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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
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type of literature, or you are under age,
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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
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
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