Posts Tagged ‘short story’

White room – part 5

In Too lazy to assign a category on February 7, 2007 at 9:42 pm

As the train entered the station, I felt my heart beating faster. In a little over an hour I would hopefully feel less tense. I wondered whether I'd still have time to drink an espresso at one of my favourite coffee bars. I decided not to take the risk of running late, even though my mouth was dry, as somehow I was convinced you wouldn't appreciate me being late. I wasn't too sure of the address, just knew I had to take the metro, line 1B, and get off at Aumale. The mysterious address was supposed to be near a park, and somehow that thought was comforting.

I went straight to the metro station, bought a ticket, and waited for the next metro to arrive, which only took about 10 minutes. I had to get off at the 8th stop or so, and by the time I got off, I still had about 30 minutes left. Even though nervous, I did notice the art in the station, a 600 m² photographic composition by Jean-Paul Laenen, who once founded a working group for the rehabilitation of the urban environment, and got selected for the Biennial of Venice.

When I got out of the metro station, I was in front of the park. The sun was shining and a majestic tree caught my eye. It was a Catalpa tree, with delicately scented trumpet shaped frilled edged white flowers having internal purple spots. Rather common in Northern America, this kind of tree was named after the Native American Catawba tribe, which really wasn't just one tribe, but that's a whole different story.The spelling Catalpa is a transcription error on the part of the describing botanist.

Sight of this tree made me feel calm, and I took a moment's time to enjoy the sight, before moving on the address given to me the previous night. Soon I arrived in the Rue du Souvenir. With 5 minutes left on my watch, I looked at the numbers on the doors, getting closer and closer to where I was supposed to be.

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White room – part 4

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 20, 2007 at 8:41 am

I stepped on the train, and found an almost empty wagon, which was unusual, even early in the afternoon. I was glad I found myself alone, alone with my thoughts. Still feeling nervous, above all I was excited. The mutual attraction between the two of us had been building up, almost to a point where it became unbearable. This afternoon might be a climax, or anti-climax for that matter, but it would hopefully be the natural next step of something deep and passionate.

At the next station, a man walked into the wagon, and sat down opposite of me. I felt disturbed as my thoughts were with one man only at this point. He wished me a good afternoon, and it seemed he was looking for conversation. I nodded but then stared out of the window, as I didn't feel like talking. I felt his eyes on me, and this irritated me. Didn't he see my mind was elsewhere?

Each time I looked in his direction, I saw him watching me. The look upon his face was slightly amused. This annoyed me, and finally I asked him what was so amusing. He told me he didn't mean to be impolite, but felt strangely attracted to me. He was very straightforward and told me I was breathing sex. There was a sensuality surrounding me, and he wished it was because of him. Then he laughed. His laugh was very attractive. I was blushing. He told me not to worry, he was getting off at the next station, he just wanted me to know I was very attractive, obviously not because I was beautiful like a model, but because he sensed I was special and very erotic. He told me the person I was going to meet was lucky and he wished me all the best. After that, he left the wagon.

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White room – part 3

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 18, 2007 at 10:19 pm

I got about 45 minutes left. While I applied some light makeup, some mascara en red lipstick, I wondered whether I had to pack something for the night. I did have the following day off, as it would be the weekend. You didn't mention anything about spending a night though. Perhaps I would be sent home again after a short while. Didn't know whether you would actually like me, even though we got along very well online. There wasn't a doubt in my mind as to whether I would like you, strangely enough. Was I that naive? How could I be sure I'd like you? How could I be sure I would feel attracted to you? After all, I just saw some vague picture of you. Still, nothing indicated I would be the one wanting to walk away.

I decided to pack a small weekend bag, just in case. Normally I wasn't good at packing, always wanted to take too many things with me, but somehow I managed not to worry too much, and packed only the bare necessities.

Quickly I left a note on the kitchen table, telling him I didn't know when I would be returning, but not to worry, as I would call as soon as I knew more.

After a last look in the mirror, I covered myself in a black wool and cashmire cloak, and left the house, on my way to the train station.

When I bought a ticket to Brussels, my heart was pounding fast. This was it. I was on my way to meet you, and I was eager to look into your eyes. I would like to drown in your eyes, feel faint and dizzy, but feel reassured by your arms that would support me. Meeting a potential lover, people would declare I was crazy for going through with this. They certainly would point out all the possible dangers to me, and warn me, tell me stories they read somewhere, were the women all met with an awful fate. At this point however, I didn't care. I just wished I was in Brussels already.

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White room – part 2

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 17, 2007 at 9:47 pm

Aaahh. The joys of being a woman. What to wear? After all, I would only have one single shot at making a good first impression, and a good impression I was eager to make. You didn't give any clues as to what to expect. Was I supposed to dress up? Would casual be in order? Stylish? A tad naughty? In any case, a shower wouldn't hurt.

I walked up the stairs, and into the bathroom. Quickly I undressed. Not that there was much to take off anyway. I took an enormeous and very soft towel, as I like to wrap up after my shower. First of all, I washed my hair. My hair being long, that was always a bit of a hassle, especially as I can't stand water running into my eyes. The shampoo smelled of berries, and reminded me of the breakfast I had just minutes ago. After massaging my head for a while, I carefully rinsed, as to remove all of the rich foam, and applied a conditioner afterwards. While the ingredients of the conditioner softened my hair, my thoughts dwelled on you. I remembered the first time you contacted me, and how I wondered whether you would be different from the numerous men contacting me on a daily basis. I wasn't disappointed. You already touched my mind, my heart and my soul, even without having met. All the more reason to be slightly nervous …

I rinsed my hair again, only to step into the bathtub afterwards. Unfortunately there wasn't a seperate shower, but at least the bathtub was larger than the shower I had before, that is before I moved into this house. I inspected my legs, and removed the hair that always comes back too quickly. Hopefully I didn't miss a spot. I wish I could remove all of my pubic hair as well, but as I haven't found a method that doesn't make my all too sensitive skin protest by itching, and turning red or even worse yet, I decided not to take the risk, hoping you wouldn't feel disgusted with me and would settle for carefully trimmed.

After I made sure I was all fresh and clean, I stood still for a moment, my eyes closed, the water running over my body, just enjoying the feeling. Didn't want to be late, so cut this feeling short, and stepped out of the tub, and into the towel. After that, I applied a body butter that smelled of vanilla and coconut. I combed my hair, and brushed my teeth.

Going to the bedroom, I decided I'd go for simple. Simple surely wouldn't hurt? I picked a long black dress, black stockings, black comfortable shoes. In order for you not to think I equalled meeting you with going to a funeral, I put on black underwear embroidered with fragile pink flowers. The bra provided me with ample cleavage, and the string tenderly embraced my buttocks.

A quick look at the clock told me it was almost time to leave and catch my train …

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White room – part 1

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 14, 2007 at 8:41 pm

You called. I had been expecting your phone call for quite a while. You didn't say much. You simply told me to write down an address. Before I could ask you why, you slowly repeated the address, and hang up. I looked down at the piece of paper. The address didn't ring a bell. It was an address in Brussels. Of course, I used Google to try and find information about this address. It was just out of the centre of town. Seemed like an ordinary street, there were no shops, no musea, no things worth visiting. In fact, Google didn't provide a whole lot of hits for that address. The entire evening I was hoping for you to get in touch again, in order to enlighten me. What was I supposed to do with this address?

After a restless night, I received a text message on my cell phone. It was very early morning, around 7 am. I was still half asleep, as I didn't have to get up and go to work, and was trying to catch up on some rest. Lately I had been so terribly tired. Slowly I reached for the phone: '1 message from …, want to proceed?' I pushed 'Yes' and read a brief message. It just said 'I expect you to turn up at the given address at 2 pm. There is one single bell. Ring it. Don't show up late.'

My heart was pounding fast. Suddenly I was wide awake. Quickly I got up, splashed some water in my face and went downstairs to make coffee. I felt nervous. Would I finally meet you, be able to look into your eyes? What did you have in store? What was I supposed to wear? All kinds of questions were running through my mind. I forced myself to calm down. I looked outside, and noticed it was going to be a beautiful day. Already the sun was shining, and the sky was clear blue. Spring had really begun.

I decided to have just fruit for breakfast, and made a fresh fruit salad, with berries. Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, as well as an abundance of other juicy fruits were carefully mixed and placed in a bowl, along with some cottage cheese on the side. I opened the windows, took a deep breath, and poured myself some coffee. Then I sat down, and had my breakfast, all the while thinking about you, wondering what you were up to.

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Images – Final Part

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 11, 2007 at 9:28 pm

On the contrary, the images emerged in a higher sequence. He almost couldn't keep up. Almost, unfortunately, as what was shown to him, wasn't a pretty sight. He suffered more than he ever had suffered before, both mentally and physically. He wasn't aware of the fact he was screaming. Not that anyone could hear him. The room was sound-proof.

He remembered all kinds of sexual actions. Times he had to pee and his father or mother came with him to the bathroom, holding his penis while standing behind him, pressing their bodies to his. Times he had to 'sleep' in one bed with the both of them. Times he had to sexually satisfy his mother, while his father was watching, commenting, giving instructions. His mother performing oral sex on him, while he was forced to do the same on his father. Memories and images, an endless stream of images.

Tears were running down his cheeks, how long would this torture continue? Everything he had carefully pushed aside for so many years, was thrown in his face now. Every detail crystal clear. Oblivion was no longer for him. After all these years, it hurt terribly much. He wanted it to end. He wanted everything to stop. He was on the vierge of losing consciousness.

Suddenly he heard someone call out his name. He slowly opened his face and met the worried face of his Mistress. As quickly as possible she released him from bondage. He slid on the floor and she took him in her arms. She let him cry, didn't say a thing, just held him close. A lot of time passed, while they were seated on the floor like that.

Once the tears stopped, she asked him whether he would be able to stand up. As he nodded, she helped him up, and supported him while she took him to the bedroom. She put him in bed, and told him to sleep. Told him he wouldn't have to worry, as she would sit down next to him the entire time.

Exhausted, he fell asleep. This time there were no dreams, no images. When he woke up hours later, she was still sitting on the bed. He started to tell what he had seen. She didn't interrupt, just listened and nodded once in a while, as to encourage him. When he was done, she simply said: 'This is what you needed. Towards this moment we have worked all these years. It is not your fault, you are not to blame, but you do have to place it. Now you can, since you remembered. The hardest part is over now. Soon you won't need me anymore.' She slowly walked out of the room, slightly sad: 'I hope you'll remember me with affection.'

And now, years after he saw her for the last time, he still did. He remembered her with love, affection and gratitude, the woman he owed everything.

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Images – part 5

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 8, 2007 at 9:50 pm

Now her comforting presence was gone, and his thoughts interrupted, the images returned. This time they seemed clearer. He recognised his old bedroom, when he was still living with his parents. An invisible hand surrounded his throat. He felt terrified. A person arised in his mind. Life-sized she filled the room. He had difficulty recognising the face, but instinctively he already knew who it was. The awful truth was thrown in his face. It was his mother's image. She supposedly came to wish him goodnight. He must have been about five years old. The images were vaguely familiar. He knew he had lived this, he just hadn't been aware of it. Or perhaps he had pushed away what happened all this time.

The way in which she tugged him in wasn't normal. A mother isn't supposed to tug in her five year old son for the night like that. Memories came back really fast now. How his mother always took his tiny penis. Told him he was such a big boy. Held him and kissed him.

How she laid next to him, naked. Pushed her body against his. Told him in a secretive voice he wasn't allowed to talk about what was happening, as bad things would happen if he did. That perhaps he would be locked away in an institution and he would never see his friends again.

She always insisted on bathing him. Even when he was much older. He remembered she still did when he was a clumsy sixteen year old lanky youth. Always paying a lot of attention to his genitals. She acted like it was perfectly normal. Just a normal way of interaction between mother and son. She also had developed the habit of sticking her index finger in his anus. She told him it prevented stomach ache.

God, he remembered everything now. The memories were overwhelming. The years of secrecy weighed heavily upon him. Secrecy, especially towards himself. The pain intensified once a second person emerged. It was a man. His own father.

His father who always compared his penis to his own. Weighed them in both hands. Forced him to perform oral sex. Over and over again. Holding his head so he couldn't but swallow. He could still taste it. He was alone, alone with his memories. His Mistress wasn't there to rescue him from this agony, as she had done so many times, whenever he was having nightmares, but didn't know why or about what. This time he was all alone.

He tried to think of other meetings with his Mistress, or the day she proposed he'd move in with her, so he would always be at her disposal, if he wasn't working that is. This time the images couldn't be pushed aside.

— To be continued —

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Images – part 4

In Too lazy to assign a category on January 5, 2007 at 10:27 pm

She gave him a sharp look and told him she expected him to stay the night. She asked him whether that was a problem. Even though he felt discouraged because of the change in the tone of her voice, he wouldn't want anything else but to stay. He wouldn't be missed, he was living alone in a student flat. He told her it wasn't a problem at all, he just hadn't expected she would want him to spend the night. 'After our conversation, couldn't you have known?', she said in a soft voice.

After some more talking, she wanted to go to bed. She took him to the bedroom and handed him a silk pair of pyjamas, clearly one of her own. She told him to put them on. She withdrew into the bathroom, and when she reappeared after about 15 minutes, she was wearing a long, transparant night gown. He was seated, dressed in pyjamas, on the edge of the enormeous bed and looked at her in admiration.

She pointed at the soft rug on the floor next to the bed. 'You will sleep over there', she told him. She disappeared under a soft down. She told him there were duvets in the closet, and he would have to help himself. He was still on the edge of the bed. Softly she pressed a kiss on his forehead, and turned away.

Although most people would think he had managed to get himself in a most unusual and unpleasant situation, and he should run as hell, he felt really at ease. It wasn't problematic he had to sleep on the rug next to the bed, it made perfect sense to him.

Suddenly he fell back in reality. He became aware of a door being slammed. He didn't hear the voices anymore. He didn't feel hands on his body. His Mistress and her friend apparently had left him.

— To be continued —

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Images – part 3

In Too lazy to assign a category on December 28, 2006 at 12:46 am

She took over the bags, and threw them in a corner. She ordered him to sit down and told him she wanted to take a shower first. Although she pointed out the huge fridge and told him he could take anything he'd like, he was too afraid to move. Like a statue, he remained seated.

After about 30 minutes, she returned, now wearing a fairy-like robe, walking barefooted. She asked him whether he wanted to take a shower, as he was all sweaty from running earlier on. She took him to the bathroom. He didn't know where to look first. She must have seen the longing in his eyes, as she let water fill the tub. In the meantime she undressed him, the way one would undress a child. He let her, too staggered to protest. She turned him around, looking at every detail of his body.

When the bathtub was filled, and the vapour of the oil she had put in the tub, started to fill the room, she helped him step down the stairs, into the water. For a moment she stroke his hair, then left him to himself. He felt tardy and at ease. The thought he found himself in a rather strange situation, didn't scare him. He actually never felt better in his entire life. He didn't know how much time had passed, but the woman appeared in the bathroom again. She told him he had been in the water long enough, and held up a bath towel. 'Come on out, and I'll dry you', she said. He stepped out of the water and walked towards her, aware of her eyes exploring his body. Shyly he looked down. She carefully dried off his body, thus discovering each and every inch of his skin.

She then gave him a bathrobe, and told him to follow her to the dining room. On the table was a copious meal. She must have called a caterer or something, as she couldn't have prepared all that in such a short time.

She sat down at the opposite end of the table and told him to eat. She didn't have to say it twice. He realised he was very hungry. The huge amount of food he ate, seemed to amuse her. She didn't eat much herself. Just some fruitsalad. When he looked satisfied, she took him to a couch.

He didn't know how much time had passed. She had started to talk to him. At first he was too shy to answer, but she made him feel comfortable and from that moment on, it wasn't awkward or uncomfortable. They talked for hours. She noticed he became restless and asked him what was wrong. He told her it probably was very late, and he should perhaps go home.

— To be continued —

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Guts by Chuck Palahniuk

In Too lazy to assign a category on December 21, 2006 at 8:51 pm


Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.

A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.

So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.

Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.

At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.

Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.

He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.

After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.

This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.

Read on …

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