Doubull Indemnity

1

Isla, Conduit for ̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶S̶p̶i̶r̶i̶t̶u̶a̶l̶i̶s̶t̶ ̶A̶r̶t̶s̶ ̶Sexting

Oh, yeah, that day started like any other. Slow and cold. Until about, oh, like, noon-ish, or so? A decidedly after church hour but still early enough to be considered unholy by most in the Society of Other, Worldly, and Otherworldly Creatures. I had only just begun to sip my morning coffee when the first of the widows came knocking.

Not that I had any right to complain about having clients, for a change. A few, ah, noteworthy customers aside, January was relatively dry for the kitschy Psychic Readings industry. But Valentine's Day? Oh honey. Valentine's Day was your baby girl's most bumping day of the year.

"Yes, yes," moaned seventy-seven-year-old Muriel Felgren, a regular of mine with cataracts, a silvery blue wig, and a dead husband. "What else does my Wallace say? What—what does he do next?"

"Tell Muriel I touch her, ahem," the ghost of the aforementioned expired spouse, Wallace Felgren, three years deceased next month, rasped into my ear. He gestured toward his wife's bosom. "Here. Softly, at first. But more, ah, firm, as she melts like pudding under my touch."

For Gritty's sake.

"He squeezes your tits."

"Oh!" Muriel yelped like her beau did manage to land a nipple pinch from the great beyond. My chaise wobbled as she threw her head back, pawing at her own breasts over that mink coat.

"Pudding," said Wallace, nudging my elbow. "You forgot to say pudding."

I swatted Wally's hand away.

"Wait, Muriel, there's more— I hear him— it's faint, but yes, your Wallace is saying you melt like ice cream," My fresh manicure skimmed across the surface my crystal ball (still cracked, but nothing some clear tape and glitter couldn't fix). The ruby gem of my ring glinted in the light of my candles. "No. Like pudding beneath his touch!"

"Good gracious! Tell him I like that! I've always—it's been so long since anyone's touched me like this. Tell Wallace, oh, how I've missed his hands on me, just, roving the length of my pliant body! Say roving."

"Once again, Muriel, he can still hear you. Every word."

"Please, please, tell him." She panted, eyes squeezed shut and trembling as if she were about to let go and peak right there on my chaise.

I wrinkled my nose. Eck. Stupid, gross, sickeningly romantic, loving, devoted couple. I should be stupid skank sullying my stupid chaise like that, not one of my stupid regulars. A monthly one at that. Not even a weekly!

"Wallace, Muriel says she likes it when you," I sighed, "touch her like that. Like your hands are, you know, roving."

Good ole Wally's labored breathing intensified to a lurid wheeze. If it hadn't already killed him, I'd be worried the horny bastard's heart would give out from watching the scene. He licked his eternally chapped lips and admired his enthralled widow.

Tucked between my ass and the velvet chair cushions, my phone buzzed. Again. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Nuts. This session was already ten minutes over time and the lovebirds hadn't even made it past the foreplay. Move along and get to the good stuff babes. I had places to be. Namely, my second job. If I was late for a fourth shift, already, Greg would ring my neck—hm. Well. Suppose a few more minutes of reuniting grieving sweethearts couldn't hurt.