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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of o
o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o
o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o
o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o
o betical directories. o
o I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to o
o be typed therefore I don’t type things myself." I think it’s o
o a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises o
o that you might not have even thought of looking for. o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors. Kristen o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Deep Deprivation (MF, mild dom, bond)
by P. Thomas/A. Tourney (kodiak@best.com)
*
Year by year my eyes grew weaker. The myopia was intimately linked to the
swelling of my breasts; I was becoming voluptuous and blind at the same
time. As the spheres lengthened into pears, the retinae withdrew further
from the lenses and chambers, till they almost vanished behind the masses
of vitreous jelly. The delicate lenses, the rich fluids, the miraculous
array of refractive media was almost worthless. Lush growth of the body,
lush loss of sight.
I dreaded the torment of dilation at my yearly eye exams, but the long wait
with my eyes closed was never as painful as I feared. Under my eyelids, my
corneae moved back and forth as if I were reading. I saw words in that red,
stinging darkness. I saw a poetry of helplessness, abandonment, and calm
boredom. In the verses, spirits with smooth, cool hands lifted me, removed
my clothes, and laid me down, then stroked the limbs that were growing so
fast that the bones ached. As I waited for the chemicals to coax my pupils
open, I floated in a haze of sensuous impatience.
I loved sitting in the optometrist's chair. I loved the moment when he
closed the door, turned off the light, and leaned over me as he trained a
narrow beam back and forth across my eyes. So quiet in the darkened room,
except for the spearmint-scented susurration of his breath. I almost
fainted from the images his grave mouth breathed into my mind. Premonitions
of adult desire, dreams of slow lovemaking. With one chilly, odorless hand,
he clasped the soft flesh under my jaw. His lips were so close to mine that
I lost oxygen and felt drunk. In the seam of light, I saw the edge of his
skull illuminated; I saw the radiant cobwebs under the skin and imagined I
was studying the most intimate parts of his body.
Suddenly he switched off the flashlight and stepped back into the darkness.
I saw the silhouette of an amiable gnome. I blinked, startled.
The things he instructed me to do aroused me like a lover's orders. Take
off your glasses for one hour once a week. Practice feeling your way around
the house, negotiating the furniture with your fingertips. Locate the
telephone, the first-aid kit, and the fire extinguisher. Feel the dials on
the stove, so you can turn it off if necessary. Memorize the landscapes of
your face and body. Learn the secrets of their unfolding parts. These
things you will need to know if you lose your glasses.
I did as he said, but it was much easier than I had thought. I already had
the instinct; I could see with my hands. Without realizing it, I had
developed a perfect visual memory--every object that I saw, I saved in a
hoard of images for some future time when I could no longer see. I wanted
to follow the incantatory rules the doctor had given me, but I was already
an expert at the game. My vision--a porridge of color and light--simply
wasn't weak enough for me to pretend I was completely blind.
I tried tying scarves and shawls around my eyes, but few fabrics are truly
opaque. There was always that caul of light, a presence I sensed more than
saw. I wanted deep deprivation. I wanted the warm, burnt- umber darkness
that I saw when I closed my eyes, but my eyelids tended to snap open when I
least wanted to see. Nothing could weigh them down. When I tried to seal
them shut with tape, they fluttered like trapped moths. I didn't want less
sight; I wanted more darkness.
Years later, a lover bought me my first blindfold. It was a kidney- shaped,
black nylon mask, with two elastic bands to secure it to my head. I loved
the practical details of it: the efficient elastic, the neat hem, the
clinical scent of the fabric. This was an instrument of love, carefully
made to give me blindness. When I put it on for the first time and saw a
half-moon of light under the nosepiece, I cried.
"You have to be able to breathe," my lover said, exasperated. "It's just a
little light. You don't want to be completely cut off, do you?"
But I did. Under the blindfold's blissful obscurity, the white sliver was
an insult. I strapped the blindfold on my head and lay on my back on the
floor. The light hurt me. Even those weak waves carried a wrack of
remembered sight.
I went to a fabric store and tested one swathe after another, searching for
the least transparent cloth. I needed the tightest warp and weft possible:
this was a critical tool of desire. A saleswoman offered to help me. I told
her I needed a fabric I couldn't see through; she assumed I was looking for
a cloth that would hide the outline of my body in sunlight. There are so
many degrees between transparency and opacity. She couldn't help, and as I
held up yard after yard of cloth against the glare of the fluorescent
bulbs, she began to edge away. Finally I chose a soft black Lycra blend. I
bought five yards.
I've always been clumsy with sewing machines; the hungry thrust of the
needle scares me. I was so nervous as I sewed my first blindfold, so
anxious and greedy, that I drove the needle through my finger.
I don't think there's anything more beautiful than a blindfolded woman. I
love the way the knotted cloth molds the hair. I love the way the mouth and
nostrils quiver under the new burden of sensation. I love the slow, mute
oscillation of the head. I photographed myself blindfolded. I showed the
pictures to a former lover, one who had forgotten most of my secrets.
"Who's that?" he laughed. "The latest S/M poster child?"
"It's me," I said, waiting.
"No way." He turned the black-and-white photos upside-down. He held them at
arm's length. "They're horrifying. You look like you're facing a firing
squad."
He was right. Under the blindfold, I had the hard-lipped pallor of a woman
stepping off the edge of life. In most of the pictures, I was wearing a
black lace bra and panties, but in two of the photos, I was naked. A layer
of hard gooseflesh over my breasts made me look like I'd been frozen. My
nipples were tight and colorless. I took the photographs back. When I got
home, I tore up the images and melted the negatives over the stove. I
enjoyed the acrid odor of burning film. Its ugly sensibility soothed me.
There's no rebuke in an odor like that. It's just the predictable result of
a chemical reaction.
I couldn't help photographing myself blindfolded. The worst thing about
being deprived of sight was that I couldn't see myself in that state of
vacant exhilaration.
My sister and I were sitting in the car, waiting for her boyfriend to come
out of a liquor store. We talked idly. Which would you rather be, if you
had to make a choice, she asked--deaf or blind? Deaf, I said quickly. I'd
have an excuse not to talk on the telephone. I wouldn't have to listen to
the yelp of stray TV sets. In my gauze of silence, I would do nothing but
read books. She would be blind, she said. She had worked with deaf students
in a sign language class. With graceful urgency, they had told her how
hearing people patronized them, avoided them, and finally shunned them.
"Isolation isn't as thrilling as you think," my sister scolded.
"Then there's no decent answer to your question," I said.
When she asked the question, I hadn't considered my love of darkness. I
hadn't thought about the long, blank hours I spent wearing the blindfold
for my lover. He loved to see me wear it when I was naked; as well as he
knew my body, he never recognized it when my eyes were covered. He would
tell me to feel my way through the apartment while he followed me, watching
as I gingerly groped the furniture and batted at the uncurtained windows.
He would make me sit endlessly in an empty room, waiting for him to make
love to me. Once he drove me out to the redwoods, lead me deep into the
forest, told me to undress, and blindfolded me. I don't know how long I sat
naked, curled up in the spongy lap of one of those giant trees, panicking
as I inhaled and exhaled silence.
It was that waiting--half languor, half terror--that I loved. When my
sister and I compared deafness and blindness, we listed practicalities. We
talked about people and machines, and whether we would miss the sight or
sound of them. We didn't talk about the helplessness, or the hours of
patience enforced by sensory deprivation--but we were enduring them as we
spoke. Here we were, two women in an unlocked car, perspiring in the heat
and scraping at fly specks on the windows and twirling our hair around our
fingers. For the past half-hour, we'd been waiting for a man to
comparison-shop for wine while the mid-summer sun turned the vinyl
upholstry to butter. And here he was, at last, cradling his bottles of
forgetfulness as he emerged from the liquor store. Moments like this are
small foretastes of oblivion. The deeper draught is blindness.
People laugh when I tell them I can't hear speech without my contact
lenses. It's true. They don't realize how much comprehension depends on a
clear view of the moving mouth. Speech irritates me when I'm
blindfolded--my lover issues his commands in soft, clipped phrases that
barely break our silence. I don't want anything to distract me. I don't
want to hear anything but the deepest evidence of desire: the constrained
flow of his breath, the liquid clearing of his throat, the reverberation of
a stifled moan inside his chest.
My lover blindfolded me and tied my hands behind my back with a nylon cord.
He gently pushed me to my knees and told me to search for his penis with my
mouth. I thought of the doctor's office, the cold hands guiding me to the
chair as my burning eyes struggled to see. The eyes are irritable and
sensitive, guarded by a muscular reflex, but they long to stay open. They
want to flex their amazing mechanisms, even when we long for darkness; they
have a cruel will.
My lips grazed my lover's swollen cock. I had found it by echolocation,
hearing the pitch of its minute tremor. I nuzzled it, wove my tongue around
the head, then slowly eased the shaft down my throat. He swallowed. He's
not supposed to moan or sigh when we do this, or murmur my name, or groan
when he comes. I can only touch him with my lips and tongue. He started
binding my hands because I couldn't keep from touching him; when my eyes
are disabled, my hands immediately take their place.
My lover ordered me to stop. I didn't want to stop; in my hunger, I was as
stubborn as a newborn. I loved the pacific sucking. Deep in my throat, it
created a calm vacuum that heightened my sense of suspension; I could have
knelt in front of him for days without feeling the erosion of time. After
months of practice with the blindfold, I could endure more nothingness than
I had ever thought possible. When I was seven years old, I wept when I
thought of the dilation procedure--what would I do in those minutes of
darkness? It was an unfathomable well of time. Now I could sink through
gallons of time without thinking, without moving, without feeling hunger or
thirst. It was a dark, profound "dolce far niente."
"I said stop," my lover whispered.
He grabbed the blindfold and pulled my head away, then lifted me by the
shoulders and lead me to his bed. I would lie down, and then I would have
to wait. He might leave the room. He might leave his apartment. Once he
left me at midnight--I knew it was midnight because I heard a security
truck making its nightly round of the complex--and didn't return until I
sensed dawn illuminating my skin. He undressed and knelt over me. He had
brought in the cold of an early winter morning, and he smelled of cigarette
smoke and cheap fabric dye. Suddenly I thought, he's been in a motel. He
made love to another woman while I waited for him here.
The thought made my body quake--panic and rage. But his flesh didn't feel
like it had been kissed or caressed; it was cool and damp and
self-contained, like the muscles of a newly opened oyster. He had been
sitting somewhere, alone. I always cringed from images of what my lover did
while I waited under the blindfold. I couldn't stand to think of him doing
something common, like reading a magazine or eating a sandwich. But it
frightened me to think that he might seek out emptiness the way I did; I
would rather envision him with another woman. My vacuum could be observed,
but not shared.
On the nights my lover didn't leave me, he would stand over me, watching.
This observation was far more excruciating than the lonely waiting. The
first time he did it, I couldn't stop laughing. Then I began to cry and
begged him to go away, or to untie the blindfold. He said nothing. I heard
him sit down in his rocking chair and unfold a newspaper. I asked him what
he was doing; he said he was trying to occupy himself while he waited.
Waited for what? He told me to be quiet. He must have read the entire
paper, considered the position of each paragraph in the clockworks of the
world. Each time a page turned, I jumped at the rustle of newsprint as if
it were the hiss of a snake. My flesh tightened and shivered in the
air-conditioned room. I thought he had forgotten me, but when I tried to
move my wrists under the nylon rope, he ordered me to lie still.
Then I fell. It wasn't sleep. My breathing deepened. My eyes remained open
under the blindfold. My bound hands tingled for a few minutes as the nerves
protested, then they grew numb and I felt no sensation below my wrists.
Oblivion unfolded slowly. My lover knelt over me, gently pulling my bound
arms over my head, then parting my legs--I couldn't have pronounced his
name. He entered me without difficulty; my body had been seeping fluids.
His hands skimmed my body as if I were a pool of water; as he stroked my
breasts, stomach, thighs, I felt he could have lifted handfuls of me and
watched me slide through his fingers. The thrust of his groin became the
sole measure of time-- a rapturous, infinite percussion. Breaking our rule
of silence, he moaned my name, and through the tenebrous hush of the
blindfold, it came to me like a blessing.
He told me afterwards, as I lay dazed and sodden on his bed, that it was
only twenty minutes. Forty-five, if you counted the time it took him to
read the paper. I insisted that I had been lying on his bed for at least a
day. No, he repeated, showing me his watch, forty-five minutes.
"You should see your eyes," he said. "Your pupils are so wide, I can hardly
see the iris. They're like black satin wells."
Even in the dim light of his bedroom, it was a strain to read his watch. It
was a strain to remember the syntax of time. I couldn't lift my hand to
touch his face--I had no substance.
While my eyes dilated, I would sit with my hands resting on the chilly
steel arms of a waiting-room chair. The waiting room--room of sensual
suspension. My mother would offer to read to me from a magazine, but I
didn't want to hear her voice. Even the murmurs of the nurses and
receptionists were difficult to bear. Minutes passed; the panting of time
soon faded. As deeply as I drifted, I couldn't quell the fear that I would
never feel the nurse's cool hand on my shoulder, telling me it was time to
go back to the doctor's office. What if she never came? Anxious and calm at
the same time, I experienced the waiting as a tremor in my growing limbs,
in my painfully swelling breasts, between my soft thighs. My whole body
would contract when I finally felt that hand on my shoulder, and as the
nurse led me through the still halls to the doctor's office, I quivered
with relief.
When I wait, I'm disabled. I lie--blindfolded, bound, and weakened-- till
someone speaks to me, touches me, enters my body. I wait for a command, or
a promise. I wait for a breath.