Medicine Man

I feel like I’m making this sound for him. I wish he could hear it. I wish he could see me making it. He’d probably clench his jaw, look at me with a calm, impassive face, gray eyes, and walk away.

Or maybe not.

Maybe he’ll stay. Maybe he’ll watch me touch myself for him.

Suddenly, I feel his eyes on me. The weight of it. I guess it’s all in my head, but it feels so real that I sweat with the heat of his look. It’s so real that I want to open my eyes and look at the little window on my door, hoping to see him watching me.

But I won’t.

I know he’s not there. He can’t be. He’s home or wherever he lives. And I’m stuck here, lusting after him. Putting on a show for him that he won’t even get to see.

I put my finger inside and my pussy feels creamy. Swollen. Juicy. It’s gasping like my breath.

I grimace as I go in and out, feeling the burn, the tightness. My back is bowed with how just a tiny finger is making me stretch, but I don’t care.

The burn is so fucking good.

I undulate my hips, hug my wrist with my shaking thighs, as I pinch my nipples, knead my breasts. I move, grind, twitch, and imagine those cloud-colored eyes.

I imagine them not only shimmering with authority, but also with lust. Dark and heavy and piercing. Pulling me apart, analyzing me, caressing me.

And when I break into a thousand pieces and come, I imagine those eyes counting every single piece of me so he can put me back together the right way, like a puzzle.

I turn my face and smother my lips with the pillow so I don’t make any noises. Even though I want to. I want to make all the noises, but I can’t. Not here.

When I come down from my high, I’m breathing hard. Sweating. And happy. Orgasms make me happy. It’s the kind of happiness I chase as often as I can.

“God…” I whisper, biting my lip and smiling through the sting.

But then, my eyes pop open and I look at the little glass window on my door. No one is watching. No one is standing there. As expected.

Of course, I don’t want someone to be there. It was just heat of the moment. Feeling pinpricks of embarrassment all over my body, I huddle under the blanket, closing my eyes, hiding from my own thoughts. Illicit desires.

He’s not a hero, he said.

Maybe that’s why I shattered myself just now. For him. So he could fix me, save me like a hero he says he isn’t.

With his medicine in my blood putting me to sleep, I close my eyes to that ridiculous thought. I don’t want anyone to save me. I don’t need saving. I also don’t need a hero.

I definitely don’t need a king who builds a castle for the one he loves. The one with the silver hair. And neither do I want that gray-eyed king to call the silver-haired girl, his snow princess.

Days spent on the Inside = 21

Days left to spend on the Inside = 21

Days since the ice king showed up = 7

He’s chatting with Josie.

The man of my dreams.

Actually, Dr. Simon Blackwood is the man who comes into my dreams. Not sure if it’s the same thing. Not sure if I should be dreaming about him at all.

The enemy. But honestly, he doesn’t feel like one.

He feels like someone I know but not really. Because I don’t know him.

All I know is that he doesn’t act like any other doctor I’ve met on the Outside. He hasn’t judged me or looked at me with condescension. Like he knows everything about my illness and the things I need, and I know nothing.

I also know that he’s fixing a house he doesn’t live in and he doesn’t like to be called a hero, but he saves people from needles and talks about putting my book back together.

Other things about him, I’ve only imagined.

Like his body. All powerful and male.

After that first time when I touched myself thinking that he was watching me, I’ve thought about him, dreamt about him daily. Every night, I feel like I have eyes on me and I’m putting on a show for him. But of course, no one’s there, at my little window.

I am the ballerina with no one to perform for but I do it anyway because my body won’t let me stop.

Sitting in the dining hall during lunch, I squirm in my chair, feeling full and achy. I cross my arms across my chest to hide my tightened nipples as I watch him chat with Josie. Not that he’s a chatting type, but apparently for her he is.

Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite for the food in front of me.