Chapter 1
Devon
I wake up and stretch, my toes tingling and my whole body blissed out from the dreams I had. The really dirty kind I blush to even think about, let alone talk about.
I don't remember all the details, but it had something to do with hot chocolate. As a lot of things do these days.
Sometimes it feels like I don't even remember how I ended up in this strange little town.
I was supposed to be vacationing in Somerville, a couple hours south, but I took a wrong turn somewhere, and I was so intrigued by first the scenery and then the sign that said ‘Welcome to Trash Haven’ that I decided to just keep driving instead of turning around to head to my intended destination.
There's only one motel in town, and it only has four rooms to let, but somehow all but one of them were empty when I pulled into town last month.
I've been busking on the sidewalks to try and make my money last, and so far I haven't gotten in trouble for doing so without any sort of permit, but every time I've asked about getting one, people just laugh at me.
I'm assuming it's because they don't deal with bureaucratic crap like that here.
“Honey, if you wanna sing, then sing. You don't need our permission.” That's what the owner of the motel told me anyway, when I asked. Then she started going on about the spell shop her sister owns, so I just nodded and smiled, not wanting the crazy person to take a special interest in me.
Although now, after being in this town for a month, I'm beginning to think maybe she wasn't crazy.
There's something going on in this town that makes it feel unlike anywhere I've ever been. Almost like there’s something alive in the air that gives me a drive to live that I haven't felt in so long.
It's what I've been chasing, and I'm terrified to let it go.
I just don't know if I can make a town this size my forever home.
I swear to you everybody knows each other, and in my experience, towns like this aren't real welcoming to outsiders; for some reason, they've all been perfectly nice to me.
Not that I've interacted with them much.
I tend to spend most of my time writing music or singing on the streets, and I haven't really made any friends yet.
So, when the motel owner said she had a gift for me from her sister, a welcome to town gift that she hoped I'd enjoy, I was excited. I'm used to traveling around a lot, so I don't usually acquire stuff because everything I own has to fit in my van. It's not large, so I'm picky about what I keep.
The longer I stay in Trash Haven, the more it feels like it’s where I want to be.
The gift that was so beautifully wrapped was a handcrafted mug, a slightly misshapen one with a beautiful red-orange glaze and yellow undertones peeking through.
It’s got a nice, sturdy base that wouldn't break if you set it down too hard or tip over if your elbow bumped into it.
It also came with a pack of gourmet hot chocolate to go with it packaged beautifully with a velvet green ribbon.
It was such a kind gesture, that upon returning to my temporary room, I immediately set about mixing some water into it and heating it up in the microwave. I know, the best hot chocolate is made with milk on a stove, but I'm not exactly dripping with extra kitchens right now.
That was about a week ago. Every morning since I made that first cup, I've woken up craving more.
I've been scooping the chocolate out into the mug, and I swear to you the bag is not any less full than it was when I got it.
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 myself in 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’s really good 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 even smells like 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.”
He pulls my hand up to inspect it, flipping it this way and that, curling my fingers and extending them again. “I could probably make my handle a little slimmer for you. Would you like that?”
“What are you—huh?”
He huffs out in amusement and then leans back to grab something off a shelf I didn't notice a minute ago. It's my mug. The one that the motel owner’s sister apparently gave me.
“Anything else you want me to change about it?
Is it too heavy or anything? I've got to say, I love it when you press me against your lips.
It really gets me going, Devon. By the way, your name, did you know that Devon is a type of thick clotted cream from England?
We couldn't be more suited for each other if we tried.
You're delicious. I said that already though, didn't I?
I just can't believe I'm meeting you for the first time.
Can't believe this is real. My ring looks stunning on you.”
He kisses my other hand, and I notice there's a ring on my finger. I didn’t see it before, but now that he's pointed it out, I'm wondering how I missed it. It's somewhat thick and is a dead ringer for the ceramic on the mug. “When did that get there?”
“Look, a matched set.” He holds his hand up as well, and his fourth finger on his left hand is sporting an almost identical ring. His is slightly wider, though.
I laugh, because it's so absurd. “It's like we're married.”
His face turns very serious. “Devon, we are. You took me into your body; you sealed us together. Now you'll have me for the rest of your life. I know it's kind of confusing trying to figure this all out on your own, but you should know that the more you do what you did tonight, stuffing me right up in that tight little cunt of yours, the quicker my actual body will be finished for you. I’m in hibernation now, but I’m getting stronger by the minute. You’re a true wonder, love.
I think you're about to wake up though. I'll see you tonight when you fall asleep.”
I'm frozen as he kisses me, giving me the sensation of hot chocolate running down my throat.
I wake up more than a little confused, feeling no small amount of shame. But that's what showers are for, right?
I tell myself not to give in to a certain temptation again, because it gave me such weird dreams. There must be an element in the hot chocolate that’s magical, something that enhances orgasms. Maybe I should go check out the spell shop and ask the owner about it.
But first, maybe I should cleanse the mess between my thighs before I get a UTI.
If it was just a dream though, why does my hair get snagged on a shiny ceramic ring in the shower?