Page 7 of Baking With A Ghost

Filling in my own blanks from the dream, I imagine railing him on the cushions looking out of the bay window. My thighs slap against his perfect ass, and my balls smack into his. He raises on his knees and leans back to draw his arm around my neck, pulling me in for a kiss. Licking my lips with the visual, I taste myself on his lips and return the kiss. It's hungry and filled with so much pent up desire, I'm gasping with the realness of it. My sac grows tight and with a shaky groan, I spill a giant load into my own hand.

"Holy shit." I whisper to the room, as I lay on my couch, spent cock in my hand and cum painted across my entire abdomen.

I needed that more than I realized. The post sex relaxation sets in quickly, and even though I still need to throw a load of laundry in and make myself some dinner, this unplanned act of self pleasure is not one I regret taking. If I had dreams like this as a teenager I would never have left the house.

Removing my t-shirt bunched under my armpits, I wipe my hand before shuffling to the bathroom and washing up. I hum under my breath, true contentment settling over me, as I load my washing machine with my cum filled t-shirt and more whites from the hamper in the bathroom. One of tonight's must do tasks finished, I redress in a pair of lounge pants and a clean shirt from my bedroom and head to the kitchen to make my dinner.

Snowball appears again, meowing for her supper as well.

"Here's your smelly slop, my lovely girl." She purrs in appreciation before smashing her face in the bowl and smacking it up with some very unladylike noises.

I throw together a quick hamburger and noodle dish, making sure I have some left over for my lunch tomorrow. If there's one thing I'm addicted to, other than the mission to make a perfect loaf of bread that captures the essence of my childhood, it's pasta. I eat it every way I can. Plus, it's super easy to make. Pasta is the true happiness of the kitchen.

With a bowl of supper, I sit at my tiny dinette table and scroll through my Facebook notifications. Ivy keeps me up to date on my previous friends, the real version, and not the Instagram worthy photos they post. The couples on vacation with fake smiles, because one had an affair and they don't know if they will come through it. The photos of kids they brag about in public, but berate privately. The new vehicles when they are drowning in debt. Ivy gives me all the info, but I still scroll through it all, because even though these people are no longer in my life, it's the only life I have right now.

And funny cat videos. That's my life.

Ivy has repeatedly told me to make time for myself, maybe take a day off during the week to meet people, but I haven't gotten to that point yet. If I keep having dreams like my earlier one, I won't need to meet more people either. All the satisfaction with none of the drama.

"I can totally be fulfilled with that kind of action for a while." Snowball peers at me as she grooms herself, the question in her yellow eyes obvious. Are you talking to yourself again?

I wander over to the large bay window at the end of the room. It's the best feature of my loft apartment. One giant room that has the kitchen on one end, then my sitting area with the large arched window looking over the water and trees. It allows the most gorgeous early light in, and with the built in seating, it's a dream to lay in with a book and watch for wildlife.

As I reach out to pull the blinds down for the night, I freeze.

"What the fuck?"

I flick on the lights and lean in closer, my heart galloping like a horse who threw its rider.

There's an impression in the cushions and there's no mistaking what it is.

"No fucking way."

I live alone with a cat, but there's no mistaking what I'm seeing.

Two handprints, with marks in the fabric where fingernails scratched at the front, and rounded knee imprints at the back are embedded in the cushion.

Was my dream not really a dream?

John

The Son of the Miller

"Thankyou,Mary.Ihope to see you next Wednesday."

The elderly woman, who took me in at her bed and breakfast in town, pats my arm and tucks her fresh loaf of raisin bread into her reusable shopping bag.

"I'll be here, John. I love having a fresh bakery again. I was still a child when this place stood empty. But my granddad used to speak fondly of coming here for his flour when he was younger."

I've not had time to investigate the history of the mill any further, and definitely not since that weird dream I had. Mary is a lifelong local and she's such a sweetheart. She was so kind when I stayed at her place when I moved here, I’ve regretted not getting to know her more. Why not take a few more minutes now to chat?

"So your granddad would actually come here for flour? Ground right here?"

Nodding, she takes a seat on a chair by the window. "Every Saturday, he'd hitch his wagon and come to town for supplies. He lived quite a ways out of town at the time and cars were only for city folk. Horse and wagon was what he loved. He’d come here to speak to Mr. Miller and buy a single bag of stone ground buckwheat flour."

I lean over the counter, hungry for more information on the place.

"That's so cool. How long has this place not been a working mill?" I know they kept the water wheel on the side, but the stones for crushing the wheat are long gone. A sign of age on nature and the move of technology.

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