Page 29 of Palingenesis

I wonder how he got it …

Swallowing hard, I watch as his gaze drift south, pausing at my bare chest before traveling downward. My face flushes and I instinctively cover myself with both hands. Not that it really matters, he’s already seen me running through the woods sans clothes. Still. It matters now, in this moment, that he does not get anything else that I’m not willing to give.

Where the fuck did my clothes go anyway?

The combination of my discomfort and the lack of memory must draw a sound from me, because he flicks his attention back to my face.

I cross my legs to free up my hands.

“Where?” I demand with pinched brows and a wagging finger. “Me. My clothes. Where?” I sign short, clipped gestures on purpose, sure to mouth the words clearly along with my hands in the hopes that he’ll get the gist. I would try speaking, but my hearing aids are dead and attempting to speak without knowing how long my voice has been off or the ability to hear some of what I’m saying to ensure it’s understandable has me resorting to ASL. It’s reliable enough that most hearing people panic and grab paper to write on or pull out their phones for me to text text. Or in some–very rare–cases, the recipient knows just enough basic phrases to understand me.

I never expect anyone to know sign. There’s not many people in my life that do, but it sure as shit makes it easier to communicate when my devices go out.

One day, they won’t work anymore, and although I’ve come to terms with that thanks to my early prognosis of profound hearing loss, it does still frustrate the fuck out of me when I don’t know for sure if it’s officially happened yet … or if I’m just out of power.

Even more so when I attempt to communicate and the recipient just fucking stares at me like I’m some circus monkey with a few tricks up his sleeve.

I wave an annoyed hand and sign again. “Where clothes?”

And just for good measure, because I’m annoyed as fuck at how much this fucked up vision has turned into reality, I make non-sensical signs, miming the act of dressing myself and pointing.

His eyes narrow, and a flush runs down my neck.

He’s going to leave me here like this.

But just when I think he’s going to haul ass, maybe even call the cops to come get me–as if I’m not here of my own volition–he holds up a darkened finger. A single, sharp, talon-like nail pointing to the sky.

Goosebumps blossom across my forearm at the idea that he picked me up with those nails and carried my wriggling body without a single scratch.

I also won’t lie and say that there isn’t some part of me that would love to watch those hands flutter about with meaning.

Gods, this has got to be the weirdest dream ever.

With just that notion, my captor leaves me naked and alone, with nothing but my wondering thoughts.

“What would it be like …” I sign to myself, thinking out loud with my hands. “It’s only a dream, right?”

Reaching between my legs feels like the most sinful thing to do in a moment like this, but I can’t seem to stop myself from addressing the ache. Maybe this is exactly what mind-me needs. Just a little bit of dick pulling and the risk of getting caught by my captor.

There’s just too much adrenaline in my system, and I’ve got nowhere else to put it.

Sounds like the plot to a fucking romance novel or something.

Snorting, I scoot back on the bed and under the covers—just in case my nightmare comes back too soon—and wrap my fist around the base of my rapidly filling dick.

The first touch sends sparks shooting down to my toes and a moan vibrating up my throat.

“Damn,” I sign with my free hand, my breath catching.

This won’t last long at all.

Visions of red eyes and fiery hair fill my head as I palm my balls, rolling them over the fingers of my non-dominant hand, the skin pulling taut with each of my strokes.

He’s pretty.

In the chiseled, statue-esque way. Like, in a he should be modeling for magazines and book covers kind of way.

Is that what this is? My next book?