Bending Tyme

Excerpt From: Bending Tyme

Esme pulled her favourite vintage quilt over her head, her peace disturbed by the cell phone set to vibrate and engaging in a jumping-bean dance on her nightstand. Reluctant to emerge from the delicious fantasy she had spun during those pre-dawn minutes, Esme nonetheless groped for the phone and read the latest in a stream of texts from her best friend—former best friend, Esme decided.

The text would probably contain the usual tirade from Charisse. She had only grown worse since Esme had announced the grand opening of their Massachusetts office to her Canadian staff.

Getting off to your ‘Lord of the Locket’ works great for your fantasy life, Esme, but let’s find you a man with a heartbeat for this party. To Esme’s chagrin, Charisse had compiled a list of suitable candidates as soon as Esme had made the announcement.

Sure enough, this latest message from Charisse read, C nu list—BB4B, Charisse’s text-talk for ‘buff bachelors for boffing’. Esme turned her cell off, eyeing the early nineteenth-century ball gown and undergarments gracing the mannequin across the room. She grimaced at the corset laces hanging down the wire form, wondering how many awkward turns around the dance hall would result in her breasts popping right over the top of the bodice. Not for the first time, Esme regretted her decision to let Charisse take the reins for this launch party. Ah well… Esme let her gaze fall to the itinerary on her nightstand. Just this one bash stood between her and a much-anticipated three-month globe-trotting vacation while she turned the reins over to Charisse and her husband Timone. Esme eyed the corset again. I can handle even that for just one night.

At least the heirloom locket draped around the wire neck of her body-double was intriguing. Esme climbed out of bed, snagged the locket and stretched the nude length of her body before sinking down on the tufted stool in front of her vanity and opening the ornate locket.

One side silver, the other gold, the unusual, mismatched ovals of the locket afforded a vexing puzzle even for Charisse and her husband—Esme’s resident experts in nineteenth-century antiques. However, three additional jewellers in the field had each documented the piece as genuine, despite its eccentric design. Esme’s interest, however, lay not in the unusual mix of metals or the locket’s certificates of authenticity, but in the miniature portrait nestled in the gold side of the locket.

This unique piece had come into Esme’s possession eight weeks ago. The crew she had hired to repair part of the foundation in the Boston office building had unearthed a small, metal box buried in one corner. Esme had broken open the decaying box to reveal the locket within. Every morning since, caught in that sleep-state where grudging awareness of fresh Earl Grey tea brewing in her kitchen skirmished with her desire to revel in her fantasies for a few minutes longer, she had made love to the man in the portrait.

Esme opened a drawer, rifling through its contents. She glanced at his portrait, considered the battery-operated vibrator she held, and put it down again. No toy stashed in his nightstand would take double As…

Esme shifted forward, cradling the locket in one hand, slipping the other between her legs. His eyes, an unusual aquamarine blue—artistic licence, Esme imagined—mesmerised her nonetheless. She traced his mouth with her gaze, imagining his lips on hers.

Esme dropped the locket, closing her eyes, still seeing each fine detail, spreading her pussy lips with one hand, stroking her clit with the other, surrendering to the heat spreading through her. She opened her legs wider now, moving her fingers in and out, slow and gentle, imagining him fingering her wet cunt, his face—not hers—reflected in the mirror in front of her.

Esme lifted her fingers to her tongue, the scent and taste of her own arousal exciting her further. She lost herself in the fantasy, imagining him there, beside her…