("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2010. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. All rights reserved. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Wall Flower by Gwydion (gwydion@writeme.com) *** She didn't think about the Thing - not really - she wasn't thinking as she slid down her panties and leaned back against the futon. She wasn't thinking as she slid a condom on the end of the Thing, trying to fix it so that it would go right. (MF, nc, d/s, s/m, toys, touching) *** It was Friday night, and the calm of that evening settled on Diane as she sat with her knees up on the couch in her 'room'. Outside the cold of October didn't keep thousands of people from the Manhattan streets, nor did it keep them from killing each other (she intuited from the sounds of the sirens) or from drinking (as she could hear other NYU students celebrating their weekend in the street below). Inside the room on her bookshelf, Diane's mom's picture kept watch over all her activities. Diane was thankful for the Friday calm, counted on it. This would be the night Kat would be out - out in some dive or hellhole in the city, out until all hours. Not at home like Saturday night, when she would have her men over. Try as she might, Diane was not able to truly focus on the anatomy text in front of her, trying to link tiny bone pieces to each other in her head. She was also unable to read her economics book, despite the exam that would take place Monday morning. She chewed on a length of unwashed midnight hair (left to grow long more out of apathy than anything) and blinked sharp green eyes washed-out by the absolute marble-white pallor that seemed to say she had lived in some lightless cave her entire life. The bags under her eyes had two-color zip-lock seals on them - but she hadn't really looked in a mirror since last Sunday when she went into Kat's room to search for a pencil sharpener. The bath-closet (it wasn't really even a closet, more like a bath-chimney. A tiny space just large enough for a toilet and a shower stall, and if someone was sitting on the toilet or if the stall door was open, you could not close the door) had no mirror in it. But Kat had rigged mirrors to the left and right of her bed so she could watch herself with the men she brought back home. Diane kept a silent tally of these men - giving them free-floating names like, "Mr. Ambiguity", "Fathead", "Blondie" and "Thumper" (whose name was given because of the thump-thump sound he tended to generate as he used Kat's headboard to test the structural integrity of the wall). There was no common ground between any of them. Kat went beyond "indiscriminate" to the realm of the pseudo-random. Diane knew that there were things that happened in that room - things that she had no concept about. Things that made the tiny soft downy hairs on the back of her neck stand erect. She knew that the things were things she had read about in filched copies of Cosmopolitan. She knew that it was something dreadfully kinky. She began to be disgusted with herself for many reasons: that she hoped Kat would catch some awful disease and have to leave school was one, but running a close second was the concept that she actually found herself, from time to time, reacting to the sounds. The living arrangement was like this: Kat had the bedroom, and paid 2/3 of the rent, which her daddy eagerly forked over at the first of the month like clockwork. Diane had the rest of the apartment, which consisted of a small alcove, a closet-kitchen, and a closet-bathroom. Her 'bed' was a futon, in the alcove, which actually had the only decent window in the whole place. Once home, Diane never left her alcove. But the vents in the apartment meant that there was no privacy - not that Kat ever cared about privacy. Diane had stopped hating Kat a long time ago - that was last semester. Now she just dealt with Kat like one deals with a force of nature - like rain: you can't do anything about it, so why try? Just get an umbrella. As her "umbrella", Diane spent $6 on a pair of probably- stolen headphones from 6th avenue, and played CD's to try and drown out the Roman orgies that Kat orchestrated from her bed, which basically took up the entire room and had to be forced in by two burly Queens-born movers. What Kat never knew was that Diane had been working on reading "the Story of O" for the past 12 years. It rested like a dirty sweat sock of sin in a cigar box, which was in the bottom of her steamer trunk. Diane had been started reading the novel by Ms. Reage fourteen times, never getting past the first chapter. Some kind of sense of dread kept her from throwing the novel away - so she hid it underneath stacks of postcards that her Grandma had sent her on her trip across the United States. What Diane didn't know was that Kat wouldn't have even recognized the book if she had seen it: she learned about her kink from the sleazehole bars that she frequented, not from some softly-written erotic novel. Boredom was the voodoo of Diane's life, it was what made trouble and changes happen for her. When she was fully engaged in the happenings of her existence, she never had any problems or worries. The moment she became bored, however, her unconscious self took over - with interesting results. Diane didn't always notice when she was near-fatally-bored - she filtered out much of the complaints of her needy psyche. So, it was not surprising that one cold day last Spring, after shelling out $10.95 to a nudie-toy vendor, Diane found herself unconsciously holding a Thing. The Thing was meant to run on batteries. She bought a package at a CVS that was open all night right down from her apartment, feeling vaguely guilty. The batteries were like condoms for the Thing. On second thought, she turned and equally unconsciously bought a pack of condoms. She very carefully and deliberately place the items in her backpack and absolutely, irrevocably forgot about them. That is, until her Friday night was shattered. The door opened quite unexpectedly (although Diane was - always had to be - dressed. There was no privacy in Diane's 'room') and in stumbled Kat and some silky- looking wet tom cat of a boy. He waved at Diane as he lead Kat by a chain leash attached to a padlocked collar through the room, pausing only to slam the door to Kat's room twice (because twice is what it often required). It wasn't until the thud of the door (rattling the windows and making Kat's stupid bobbling dog-head toy next to the door shake its head "yes") that Diane realized that Kat had been naked. Well, naked at least from the waist up -no bra, no shirt. Just her nipple piercings to provide some simulacrum of modesty. "Yes." The plastic dog seemed to say. After a while, it was "Yes" that she heard first - then a flock of them. She decided that this one would be called the "Yes-man" because he seemed to be a pretty competent lover. Had broken a land-speed record for a Kat orgasm, which were normally spaced about 17-1/2 minutes apart almost like clockwork. She tried to somehow read the economics text and the anatomy book at the same time, hoping that alternating between the two would somehow engage her brain. She was wrong - only the sounds of a scream and a slap in the other room kept her brain anywhere but asleep. Another "Yes"-flock, another record, she thought, glancing at her watch. 5 minutes apart. She wondered if Kat even noticed she was having a better time. Then she remembered the Thing. More postcards had been placed between the pages of Diane's photo album to make room for the Thing, which Diane felt thankful for on some deep level - that the Thing wasn't so huge that it would fit in the cigar box. That it wasn't so ugly as she had thought at first - that with the batteries in it, it exhibited a kind of ready neediness. She didn't think about the Thing - not really - she wasn't thinking as she slid down her panties and leaned back against the futon. She wasn't thinking as she slid a condom on the end of the Thing, trying to fix it so that it would go right. Wondering how anyone ever put those things on in the dark was not beyond her, but thinking about anything else was out of the question. Deep hoarse screams from Kat - she was orgasming again, it seemed - this time without the attendant "Yes"-train. Diane closed her eyes and fitted the Thing to its place... the place that men with black horned-rimmed glasses had designed the Thing to stimulate. She couldn't help but imagine them watching her, bent over her with their coke-bottle lenses peering at her fingers moving the thing into a comfortable position. She could almost hear them wondering aloud "Why doesn't she put it in her?" Diane doesn't put it in her because she doesn't wish to - because it has never done anything for her. Having secretly run to death her mother's back massager in late high school, Diane didn't have to think to know that it would be for naught within her. To take her mind of the screams, Diane reached for the book in the cigar box. She did not read the cover this time. She did not read the preface. Feeling bold, she skipped Chapter 1. She was reading about O and about the Chateau, and it struck her deeply. She felt as if one of Kat's piercer friends had somehow snuck in with a stealth piercing needle and struck her clit through. She didn't cry out in pain, though. She cried out because the orgasm that took her shook her completely, and hadn't even had the politeness to give her a warning twinge. It was just suddenly there, a surprise like a bounced check. She didn't hear the fourth and fifth orgasms, because she was asleep. *** She woke up the next morning absolutely mortified, as the Thing (looking somehow smug in its latex sweater) was still between her legs, her Hanes Her Ways down around her ankles, her thighs splay on the futon, her hair tousled - and the apartment, empty. Kat's door stood open as a moot report to her muddled brain: *You have been discovered*. Diane was glad that she had made Kat stop using strychnine to keep the rats away, because she knew that she would have been tempted to eat it for breakfast. She was mortified. Not that she gave a *damn* what Kat thought. But what about the Yes-Man? What did he think? She didn't really want to know. She wondered if Kat would tease her about it or risk her leaving if she did. It would be hard for Kat's father to find someone willing to put up with no private space at all for the price she paid for rent. Then Diane just let the utter embarrassment wash from her like the October rain was washing the gullies of Manhattan, outside. She would probably never see the Yes-man again, anyway. Life went on. Diane studied hard, and Kat stayed out late. Kat woke Diane up on Sunday morning tossing her cookies in the bathroom: if it was due to too many drugs or too much alcohol the night before, Diane didn't know, didn't care. To her credit, and possibly because of the very real fear that Diane would move out (as if she had anywhere to move *to*) there was only one rejoinder to Kat's finding Diane laying there like some kind of centerfold from Nerd Grrl Monthly: One day when Diane came home from class, there was a cardboard box on her futon. She absently looked inside, began pulling out scraps of cloth from the box. Then she realized that it wasn't some kind of recycled-materials repository but a box full of actual clothing. The stuff was mostly lingerie - the kind that slutty girls like Kat cut their teeth on (she imagined Kat receiving her first thong on her 12th birthday, hidden in her birthday cake). In fact, it was hand-me-downs from Kat, Diane realized, and then realized to her utter humiliation that there was some kind of reason to Kat's dumping her old undies off on her. There was a matchbook on the top layer of the wisps of used nylon and it was from the Hellfire Club - obviously the only note paper that Kat had, for inside the cover was a little note, "Thot (sp.) you would like these things. They don't fit me anymore. Luv, K." The box was a kind of albatross. There was no way for Diane to bring herself to get rid of it - when what she really wanted to do with the lot was throw it out her window, making a rain of panties and garter-belts and stockings-with-runs like some kind of transvestite wet dream. But she couldn't do it - instead keeping the box next to her bed like some kind of badge of shame. It didn't occur to her to ask why suddenly Kat was becoming tidy (throwing out old anything just wasn't her style, she still had hot-dog paper wrappers from 1994 buried somewhere in her room), but all the packing-up became clear when Kat's father arrived (was that blushing bride #3 or #4 on his arm?) and took Kat away. It wasn't until Kat actually hugged Diane goodbye that she noticed a slight swell in the woman's tum, and suddenly realized what was happening: the slut was going to be a mother. Daddy-Kat gave her a check to cover three months rent, and smiled, saying, "Whatever else is in the room, you can have." Which included the bed (which would probably have to be chain-sawed out of there) and even the two giant-sized mirrors, and piles of trash from before the Flood. Confronted with the non-pregnant silence in the tiny Manhattan apartment, Diane suddenly realized that Kat had served a very important purpose in her life: the wild, slutty, annoying, useless slob of a girl had kept her from her boredom. Kept her from wondering about herself, thinking about anything but her intense dislike of Kat and the situation she was forced to live in. Wondering which one of the girl's beaus was the newest Daddy Kat didn't seem to stave off the boredom for long. If it had been up to Diane, Kat would have been gifted with the issue of the seed of the sweaty, smelly wino that she had taken to her bed as a mercy fuck one night. Left alone, to herself, the boredom got to her. Unclothed, Diane began to move unconsciously around the apartment, but could not bring herself to the point of actually cleaning up Kat's room. Better to simply just close the door and forget about it. Still, there was something about looking into the two immense mirrors - you could see both sides of yourself at once. Diane stood so that half of her body was cut off in the mirror, saw this half-woman looking back at her. She watched in fascination as a ghostly disembodied hand came down and, single finger extended, parted her lips, finding places touched so rarely that they sang half in pain and half in pleasure whenever they were touched. Something about this view of half of her made her deep inside quiver. She moved capriciously back to her nook - back to the futon. Laid back on the bed and took the Story of O (no longer hidden, now left out for others to see if there had been any others) and finished two more chapters sitting there. More time past without studying. More time spent teasing the warmth between her legs. Her ministrations brought her closer and closer, but every minute there was that brief pause to turn the page, which would set her right back to 0, starting over again. She came again - but this time it did not put her to sleep. It made her jazzed. She reached for a bookmark and slid the matchbook cover into the Story of O while she made herself a package of Chinese noodles for dinner. Her studies called her, but she ignored them, even using her Econ book as a lapboard for her soup. Back to O. The book was done before she realized it, and before she could find another orgasm in it. It was late - about 3 in the morning. The street was mostly quiet outside: it's a myth that New York City never sleeps. There's parts that stay awake, but that's more like a dead snake that still goes through the motions of life rather than actually being alive. Still, the book done, the boredom sat in the room with her like an imposing house guest, demanding, "What next?" The matchbook had fallen out of the book while she was reading it, and Diane picked it up. She turned it over, saw the address on it (somewhere in the Bowery, somewhere in the meat-packing district. A rough neighborhood) and put it back down on the table. She shrugged. The boredom seemed to demand that she do something. Go somewhere. Go *there* - to Hellfire. She had nothing to wear, she told herself. The cardboard box Kat had left still sat there next to her futon. It said otherwise - a tendril of lace peeking over the edge. She dumped the box out on the bed, amazed and half- terrified at what she would find there. She found a lot of lacey things - bras, panties, a corset, a bustier, stockings tangled and knotted, garters and thongs and thousands of other wispy little bits. "I just don't have anything to wear - no way..no way am I going there." Diane said to herself aloud. She idly wondered back into Kat's room, yanked on the light bulb chain in the "closet" that she had - started thumbing through the stuff that she had left. Kat had left behind many dresses. One was black velvet, a mini- dress with silver buttons that just slid on and off because the zipper was stuck. It fit Diane even without the bra. "Oh, no way...no way," Diane said to herself, as if she was trying to convince the boredom to just let her off easy this time. But nobody was coming home that night. Nobody would know that Diane dressed like a slut and went out, went out to relieve her unending boredom. Went out to see what was out there. Diane just pretended that nobody would see. She thoroughly washed the lingerie in the sink as the October sun set, defeated by endless clouds and rain. It dried over the radiator as she took a shower, she put it on slightly damp and patted herself dry with a towel: she put on a black lacey bra that itched her nipples. At the bottom of Kat's closet she found a package of Victoria's black back-seamed stockings, and she rolled each pair on, clipping them to a garter belt she fastened around her waist. Finally she fit herself with a black lace thong-panty, that made her butt feel as if there was something stuck in it, but she didn't care at that point. She remembered what Cecil B. DeMille had said about undergarments - even if they're not seen - she'll *know* that they're there. She slid the velvet dress on over it and the hemline fell lower than it would have on Kat (Kat being much more chesty). She had no idea what to do with the makeup really - not having bothered except for Sunday school as a younger woman, living with her parents. She decided to forget the makeup, except for applying some of Kat's leftover lipstick: a shade called, "Battered Woman Red." It highlighted the incredibly pale skin of her face and the darkness of her hair. More? To write me send email to gwydion@writeme.com ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author does not condone the described behavior in real life. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 67