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I groaned and my head fell back. I felt the whooshing continue up to my womb, and I bucked against my office chair. I thought it would - Emily Dickinson-like - burst through my brain, explode the top of my head, but instead, I sat bolt upright.

Control N. In front of me, now -- clearly, crisply -- a clean screen. I started to type, and the words were unbidden. "Now, Kristen, it's time to get to work - don't you think? You're much better than dry newsletters and brochures." I shook my head - what the hell? - and returned to my previous document. I admonished myself, a bit ashamed at this strange interruption: "You are going quite mad, Kirsten, and you have work to do. Later, after this newsletter is done - you can reward yourself with a nice cum - your vibrator's been idle for a bit too long, anyway." Control N. "What the hell?" I whispered aloud, and tried to take my hands from the keys. Against my will, they kept typing, the words kept appearing. "Can't you feel me Kristen? Don't you know I'm here? Don't you recognize me? Don't you recognize the touch? Has it been that long? Am I that easily forgotten?"

"Paul," I whispered, "Good Lord - this isn't right - this is so - this just can't be. ." The words continued. "Well, it is me, Sweetheart. I'm glad you haven't forgotten. I never really forgot you, you know - remember that night - when I fucked you down by the lake? It was dark and I had you naked against the metal railing." "Omigod." I whispered and wondered if I was heading for the proverbial author's crack-up. "I know this must seem awfully - well - odd. But here - just to prove it's me. . ." There was the cunt-whoosh again, but this time, the whoosh - the wind - the whatever-it-was - somehow felt like fingers - fingers reaching deep, deep into my cunt and curling - it was a trick of Paul's, and no one had ever been able to finger-fuck me like that. I felt a deep tingle - the tingle of Paul's trick - and I gasped and twisted, and, for a minute, pulled my hands from the keyboard.

"I could stop here," I whispered, "I could walk away from the computer, I could stop, I could pretend this never happened - I need to see a therapist - What am I saying? --I have no insurance -I can't see a therapist. I could go out - I could go - downtown - to the coffee-shop - I could go out for breakfast. . . " I grabbed my coffee cup and walked back to the living room. I stared at the self-satisfied cat-knot. Felix reached one paw out, squinted at me, mewled, then went back to sleep. I returned to the computer. I sat in front of it, took a deep breath, and placed my fingers over the keys. My hands began to fly - the words came sputtering out quickly, more than mechanically. There were no errors, no mis-spellings.

"I thought you would come back. I know you so well - still." "What do you know?" Was this the way to communicate? To speak to the letters madly scurrying across my screen? "I know you have the ability - and determination - to write - for me. There are things I was not able to finish before I"

My hands paused. The cursor blinked, waiting. "Before you what, Paul?" I whispered.

"Died. There are things I meant to write. But, the potboilers made money. A lot of money, actually, and I'm certain Vivienne is enjoying it now. I'm sure she's disappointed with the chunk I left to the SPCA. But, I digress - there are things one realizes, when one is in-between - much becomes clear. I should have made time - to write - what I meant. I did not. It's in part, I suppose, what led to my death - in some ways, I think, I died after publication of that first, damned, stupid mystery. But I think that's why I'm here - in-between - so that maybe I can finish some business. That's why I'm here - in your computer, so to speak. There are things I want to say - things I should have written - and the only way to do it now is through you."

"You want to write - through me - from beyond the grave - like automatic writing?" My temples were throbbing into one major migraine.

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