A Taste of Morgan's Writing

Suggested musical accompaniment: INNOCENCE - Al Marconi

The Encounter
A Trip into Fantasy

by Morgan Summerfield


      Imagine this secluded little cottage way back off the road surrounded by blooming cherry trees and pink dogwoods. The hideaway is washed a deep gray with weathered white trim. The walkway is patterned stone fringed by purple hyacinths, white daffodils, and red anemones. When you reach the wide planked porch that stretches across the front of the house and approach the ocean blue door, you admire the hand twisted lavender wreath that hangs at the entry. The soothing herb invades, yet does not still your anticipation of what awaits.


     As you open the portal, you find roses and lilies saturating the air in the dimly lit hallway. The intricate, artistic area rug at your feet is thick and lush and inviting. Committed to your adventure, you slip out of your shoes and step onto the rug with your bare feet. Your toes tell you that the alluring image that teased your vision was truth. Closing your eyes, you linger in the sensation as you breathe in the pleasing floral aromas and they drift through you like a gentle breeze caressing every inch of your body.


     A distant rustling perks your ears, but you keep your eyes closed anxious for the moment but seeking to extend the exhilaration. As the sound approaches you find you are holding your breath and you try to ease, still keeping your eyes pinched tight. The unseen moves behind you and the quiver on your lips will not be stilled. You feel the presence close, and its heat reaches out to you heightening your expectation. A gentle hand touches your back, and you catch your breath. The hand moves unhurried down your spine and across to your hip, sending shivers over you.


     The other hand of the unknown finds your other hip, and you are secure in place. A lump comes to your throat. The thought of ending this crosses your mind, but the hands relegate the thought to fleeting, and you hold course. Time standing still, the hands travel from your hips, up past your waist, and come to rest on your belly, inches below your ribs. Your sigh cannot be held away and the quiver on your lips intensifies to a tremble.


     The buttons on your shirt are targeted and yield to the phantom now sliding the shirt off your shoulders, down your arms, and away, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. The illusion presses against you with its warmth and a kiss finds you neck. Delicate fingers charm the stray strands fallen from your upward swept hair and guide them away from the nape of your neck.


     This first kiss is followed by many that hungrily cover your neck and shoulders, making you oblivious to the movements that release what remained of your attire to the floor. Anxious and a bit frightened you stand, wondering what will come next. Your lips part as you try to speak, but those soft, skilled fingers prevent words, and a whispered "Shh" finds your ears.


     Realizing the as yet unknown maker of pleasure is now in front of you, you want to open your eyes. You want to see what has captured your imagination and give it form and texture, yet you find you fear the knowledge more than the concept. You wonder, "If I open my eyes, will this being fall short of expectations? Will the vision allow surrender or deepen my anxiety and destroy the moment?" As if your thoughts were read, a blindfold covers your eyes taking away the need for decision and offering you excuse. "I had no choice," you tell yourself, relieved that the choice was made for you.


     A hand takes yours and coaxes you into motion drawing you down the hall, to the left, and into a space brimming with the scent of patchouli, jasmine, and sandalwood. You also detect the essence of hot wax and the smoke of something burning. Your sight in stasis and unavailable to offer confirmation or cancellation of reality, you envision the room filled with candles of varying size and shape, incense smoldering in an elaborate holder, bright, comfortable fabrics abounding, and dozens of lavish pillows strewn about the floor—a Casbah.


     A smile curves your lips as you remember the movie where a like venue allowed the vicarious thrill of watching two lovers in fiery congress. Your body is set to tingling with the prickly sensation of something to come and goose bumps form. The hand draws you further into the room and encourages you downward. Your steps fall into warm water, and the hand now at your back pushes you forward.


     The hand falls away, and you find yourself waist deep. Something causes ripples across the surface lapping at your belly like tiny waves. The phantom pulls you back against its solid form and together you lower into the water flesh on flesh. The liquid touches your chin, your head falls back to the shoulder of the one cradling you and you are peaceful. The water begins to bubble and swirl draining the tension from your muscles and making you weak. Those experienced fingers massage your temples and you are carried away to a place where nothing exists but the sensations of the moment and the utter serenity inside you.


     Without warning, the phantom's embrace releases you and, for a moment, you are as a child separated from a parent, confused and frightened. The pool goes silent. Then, the hand you have come to trust caresses your arm, entices you up, and walks you out of the experience. Your arms are guided into a soft robe, which your caregiver presses to your form.


     In silence, your legs are dried all the way to the top. Sensation is high and everything in the moment is amplified. You stand anticipatory of the next stage. The ethereal music increases in volume, and you note the light in the room is dimmer, though you cannot be sure by how much.


     Once more taking command, the most attentive paramour, as phantom seems no longer to suit, conducts you a few feet away, removes your robe, seats you on a bed, and presses you to a prone position. Your face in the silky, scented linens, your need for control puts you on notice of the risk you are inviting. However, those wondrously talented hands begin to stroke your flesh starting at your toes and working their way upward in a most leisurely fashion, sending away the warning voices. The hands reach your hips then vanish, and you, again, become uneasy. "No, don't stop," your brain screams.


     The shuddered breath you draw evoked by dread causes a trickle of water from the wet tresses at your neck to travel down your back. You shudder. The tremble returns to your lips, and you hang on the edge of tears. Relief fills you as all comes well when the hands return to your shoulders. They ease you to your back and travel down your arms. Fingers interlock with yours and your arms are compelled over your head. The scent of the devotee hovers over your face--crisp, spicy, and heated. The kiss is a breath away, and your head tilts to the side seeking the act.


     The suspense is maddening as the kiss is held away despite the undeniable fact you desire the passionate press. Your mind races over possibilities. "Is this imagination? Have I fallen into a dream? Is this but wishful thinking?" When the lips finally do fall to yours, you find relief in the knowledge that the kiss was worth the wait. The one kiss leads to many, and they traverse your flesh like butterflies coming to rest then flitting away.


     Another pause in contact leaves you in emotional pain. Your back arches, your body rife with eagerness more than equal to that of the moment you arrived, sensing the adventure close. You come to believe that every act of this play has been scripted just for you and your heart fills with the joy brought by the attention someone has taken and given in creating it. You must see this author of bliss. Removing the blindfold, you keep your eyes closed, seeking the precise moment for the reveal.


     As you again sense them close, you slowly open your eyes. An embarrassed smile curves your lips when you see their face, hear their words, and realize you are standing in the hall on the rug in your bare feet. "Good morning, Ms. Summerfield. We'll get your spa day started in a few minutes. I am drawing your bath. Would you like something to drink? Brit will be your provider today…"


     Ah, spa day. My one day for indulgence and escape—though my imagination does sometimes carry me away.

     My best wishes to you for many spa days, inclusive of phantom lovers with skilled hands.



Spa day is like reading a well crafted book. They are both capable of carrying one away and into another world. There is nothing wrong with a little relaxation and imagination now and then. Bring your phantom lover out to play. What have you read lately?

From the Author: As you may have guessed, I write fiction. My fiction is for adult women who are neither afraid of being themselves nor afraid of what other people might think. My books are not fluff. They are gritty, suggestive, uncompromising, and filled with unpredictability. If you are a strong woman, who enjoys an adventure in reading, my novel Blood and Magnolias (Southern Gothic) is an excellent place to start. Once you have that one ‘under your belt,’ if you like Epic Fantasy and crave a female in the lead, begin the Colony Series with Among Us.  If you are already a fan, I thank you. If you are not yet a fan, I invite you.

Want to dig deeper? Try one of these links.



Morgan's Story Board Video

Writer's Block Video

One of my paintings now residing with a good friend.

Among Us,
book one of the
Colony Series has arrived.

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HerStory: Fiction Honoring Women's History Month - Morgan's short story 'Adella' is included.


More of Morgan's Paintings




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