“Tell me you still need me,” she pleads. I look at her hovering over me. She looks fierce and fiery. Then I cry out as her fingers tear away my panties and plunge inside of me. “Tell me!”
“I need you Kate,” I say, sobbing. “I need you. I can’t feel without you.” She smiles softly and licks her lips and looks down at me. I am writhing. I want to be fucked by her. It’s so hot in the room, and I think all of the heat is coming from where Kate’s hand is. I feel two fingers push up onto that spot that only she seems to be able to locate. Her thumb is on my clit and rubbing gently. She is pushing out from inside of me and in from outside of me and I feel the heat building down there. Within seconds, I come, feeling my blocked energy and build up gushing out of me. I am sticky and warm everywhere and I don’t care. She is good for me. She is my life, and I’m so happy to have her back. I pull her toward me until she is within me and kissing me everywhere, from my face to my thighs and down to my toes. I feel like I am glowing from the inside with her energy, and I feel complete. She makes me taste myself off of her fingers. “I love you,” I tell her before I drift off to sleep.
Chapter 4
I am ready. It is the morning of my father’s funeral and I am well rested for the first time in a long time. I dress accordingly in a conservative black wrap dress that goes just above the knee and isn’t too low cut or anything. I am slightly tan from the sun and choose not to wear any makeup, but I pull my hair away from my face into a high ballerina bun because it’s scorching outside. Luckily I am handy with a pair of scissors and turn elbow length sleeves into sleeveless. Jack isn’t worth the extra step, though, and I don’t bother trying to hem or anything. I probably won’t be able to find sewing materials in my apartment anyway, though I’m sure there’s a stolen sewing kit somewhere around from Appleseed. Alicia keeps them around for wardrobe malfunctions, which you wouldn’t think would happen with nothing but a silver bikini inside of a cage but customers can get creative and rough. I wouldn’t put it past some horny drunk guy to try something with a wire hanger.
I need to take the El downtown, walk to union Station and then catch a Metra train to Oakdale. I refuse Devin’s offer to catch a ride with him on his motorcycle because I need to be alone in my thoughts with Kate for as long as I can before I show up to the funeral and also because Devin’s seat isn’t padded well enough to be comfortable enough for a long ride. I only tell him my second reason because I know he wouldn’t really understand the first.
Oakdale is near where I grew up and it’s a quaint little Irish neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. The train station at Oakdale is quaintly decorated for Memorial Day with red white and blue bows and lights and it’s a short four block walk down 95th Street to the funeral home. I pass by my reflection in the windows of bridal shops, flower stores and ice cream parlors and notice that my ballerina bun hasn’t held up very well in the heat. Loose tendrils are sticking to my neck, which is already wet with my own perspiration. The digital clock at the bank tells me it’s 86 degrees.
Devin is outside waiting for me, looking very handsome in a suit and tie. I know he wants to smoke and so I open my purse and hand him my pack and we are outside silently smoking and sitting on a bench while we watch people file inside. We don’t know them, but we gather from the sign outside that our father’s funeral is not the only funeral going on. I brought a flask, and offer it to Devin. He gives me a look but takes it without comment, cringing from the harsh taste of whiskey. “How can you drink this shit?” he asks me. I shrug and take the flask from him and take a long chug. Kate is looking on at us, amused that we are getting drunk outside of our father’s funeral and being very “classy” about it. I can hear her disdain in my head but she is quiet near Devin. Devin finally puts out his cigarette and looks at his phone. “It’s 2:00,” he tells me. “I guess we should go in.” We walk inside and suddenly I am freezing from the blast of air conditioning. I swear I smell embalming fluid but I’m not really sure what that smells like.
“Hello,” says a man who is as tall as Lurch from the Addams Family and has a soft honey voice, wearing a dark suit. I assume he is the funeral director. “Who are you here to see?”
“Jack Parker,” Devin tells him. The man nods and leads us down a hallway to a room. Oh, wonderful, it’s open casket. There are less than ten people inside the room, strewn about and drinking coffee. It makes me wish I’d brought some Bailey’s Irish Cream, but in Oakdale, someone is bound to have a flask with some.