upon awakening

To earn Odd-Goof-ball Status - as promised, for you, J. :)

*

It is here, at this time in-between, when summer is breathing slower, shedding the last of its heat in easy exhales, and autumn is perched waiting, that she experiences something beyond her scope of living, beyond her perception of real. Yet, when it does not make her blush and glance away in embarrassment, the experience creates within her a squirm of unspoken delight, and draws a wetness. She has to hide gasps at random moments throughout the day when the images form clearly within her memory.

It happens like this:

She is in the garden, walking sideways and then forward, sometimes feeling the stepping stones beneath her bare feet, sometimes only moist soil. She is going through thoughts, feelings, impressions of her day thus far, and of the week already behind her. The removal of weeds is being performed by some other version of herself, one that can do things even when she isn't fully present. It is in this murky state that, as she leans forward to grab another green intruider, she tumbles. It happens very quickly, too much so to catch her balance, and she feels the slight roughness of the porch's edge cradle her face roughly, right before she is forced to sleep. She awakens some time later to:

Soil and plants molding around her body, a blurred tree stretched strongly above. Still in the garden, fine, and now to get up. Yet, nothing, as though her muscles are liquid. She doesn't see or feel anything actually restraining her, but her body seems to have no inclination to move. It is then that she catches movement from the corner of her eye.

Every year, as summer clearances wind down, her partner surprises her with a new garden gnome, a silly joke, to add a little sass to the pristine version of flowers and flow she creates.

While she doesn't at first quite believe it, she knows she sees it. The little men and women are moving busily about. And when she feels her dress being raised and her panties being slipped off, she can do nothing except shriek a protest. Some part of her speculates that even if her body reformed again, found its strength, she may still lie there and watch the story unfold, or unravel, or form again and again.

This is where her story gets very hazy because suddenly she only feels. Her world is a shadow to the sensations of one, two, five, seven pairs of miniature hands and mouths grabbing at her, biting, tickling, and certainly teasing. She doesn't know who, what, or how, but when she is entered, stretched, taken, she wants more, and more she is given. And then, after a climax, and another, her body wraps itself in a fulfilled fatigue and dozes into another sleep.

When she awakens again, the afternoon warmth has melted away and the sun is drooping in the sky, hanging by a last thread. She feels the weight of her body, and the normalcy of everything, her vision, her muscles, her thoughts. She sits up, and to her right, one of her gnomes. Or, at least, she assumes it is, though she is sure he was once standing, fully clothed, with a gleeful expression. Now he is bent in her direction, pants dropped, and she is sure he must be smirking a reminder.

She thinks she must better watch her step next time. Perhaps.