The Third Daughter – Chapter 4

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My eyes had turned blue.I came round on the kitchen floor, cold and cramped. My trousers were back on so perhaps they had never really come off. They were pale blue but with a dark patch at my crotch. I lay there, reluctant to move, reluctant to face the now obvious fact I needed psychiatric help.I checked the clock on the oven and realised I must have been there for an hour or so. Heaving myself up to my feet, I stood shakily where I had stood during that utterly incredible assault and tried to breathe myself back to normality. The card that had accompanied the flowers was lying, face down, on the counter. I turned it over.‘From Patience and Tina.’ No, no, that isn’t right. It had definitely said, ‘From Clemency.’ I know it did because I read it. I looked in the mirror and my eyes were back to their normal dark brown.I walked through to my sitting room and poured myself a large brandy and swallowed it one hit, then poured another. I sat in my deep, soft armchair and relished its embrace. It was calming. I leant my head back against the soft fabric. What was happening to me? No, what HAD happened to me?I am a normal, rational woman. I have no faith in supernatural or super-natural anything. I believe everything is explicable, it’s just that sometimes the explanation is out of reach. I looked down at the dark patch between my thighs. I’d had an orgasm, that much was clear. And what an orgasm. It had been as intense, as mind-bending as the one in my second dream. This time, however, it hadn’t been Clemency’s tongue, or tongues, it had been her strapon. She’d fucked me. I’d felt her hands, her breath. I’d heard her voice. I’d felt her dildo push into me. But, and this was the big but, she hadn’t been there.Mentally shaking myself I stood up and hastily stripped off my trousers. Had I simply pissed myself? I lifted the crotch of the trousers to my nose, slightly ashamed of myself and sniffed but it wasn’t piss, it was me, my erotic emissions. I went through to my bedroom, put the trousers in my laundry basket, slipped off the camisole and went into the shower. I washed myself again, everywhere; my hair, my body, my hands and feet and my cunt and arse as if I could wash away the mystery, the different, the fear.I pulled on a long, red nighty and slipped between the sheets of my bed and lay there. The darkness gathered around me, like a cloak. Heavy-eyed, I resisted sleep. Every time I thought I was drifting I’d say something out loud.“Sleep, Maggie. Sleep and embrace the mystery, the different, the fear.” Clemency’s voice, seductive, calming, hypnotic.She stood at the end of my bed, wearing the white dress or, if not THE white dress, A white dress. I could see the shadows of her nipples and her pubic hair. Her long, black hair was draped over one shoulder but parted as it flowed over her breast. Her eyes were jet, shining. She opened the curtain of her dress and a deep purple phallus, oily looking, seemed to bounce in her hand.“Did you feel it, Maggie? Did you feel it inside you? Did you want it? Of course you did.” I was on my front but had no recollection of turning. I felt her weight on me, her nipples, the soft fabric of the dress, her hair. The tip of her dildo touched my arse. Her hair was on my almanbahis şikayet shoulders, my nightdress pulled up to my waist. Her breath was warm on my ear.“I will be inside you soon. Deep inside you.” The phallus pushed into my arse. One simple thrust and then all her weight was on me, pressing me into the bed and I was full. She bit my neck, and thrust into me, in and out, making me groan with the exquisite eroticism of it. She fucked me like that for eternity. My body was floating, as if I were on some glutinous liquid that held me, like a moist, silk balloon. I felt her orgasm. I felt it like a powerful wind.My own followed, silent. It was as if I had cum in my mind, rather than my body.I had fallen asleep. When I woke up I thought about that dream. I resolved to find a therapist. I wasn’t mad enough to think this was normal. I got out of bed and took off my nightdress, wet like the others, and threw it, disgusted with myself, into the laundry basket. I reached behind myself and, oh God, there was a hint of lubricant between my buttocks. I showered, vigorously washing my arse and, once dried, dressed in my dull librarian’s uniform. Making myself tea, my eye was drawn once again to the card that had accompanied the flowers. I picked it up and opened it. No Clemency. So, I decided, hallucinations. I sat with my tea and a note pad and wrote down everything. Writing things down had been therapeutic all through my confused adolescence. I used to write about being different from other girls at school; about the way a woman made me feel when I looked at her; how Miss Burnett had actually made me wet when, innocently, she had stood beside me as I read an essay out loud and her hand had rested on my shoulder. I still have those notebooks and reading them often makes me shudder at the naivety of the scribbled musings.I started with the conjuring tricks, the silk hankie, the full glass, the locket. Then the dreams. I didn’t, couldn’t write the detail. If anyone saw that, they’d be seeing deep into my depravity. I just wrote, ‘the dreams, the white dress.’ But I wrote, pages of notes that I would read again and again until I knew what was happening to me.I went to work, determined to search for a therapist, maybe a hypnotherapist, anyone who could help me. But then, during my coffee break, a thought struck me like a hammer blow. Why had I not thought it before? Hypnosis! Clemency had said, that first time I met her, that she did hypnosis. That could explain everything. It must be the explanation. I felt huge relief, as if I had uncovered the big secret, the truth. She’d hypnotised me. Was it, perhaps, the mantra, ‘the mystery, the different, the fear,’ that was her route into my head? When had she done that? How would I ever know? Who cares? Now I know, I can resist it, fight it, beat it.Who needs a therapist? A simple, rational explanation and I’m free.The following morning, Thursday, I woke up following a dream-free night. I thought about the councillor, Eleanor Torven. The one who had visited me at the library after my campaign of letters and posters. I remembered how her hand had touched mine. I got out of bed, wrapped my dark blue robe around me and made my way to the kitchen for a much-needed almanbahis canlı casino cup of tea or three.While it brewed, I put the radio on, and half listened as I tidied a few things away. I poured the tea and sipped at it. Finally ready to face the day, I dressed and left the flat. I always enjoyed the walk to the library. The route took me through the old, Georgian part of town to the new, more modern part and I stopped at my favourite coffee shop to grab a latte before entering the library. I nattered to a couple of colleagues, re-shelved a pile of books and went into the office to do some admin.My desk was, invariably, untidy and a new sense of purpose made me clear it up, throwing the unwanted into the bin, filing the necessary. I even polished my desk. I went to the toilet and, on my return, found a piece of paper where, before, there had been nothing. It was blank. For some reason, it disturbed me. I left it there and went into the main body of the library and took over at the desk that people came to to register the books they were taking away. It was busy and I didn’t really notice the faces, just got on with the work and being polite.The last in the line came. I looked up to see Eleanor Torven with three books.“Hello again, Ms Mason.”“Ms Torven. Good to see you again.”“You too. I decided to become a patron of your library so I can see more of what goes on.”There being nobody else waiting, I suggested a cup of coffee. She accepted and we went into the staff room where I made, and apologised for, the coffee. “I buy it from a coffee shop before work but rarely get the chance to slip out and buy a decent one during the day.”Torven was wearing clean white trainers, well-cut, dark grey trousers and a white shirt with the same classy, grey, woollen jacket. Her grey hair was slightly unruly, as if it was determined not to be tamed. “I want you to speak to an informal group of councillors.” I asked what about. “Your library, of course.”“You should ask the Chief Librarian.”“I have and he’s happy, enthusiastic in fact.” Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed. We stood to say goodbye and as we shook hands, she pushed a strand of my hair behind my ear. “That looks better, Maggie.” We stood, silently for a moment, my hand still in hers. “Is there anyone in your life?” I thought, mind your own fucking business but I shook my head and, sadly, realised it was true. “Tomorrow evening, then?” I nodded. At least it got me out of the late evening shift. “We could have supper after? If you’d like?”Conflict comes in many guises. “Is there anyone in your life?” Was I right to say that there wasn’t?I went back to my desk. The piece of paper was still there, but when I turned it over, I saw it. C xxx. Violently, I tore it to shreds and threw it in the bin.That Friday, rather than dressing to go to Denise’s bar, I changed into a knee length, dark blue dress that was my ‘professional casual’ outfit. I untied my hair, deciding that I wanted to give a relaxed impression which, to be honest, belied my true feelings.Eleanor Torven introduced me to about twelve of her fellow councillors in a meeting room. It was an imposing room, portraits of long-dead worthies lining the walls and a monstrous long-case clock almanbahis casino in one corner, chiming portentously as I stood.When I was a young girl, I used Grange Road library. My school had a library but nothing matched the atmosphere and freedom of Grange Road. Through its books I travelled, not like in Geography text books but as if I were really travelling: meeting people from exotic countries, tasting their culture. I learned about ordinary people, not politicians and monarchs. I met, vicariously, explorers, adventurers, villains and heroes.Now, we offer those same experiences to everyone but especially to those who need them most. Elderly people with no internet access can come in and, often with our help, sort out things like their fuel suppliers, their pensions. We can provide access to advice, counselling and a host of other things that people need, all in the familiar and welcoming environment of the library.People without books are people without words; words they could use to improve their employment prospects, the way they communicate with loved ones, the way they think.I could, in a week, read books with conflicting views of world events and, with guidance, define my own orthodoxy. More importantly, I learned to recognise the difference between propaganda and truth, manipulation and truth. Also, and importantly, whilst the internet provides easy access to information, nothing beats going through a reference book and following not just the thread you started to research, but also the by-ways of snippets that spark your interest, the things you see and which lead to far more interesting discoveries.I know every service your council provides begs, pleads for more money. I’m not doing that. What I am asking, with all my heart, is that you don’t cut our funding more, that you allow us to continue to feed the curious, inform those hungry for knowledge, protect developing and developed minds.That’s an excerpt from my presentation which I delivered without notes because I didn’t need any. I just told them my truth.After, we, Eleanor and I, walked across town to a restaurant she liked and wanted me to discover. Rounding a corner, we came to a place where the street lighting was poor, sparse. Eleanor stopped and kissed me. I felt her tongue, tentative against my lips; her hand sliding on my waist under my coat. My lips opened but her tongue merely caressed them and her hand stayed on my hip. The kiss lingered like a promise long after we had moved on. Just before we entered the restaurant, Eleanor stopped again and pushed another wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “Sometimes, the council’s failure to maintain the lighting has benefits, don’t you think?”“Some underfunding has merit, yes.” She kissed me again, briefly and we went in to eat.After we had eaten, Eleanor asked me where I lived. I told her and she said that her home wasn’t far from mine so we could walk together. We did, arm in arm.“Your speech was perfect. You didn’t berate them or accuse them. You showed honesty and passion. Passion is so persuasive, isn’t it?” She stopped walking, so I had to too. She pointed to a turning. “I go that way. Will you be ok from here?” I assured her I would. “Well, goodnight and thank you. Could we see each other again?” I told her I’d like that very much and, I confess, I almost asked her to my home but something, I don’t know what, made me restrain myself. We kissed again, a little firmer perhaps but still pretty chastely and said goodnight.

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