
The pressure was exquisite torture. It was almost enough, but not quite, making me whimper with frustration and need.
My hips moved of their own accord, small, insistent circles that sent waves of pleasure rippling outward.
I pictured the stranger's face above mine, his breath hot on my neck.
I imagined his hands replacing mine, his mouth trailing fire across my skin, the impossible way he had known exactly where to touch me to make me come undone.
I pressed harder, feeling slick heat gather, my underwear soaked through.
My breath caught as a particularly delicious wave of sensation washed over me.
It wasn't enough. I needed more, needed to feel myself from the inside.
With a desperation that surprised me, I slid my hand beneath the waistband and past the elastic of my panties.
My fingers dipped into the wetness there, finding myself swollen and slippery with desperation.
The first touch against my clit made my knees buckle.
I bit down hard on my lip, tasting copper as I fought to stay silent.
The sensation was sharp and perfect, a white-hot spike of pleasure that radiated outward, lighting up every nerve ending.
I circled that sensitive bundle of nerves, slow at first, then faster, my fingers knowing exactly what I needed.
The stranger's voice seemed to whisper in my ear, urging me on, while Amanda's challenge echoed behind it: When was the last time you actually let yourself feel something?
God, I was feeling it now. The raw, desperate pleasure building like a storm, my body tightening like a bowstring about to snap.
I was close, so close, my breath coming in short, silent gasps, my thighs trembling with the effort of staying upright.
I thought I might cum right there, pressed against the psychology shelves, my body convulsing with release.
But the universe has a sense of humor. Just as the first exquisite wave began to crest, the intercom crackled overhead.
“The library will be closing in five minutes,” said the tinny, sexless voice. “Please complete your selections and bring all materials to the front desk.”
My body seized, pleasure tipping over into panic.
I yanked my hand out, heart pounding so loud I could barely hear.
My clit throbbed with the loss, and my thighs ached.
I scrambled to button my blouse, to smooth my hair, to make myself look like a person again.
I shoved the book back onto the shelf, then thought better of it, and pulled it out again, memorizing the call number and the exact spot where it had waited for me.
When I stood, my legs trembled. I wiped my palms on my slacks, mortified at the dark patch spreading down my thigh where my own arousal had soaked through the fabric.
No one was there to see it, but the shame was exquisite.
I loved it and hated it at the same time.
I walked back to the front, arms loaded with returns, the weight of the day pressing down in new, unfamiliar places.
I saw Amanda at the checkout, laughing with a patron, and caught her eye.
She winked, just once, like she already knew everything.
I went home that night aching, the phantom sensation of hands and mouths still crawling over my skin.
I wanted nothing more than to sink into sleep and dream myself a new body.
One with no memory, no shame, and no end to wanting.
Tomorrow, I told myself. I’ll go back for the book tomorrow.
And the day after. And every day until I figured out how to wake up on my own terms, with my name and my desire and whatever else I’d been too afraid to ask for.
But tonight, I left the window open, let the air wrap around me, and waited for the stranger to find me in the dark.