Making Love to Ghosts
A fantasy of control, surrender, coming face-to-face with the past, and being overwhelmingly desired beyond reason
What’s your greatest fantasy?
The one that knows no bounds.
The one that breaks the barriers of reality, makes no sense, makes you cringe and ache at the same time.
The one you’ve never said out loud.
This is mine: every man I’ve ever slept with on their knees at my feet.
This fantasy is about coming face-to-face with your past, not to relive relationships, but to integrate them. It’s a fantasy of control and surrender. It’s a fantasy of sensory overload. It’s a fantasy of being watched and being seen. It’s a fantasy of being overwhelmingly wanted.
Isn’t that what we all desire?
It always begins with J. Not because I miss him or because the sex was particularly special, but because I’ve always wanted to know the feeling of him at my feet.
He kneels on the hardwood floor in nothing but his black boxer briefs. He’s a little older, a little greyer than he once was, his chest still milky white, freckled, and smooth. His gaze drifts up through thick lashes, and when his eyes meet mine, I reach out and gently smack his face. Not enough to sting or leave a mark, just enough to remind him of his place. He looks down to my feet again, takes the left into his hands, and resumes massaging it.
M squeezes my other foot, long fluid strokes up and down the arch. His long, dark curls are pulled back in a loose bun at the base of his tan neck. He keeps his eyes cast down, already knowing that’s where they belong.
I breathe deeply, my eyes fluttering closed, melting into the crimson velvet armchair in the middle of a candlelit room, letting myself sink into the sensations overwhelming me. The room is filled with every lover I’ve ever had. Ten hands roam over my body — J and M are at my feet, and the two men who share a name are on either side of me, massaging my arms and hands in unison. I notice the calloused fingertips from one and wonder if he still plays guitar.
The men whom I’d never allow their hands to touch my skin again are gagged on the edges of the room. Some kneel on the floor, their heads bowed. Others stand in Barbie pink stilettos and uniform black boxer briefs in the corners of the rooms holding silver platters full of glass bottles of massage oils. They click-clack over to us only when needed.
The first lover I ever had kneels between my legs and places his hands — one on top of the other — over the centre of my chest. He presses firmly as I exhale, and then begins to stroke my breasts in slow circles — up through the centre of my chest, finger-light touch across my collarbones, sweeping down the sides and around my back, every bit of tension leaving my body.
He takes my hand from the man on my right and guides my finger to trace his dark, swollen lips before taking it into his mouth and sucking. His tongue swirls around my finger and my pussy responds with a flutter. He guides my finger from his mouth, a strand of saliva connecting us, and then gently to my right nipple, circling it. His pupils dilate, he bites his bottom lip, and then he leans forward and takes my left nipple into his mouth. His teeth graze me, nibbling enough so that the hairs raise on my arms.
