The Visitor (4)

Only been 5 weeks since the last one…not too bad, for me, at any rate! You can read the prior chapter here. ~n~

The dreams were getting to her. She moved through the days feeling groggy and snappish. She wanted to get back to bed and sleep, dammit! She growled at Larry, she frowned at Moma; it was frustrating as she was normally pretty easy-going.

“You just got the mid-winter blahs is all,” said Moma as she sat on the couch watching her favorite soap opera, knitting an afghan for the Methodist Church Spring Fling Fair coming in April. She taped up a full weeks worth of shows, and spent her Friday evening watching the entire week at once.


She only knew a curious restlessness. Outside, snow lay thick and crusty from days with warmth, and nights with bone-chilling cold. It had been a very strange winter, sixty degrees one day, and subzero the next.

The seeds had been ordered for the spring sowing, Larry had all the equipment tuned up and ready to roll. Everything was poised. Waiting.

“Why don’t you turn in early tonight? Have a glass of wine, or maybe one of my p.m. pills to help you sleep.”

“Moma, it’s only 830! And those pills are for your arthritis, not for sleeping.”

“We do what we must,” said Moma with a sly grin. She couldn’t help but laugh a bit.

“I thought you had a date tonight.”

“The prick canceled on me. Second time this month. He’s dead to me now.”

Sarah stared at her grandmother, shocked. And then saw the little quirk at the edge of Moma’s mouth. She exploded with laughter.


“One does what one must,” Moma repeated pedantically, sending Sarah into more giggles. She plunked down beside the elder woman, hugging her hard.

“You always know what to say-either that or you’re just a wiseass.”

The two women laughed, Moma kissing her cheek tenderly. Rising, not wanting to interrupt Moma’s cherished soaps, Sarah moved to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine. Blowing her grandmother a kiss, she went down the hall to her room, the sound of female screeching from the tv a strange comfort.

It was heading into March;  only a few more weeks until the early peas would be planted, and then life would burst free from the cold and drear of winter, and hint at the promise of spring. It would start slowly at first, with the fuzzy gray catkins of pussy willows popping along the brook. Then the crocus, all glorious purple after the sere black and white tones of winter would start appearing at the edges of the house gardens.

As Spring progressed, her favorite event of the season would unfold. Her mother’s legacy of thousands of bulbs planted hither and yon never failed to break the last of the winter doldrums as they  exploded in golden splendor. It was always a joy to move around the farm and find a surprise bunch of daffodils tucked in a hidden corner.

And by then she’d be too fucking busy to mope, anyway.

With a sigh, she set the wine glass on her dresser, and began to undress. Might as well lay in bed. She could masturbate before she slept, which might help forestall some of those fucking dreams. Fucking dreams, indeed, she mused. Of late her mind had taken a sick twist and begun to fantasize about tentacles holding her down, of being fucked relentlessly, helpless to stop the beast that plagued her through the night.

It was gross. And still, incredibly exciting. She felt like one twisted bitch, thinking of things like that. Still, the internet was peppered with stories of that ilk for a reason, right?

Her mind on her dreams and not her actions, she sent her shirt, rolled into a little ball,  in the general direction of the hamper. Taking the time to fold her jeans, she placed them on the side table. She shook her head, shrugging off the undeniable appeal of being fucked brainless. It was a dream, albeit a twisted one, but still, only a fantasy. Things like that just didn’t happen in real life.  A careless toss sent undies and bra  towards the hamper; for a moment, the panties hung at the lip by the crotch before sliding in a silky purple puddle to the floor.

Naked, she rolled her eyes. Of course they’d fall out of the fucking thing. She gathered up the things, stuffing them inside, then grabbing her wine glass, she popped off the light switch and moved across the room in the dark. It was cold and she hurried under the warmth of her flannel sheets and thick comforter.


It stood in front of her window, motionless, invisible, when she had entered her room. For weeks now he’d been adjusting to the warmth of the house. It was uncomfortable, but manageable. If the heat caught him out of the cooler pond for too long, it would not be good.

The force driving him now was one of biology, to procreate. There were no words for it, no emotions,  just a raw burning need. He’d spent this time preparing her, for she was the best candidate of the three bipeds. He’d sent tendrils into her mind, controlling her dreams, making her body loose and languid and ready for his seed.

Watching her take off the coverings that she wore had been exciting. He knew the bipeds wore them to fend off the cold, that they had a very low tolerance for the temperatures that he found very comfortable. It had surprised him that she’d come here so quickly; he’d barely had time to freeze in front of the window. When the light went out, he shifted quickly, moving the fetid draught in the carbon container out of her reach. He watched her hand move around searching for it, but he pressed a thought into her mind and her hand became flaccid, falling limply to her side.

She shifted, legs opening, arms moving up under her pillow, exposing her body, her mind under his control. He took the carbon and placed it into the bowl of water in the water room, letting the dark purple poison swirl as he depressed the lever. He felt her try to waken at the sound of the toilet as she called it, but he pressed harder into her thoughts, inserting the image of his tip stroking the button between her bipedal locomotive devices.

“from thought to deed,” he mused.

With a soft moan, she settled.

She was ready.

So, now, was he.