"Chester? Are you awake?" A woman's voice, his mother's, called to him, warm and filled with calm.
"Mmmm," he moaned.
"Chester. Are you okay?..."
He opened his eyes, the room, unfamiliar. What day was it? What time? Where was he? The image of his mother's face shredding into the dream. The house. The women's house. He jolted awake, looking around.
Corrine was kneeling next to him, concern on her face. "Are you okay? Have you been crying?" He felt her hand drifting down his cheek, the memory of Yvette flooding from her fingertips.
"Don't. Please." He pushed her hand away and looked down to see he had fallen asleep, naked on top of his bed, his peter hard, pointing toward her. "Oh god...my mother..." He closed his eyes and fell against the pillow.
"Your mother? Is your mother okay?" She rested her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes darting to his erection and back to his face.
"My mother? She died..."
"Oh, Chester! I'm so sorry! What..."
"No...no! She died four years ago! I was just dreaming you were her...I mean...never mind...it's okay. I'm okay."
She moved her hand down to his chest, feeling how smooth it was. "It's "4:30. Dinner's in half an hour – you need to get dressed. It's the only required meal all week. All council members, semi-formal." She stroked him lightly on the thigh watching his cock pulse, wanting to wrap her hand around it again. "You sure you're okay?" She asked as she got up to leave.
He nodded, not sure she could see him in the dim light from the hall and rolled off the bed.
4:30! How long had he been asleep!
"Oh, that's too rich!"
He didn't know at first who had spoken as he entered the dining room and found the last open seat. Looking around, he made eye contact with Roxie and Corrine, but ducked them when he saw Genielle looking at him with a thin smile. He peeked back up from his soup and saw Catherine eyeing him from the far corner of the table; he averted her gaze, pretending to listen to Darla.
The past few hours, first with Genielle and then the memory of Yvette welling up, confused him. He barely heard the women chatting about the weekend's events, their teasing about each other's relationships, the tests coming up. He was mildly concerned about his homework – he'd let it slide a little – but that anxiety didn't compare to the images that seemed to pop into his head from Yvette, so many years ago.
"Chester? You seem to be lost in thought!" Corrine sat across from him, offering a bowl of mashed potatoes. "Are you sure you're not coming down with something?" She turned to the rest of the group. "I was coming upstairs to make sure our guest knew about dinner and heard him moaning in his bedroom, the lights off. Now, all of us know the rules, but I thought maybe Chester had a friend with him in there!" She said it jokingly, but it didn't have the desired effect.
"What was going on, Chester?" Roxie chimed in, apparently sincerely concerned.
"It was nothing...seriously. I had fallen asleep – you know? I hardly ever do that in the middle of the day," he was trying heroically to make light of the situation. He didn't dare have them pry any further. "And I had the oddest dream. It was about my mother..." he let it drift off, as another conversation at the table grew more animated. Relieved the attention was off him, he looked up at Corrine who smiled silently at him, her expression suggesting she knew something different. "I'll never tell," she mouthed at him and turned to listen to the rest of the group.
"Who is it you're wearing, Chester?"
He answered without thinking, "LolaLuna. It's a boutique design house out of Paris. I get many of my clothes from there." He was focused on his food and didn't see the reaction from around the table. Several of the women rolled their eyes, others stopped eating altogether and a few hardly noticed, as if everyone gets custom-made designer clothes from Paris.
He felt odd in the clothes he'd chosen; self-conscious for the first time in...he couldn't remember the last time he'd thought about being dressed as he was. The clothes weren't out of place by any means – a tasteful blouse with a fine lace bra, silk slacks and flats. He fingered the pearls unconsciously, thinking perhaps he shouldn't have worn them...no, they were fine, he noticed, looking around the table. Everything was fine. What was wrong with him? Was he coming down with something? And then it occurred to him – he had ejaculated so many times in one weekend, it couldn't be healthy. He was drained. He needed to back off and let his vital fluids regenerate.
Relieved at finding a diagnosis for his malaise, he brightened a bit, listening with more interest to the chatter around the table. He turned to his right and realized it was June. She had been laughing at a something he couldn't quite catch.
"So, June, did I understand you are graduating this year?"
She turned and smiled at him, a beautiful wide smile, her cheekbones higher than any he'd seen. "Yes, Chester, I am. With great pleasure, I might add. I can't wait to get out of here! And you, what is your story?" She seemed truly interested, her blue eyes looking at him unwavering.
He was struck by that look, hesitating a heartbeat, trying to find his voice. "I...I, uh, well, I'm almost a senior, based on the credits, but I just haven't settled on enough classes in one department to get a clear major..."
As the conversation went on, he relaxed into June's engaging voice and manner. She was an excellent dinner partner, he decided, and felt the rest of the room melt away. Throughout the rest of the meal, they barely talked with anyone else, and he sensed a deep connection with her, the way she looked at him, her eyes kind and sparkling.
"Well, you two, it's time to retire to the lounge and let the crew clean up." Corrine had appeared next to them.
He broke away from staring at June, to see everyone was gathering their things and leaving the table. "Crew? Isn't it...I mean, aren't I...?
"Sunday," June patted his hand, pushing away from the table. "Our one meal of normalcy." The two waited for him to stand up and they walked through the main hall.
Chester wasn't sure what to make of it – they entered a room with a crackling fire, desserts on trays, the rest of the women taking places in various sofas and overstuffed chairs. "Are these rooms only for Council members?" He was a little overwhelmed.
"Sundays. Just for us." June had taken one arm, Corrine the other and they led him to a three-seater. "It's a small thing, but I appreciate it." She sat back, her arm going across his shoulders.
"Every Sunday," Catherine said, the sarcasm a little too cutting.
"Oh get over yourself, Cate. You know you love it – the sense of aristocracy, the privilege. It's the closest thing to home you're going to get, so don't try and convince us you think it's 'bourgeois.'" This from Corrine. He looked at her, his smile faint, trying to stay out of what appeared to be an old fight.
Catherine chose not to engage, reaching for a petit-four.