8FOLD/ACRA: Kinky Romance # 2 [VERY STRONG ACRA]

Tom Russell milos_parker at yahoo.com
Mon Jan 21 20:38:04 PST 2008

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| |____________________________________________| |
| ____________________ |
| |    DISCLAIMER    | |
| |    ==========    | |         ELISE
| |  You're reading  | |
| | something called | |    I never had much interest
| |  KINKY ROMANCE.  | | in sex, growing up. I wasn't
| |                  | | a late bloomer, per se; by
| |  Of course it    | | the time I was sixteen I had
| |    has sex!      | | all the necessary parts in
| |    ==========    | | place and ready to go. And
| |DISCRETION ADVISED| | I certainly took an interest
| |__________________| | in the opposite sex, and
|______________________| they sure took an interest
                         in me!  I had dates, I fooled
around, and I lost my virginity, all at pretty much
the same time as all my friends did.
   But I didn't feel anything.  Sure, I could feel
them poking around in there, and I could feel their
hands on me, but I didn't really enjoy it.  There were
no sparks, no fireworks.  There was something wrong
with me.
   All the women's magazines provided guides to
inducing a better orgasm, but I couldn't even have one
to begin with.  I'd even settle for a bad one.  And
I'm not just talking about during sex.  I couldn't
even bring myself to climax.  I masturbated a lot, but
still nothing.
   At the time (this was my teens and through my early
twenties) I invested a lot of importance in this.  But
at a certain point, it became apparent that it just
was never going to happen, and by thinking so much
about it and worrying so much about it I wasn't doing
myself any good.  I was feeling really inadequate,
incomplete, and for what?  I never had that strong of
a libido anyway.  I didn't need to be bringing myself
down like that.
   So I just stopped caring about it, and just got on
with my life, and you know what?  It worked.  I didn't
feel empty or incomplete without an orgasm.  Sex isn't
the most important part of a relationship.  Love is.
   I heard about people who break up because of
"sexual incompatibility", and I thought, Jesus, what's
wrong with these people?  Someone won't suck your dick
good enough and so you leave her, abandon your kids,
something you've spent years building together?  What
a crock of shit!  It's like leaving someone because
they overcooked a chicken.  That's not love.  That's
people acting like children.  So petty and so stupid.
   Of course, knowing what I know now, I can see why
it would be that important for some people.  I mean, I
still stand behind my basic assertion here-- that kind
of attitude is frankly ridiculous and immature-- but
at least I understand where they're coming from.  Back
then, I didn't.  Like I said, I didn't really care
about sex, in or out of a relationship.  All that
mattered was love.
   And that's what Patrick and I had, right from the
start.  I mean, it wasn't love at first sight or
anything.  He was such a dork and a screw-up sometimes
that I basically just settled for him.  But he fell so
hard for me, idolized me so much, and he tried so hard
to make me happy that I realized what a great guy he
was.  (Is.)
   So it took a while for me to realize that I loved
him.  But the more I look back on it, the more I can
see that I didn't settle for him.  I chose him, just
as much as he chose me.  I was always comfortable
around him, I could always be honest: the love had
always been there, it was just waiting for me to
notice it.
   I told Patrick things I had never told anyone
before.  I let him know upfront that while I was happy
to be intimate with him, that I didn't particularly
enjoy it.  He took it as kind of a challenge.  He
tried all sorts of different ways to turn my crank,
but he just couldn't seem to get me revved up.  He was
never too annoying about it, and he never made me feel
like it was my fault I couldn't come.  (Though a lot
of the time I did feel that way just the same.)  Other
times, when he was too discouraged to put too much
effort into it but still horny, he humped me quickly
so it wouldn't take too big a chunk out of my day.
   We dated for several months, then he proposed.  I
said yes and we eloped a couple of weeks after.  There
wasn't any real progress on the sexual front for our
first year together, but like I said it didn't really
matter much.  We enjoyed each other's company, watched
movies, played scrabble, argued, reconciled.  One
month gently folded into the next and we settled into
a pleasant, mellow, matrimonial rhythm.
   That all changed, quite abruptly, the day I had my
first orgasm.  I was in my dentist's office, getting a
cavity filled.
   The worst part about the dentist is the procaine
needle.  It's not so much the prickling or stabbing
sensation as it is the feeling of the needle sliding
through the roof of my mouth, moving into my head. 
The hygienist removed the needle and the upper right
side of my mouth started to go numb.  It's not gradual
like the gas, slowly spreading into the lungs and out
into the body, but a very sudden change like shifting
gears on a truck: my mouth slammed into Numb abrupt
and heavy.
   You know what?  I take that back.  The worst part
is the dentist.  It's not the physical pain (see
above) or the thought of him scraping away at my
teeth, but the humiliating process of being told how
bad my teeth are.  Have you been brushing?, yes, I've
been brushing, twice a day?, yes, twice a day, and
flossing? regularly?, yes.  Well, I don't understand
it then-- just keep breathing deeply-- because these
teeth are in terrible condition.  I'm sorry.  Don't
say you're sorry to me-- say it to your teeth they're
the only set you get and they don't get better they'll
only get worse so you better take care of them if you
want to keep them, yes?  Yes.
   The dentist grabbed some toweling and swabbed at my
mouth, which was no doubt geysering probably my entire
blood supply.  The thought made me shudder, and I
closed my eyes so I wouldn't see it.  The inquisition
was over also.  The void left by his stern chattering
falsetto was filled with music.  Bach I think.  And it
was glorious.
   It flooded over me, seeped into me with every
breath of the gas, invaded me, reprogrammed me so that
my body lived to the music.  Occasionally I'd hear the
evocative and mysterious whine of the drill,
accompanied by a vague pressure against the heavy
numbness in my mouth.  But mostly-- my eyes closed, my
body prickling beautifully-- I was living in a world
of sound.
   I lost all sense of time or thought, aware only at
the edges of my consciousness that there were other
people in the room, that they were moving about me in
someway I couldn't define.  The music stirred
something deep and primal in me, and by the time the
radio switched to Bruckner-- I'm positive it was
Bruckner, seventh symphony, scherzo-- I was coming
loud and hard.
   As soon as it was over-- and it was over much too
quickly-- I became acutely aware of the white light
blistering against my closed eyelids.  I opened my
eyes and saw my dentist and my hygienist staring at
me.  They asked if I was alright, how many fingers
were they holding up, was I in any pain?  I reassured
them that everything was fine.
   "We'll use less gas next time," said the dentist
finally before he finished his work.
   As soon as we got into the car, I told Patrick.  He
was hard to read-- he's always hard to read!-- but I
guess I would say that he happy for me and resentful
at the same time.  And I understand that much, he had
wanted to be the one to finally make me come for the
first time.
   He tried to make light of it.  "I try for a couple
of years, and nothing; Bruckner does it first time,
right out of the gate, and he's been dead for a
hundred years."
   But by the time we got home, though, he was pretty
excited about it.  We started fooling around.  He was
probably feeling friskier than I was, and he was real
eager to get me off.  "Twenty-eight years on this
earth, Elise, and you've only had one orgasm.  We've
got a lot of catching up to do."
   He put on some music, and I closed my eyes and laid
back as he ate me out.  Nothing.  Just like before. 
Patrick became despondent.  I had to talk him into
going inside me.  He didn't take long, and he came,
and we cuddled.  Both of us were pretty disappointed. 
We tried it again the next night with the same
depressing results.
   But, I looked at it this way: I've had one now, so
I know I can do it.  It's not hopeless.  At the same
time, I had this new thing bugging me, which was: what
if Patrick can't make me come?  Isn't that going to
make him feel worse?  Hell, what does that say about
   I kinda wished I hadn't had it at all, or that at
least I hadn't told him about it.

   Two months passed and nothing happened.  We tried
Bruckner and Beethoven, Mahler and the Gershwins.  We
even tried roleplaying, in case it was the environment
that did it for me: sometimes, Patrick took the role
of the dentist and sometimes that of his buxom
   But nothing happened.
   I guess I shouldn't have worried about Patrick
because he took it in stride, like he always did.  But
it was still frustrating in its own right.  I was
starting to wonder if I was ever going to have one
   You know, there's that saying-- that it's better to
have loved and lost than never to have loved at all--
but that's bullshit.  Nostalgia's a bitch.  I'd rather
have never came than done it just the once, like some
kind of freak accident that could never be repeated. 
Now that I knew what I was missing, it was driving me
   I wanted to come again, I wanted it probably more
then than Patrick ever did.  I tried masturbating
again, but to no avail: it got me wet and made my clit
a little sore, but no bada-boom.
   And, frankly, it really pissed me off.  Sure, I
never really cared about it before and, sure, there
were and still are more important things in my life. 
But there are women who talk about having these
multiple chain-reaction orgasms and look forward to
having sex and they actually enjoy it.  So why not me?
 Why did God (or whoever) have to make me different?
   The feelings of inadequacy just kept piling up on
top of me.  Over time, I started to let it go again. 
But a couple of weeks before my next dentist's
appointment I started to get my hopes up.
   The day arrived.  There was music, there was gas,
and there was procaine: I complained of feeling pain
and so they bumped the gas up to the same level as
last time.  I felt numb, sure, and I closed my eyes,
and the music got into me-- but there was nothing. 
Not a spark, not even a sprinkle.
   I drove myself home, rejoining the snowstorm
already in progress.  (I had needed the car to run an
errand for work before the dentist, and so Patrick got
a ride with Joe.)  My mouth felt heavy and still quite
numb, and I'm sure I was drooling by the gallons.
   I had been looking forward to it, I had actually
wanted to go to the dentist, and for what?  Nothing.
   I was feeling like maybe it was a freak accident
after all, that first and only time.  I was feeling
pretty low, and I was feeling silly for feeling low
over something that I kept telling myself was so
trivial, and that, of course, made me feel even lower.
   By the time I got home, it was dark.  (One thing I
hate about winter: the early sunsets.)  I pulled into
the driveway.  The porch light refused to blink on
(supposed to have a motion sensor).  Great.  Just
   I fumbled with my key and the lock for several long
seconds, trying to stab it into the golden slit and
being just a little off this way or that.  I unlocked
both locks and opened the door.
   The house was pitch black too.  Not a single light
was on.  I flipped the switch near the door.  Nothing.
I called for Patrick, asked if the power was out. 
(Another thing I hate about winter.)  There was no
answer.  I called a couple more times-- still no
answer-- before taking a few tentative steps forward.
   I wasn't scared exactly.  The power does
occasionally go out.  The house was securely locked. 
I'm a big girl, and I can take care of myself. 
Patrick may not have heard me, or he might still be
out with Joe after work.  I called him again.  He
didn't answer.  That's when I heard the heavy creak of
the floor.
   It was sudden and loud, and of course I hadn't been
expecting it, so I wasn't quite sure what direction it
had came from.  I stood very quietly, listening for
another sound.  Nothing.
   I got out my cell phone and opened it up.  The
faint blue light hardly lit up the two or three inches
in front of it, but that was better than nothing.  I
wanded it back and forth as I stepped forward through
our rather hazardously-kept living room, making my way
towards the electric torch on the top of the
entertainment center.
   I didn't see it up there, and my whole body tensed
up very suddenly.  I felt a nervous tingling in my
abdomen, a very palpable sense of anxiety.  Thirty
seconds having passed, the light on my cell phone
blipped off: the strange anxious feeling ratcheted up
considerably, like someone was inside me, twisting a
screw that made everything tighten and contract-- like
my body was one huge lung expelling a breath of air.
   I pressed a button on my cell phone to make the
light blip back on.  My muscles expanded, taking in
new air.
   Then I heard it: someone rushing towards me from
behind.  I whirled around and he grabbed me, laughing
maniacally in my face, his teeth bared.  I dropped the
phone and I came, soft and lovely, as I realized it
was Patrick who now held me in his arms, the torch
lighting up his features from below.  He mistook my
gasp and immediately began launching into his usual
   "Shut up," I said, and I kissed him.
   "The power went out," he said.  "I was just trying
to surprise you, not really scare you.  I guess I
should have," etc.
   "Shut up," I said again. I undid my pants and slid
down all four layers-- jeans, leggings, panties and
socks-- all in one swoop.  "Turn out that torch."
   And, well, to make a long story short, Patrick
knows that when a lady takes off her pants and tells
you to turn out the torch, you shouldn't ask any
   He said afterwards that it was nicer than usual--
that I was more "carnal"-- and he asked if anything
happened at the dentist.  And so I told him more or
less what I've just recounted.
   But I didn't feel nearly as positive about it as I
did the first time.  Sure, having it happen a second
time buoyed my spirits a bit.  But when I actually
stopped to think about it, I didn't feel any closer to
being normal.  When Patrick went inside me, nothing
had changed: it still felt vaguely like someone
picking my nose.
  (Patrick just looked over my shoulder at what I just
wrote and said there were boogers coming out of my
twat.  Lovely.  He's so mature.)
   It would be different if it was a sex thing, a
physical thing.  The body would react differently to
the different sensations and that might trigger an
orgasm.  But both times there was no actual sex
involved, which made me think that they were related
somehow, that there was something the music at the
dentist's office and the darkened living room had in
   And so I found myself faced with a mystery, and
since I was never any damn good with mysteries, it was
very disquieting.

   It was at this point that Patrick took the
initiative to consult an expert-- or, more properly, a
sexpert.  He wrote to a columnist in one of the
alternative weeklies, explained the circumstances
behind my two orgasms and the epic failures of the
   The sexpert suggested I was turned on by feelings
of helplessness and vulnerability, that we should try
some light bondage and D/s, see if that did the trick.
   To make a very long and embarrassing story short,
we did try it, and the sexpert was very, very wrong. 
Patrick was as uncomfortable being anything but
incredibly accommodating as I was playing some bimbo
in distress.  When the (ahem) toy store refused to
accept our returns, I suggested somewhat crossly that
we send the sexpert the bill.  We ended up selling
most of it on craigslist.  Everything but the
   I don't know what it was about it that made me keep
it.  I told Patrick we could use it in case one of us
had a surprise for the other, though really one of his
father's old wide neckties would have done just as
well.  Either way, we held onto it, and near the end
of winter, as we were going through the motions of
fooling around in various states of undress, I
suddenly surprised both of us by asking him to use it
on me.
   As he put the blindfold over my eyes, I felt my
entire body swell with naked anticipation.  He tied it
fairly tightly at the back before unclasping my bra. 
I heard a soft schlump as it fell, presumably on top
of the rest of my clothes.
   Patrick took me by the hand and led me carefully
down the stairs.  "What are you doing?" I asked. 
There was no answer.  I heard the door sqrueak and he
had me stand in the hallway.  His footsteps receded
away from me.
   There was silence for awhile.  A chill washed over
   "What's the temperature set at?" I asked.
   "Are you cold?"
   "A little nippy."
   "Well, I'll turn it up."
   "What's it at?"
   He only made a soft, humming laugh in response. 
More footsteps.  A few seconds later, the familiar and
reassuring sound of the furnace kicking on.  Something
soft and hairy brushed between my ankles.  The cat, on
his way to vent-bathe.
   Suddenly, a lot of sounds: creaking floorboards,
rapidly moving footsteps, thuds and schlatoks, rurks
and thurps.  I tried to place them: furniture being
dragged over carpet, being moved, things displaced?  I
figured that's what it was, but I couldn't figure out
what was being moved and where.  I tried to sketch it
in my brain, but there were too many sounds, too much
movement.  It made me slightly dizzy and confused. 
And that made me more-than-slightly wet.
   "Come on in," said Patrick.
   I stretched my arms out before me.  I felt for the
entertainment center and it wasn't there.  My hips
bucked enthusiastically, like there was a fist
centered deep inside me, punching outwards.
   I walked further into the room, meeting no
resistance, no objects.  I knew they had to be
somewhere, knew that I could bump into them at any
time.  Each step I took that revealed nothing was
another step towards something, and so it provided no
relief.  My body became quite warm and flushed.
   Suddenly, I heard a sound that I recognized: the
window blind.  "Did you just put up the blind?"
   "Maybe," said Patrick.
   I heard another sound.  "Did you just put it down?"
   "Maybe I did," said Patrick.  "Of course, that's
only one blind accounted for," he added evilly. 
"Maybe I put one up while you were in the hallway. 
Oh, there's Mrs. Denver outside our window.  Hi, Mrs.
   Now, I'm not an exhibitionist, and I don't get off
on being exposed or humiliated.  So the thought of
someone being outside didn't turn me on in the
slightest.  But the fact that I didn't know one way or
the other-- that, being deprived of my sight, I had no
way of knowing, that, perhaps, I would never know--
well, suffice to say, that did it for me, big time.

   And that was it, that was what had been turning me
on all along: not being aware of my surroundings,
being deprived of one of my senses (such as sight) and
solely dependent on those remaining.
   Why?  I have no idea.  I don't buy that Freud
bullshit that it originated as a result of some
childhood trauma or some other nonsense.  But whatever
the reason, all I knew was that it worked, and over
the course of the next few weeks (and years, actually)
it yielded proven results.
   One orgasm followed another as we tried different
variations on the same theme.  We added earmuffs to
the blindfold, making me wholly dependent on touch and
taste.  I had no way of knowing when Patrick would
touch me, or how he would touch me, or where.   More
than once, I got myself whipped up into such a frenzy
that I could have sworn there were two sets of hands,
or three, exploring my body, two mouths, two lovers,
an orgy that was really just Patrick after all.
   But that was only during foreplay.  I didn't really
feel anything during the actual intercourse, and
Patrick knew that.  I wish it was different.  We tried
to find ways to combine the two, the sex and my
orgasm, but they seemed to occupy two completely
different spheres.
   Patrick's libido seemed to dwindle after those
initial weeks following our discovery.  He was more
than happy to play these little games with me, to make
me come, but he more often than not didn't want to
come himself.  Sometimes when I asked him to help me
get off, he seemed a bit reticent.  I could tell he
was starting to resent me, and that, of course, was
making me resent him.  The long and short of it was, I
stopped asking, instead waiting for him to offer.
   And, don't get me wrong-- he did offer.  And we did
have intercourse.  It wasn't like everything suddenly
stopped.  But the resentment was growing softly inside
   And that was scary.  That was very scary.  Like I
was saying before, I have no sympathy for people who
let their relationships go to pot because of sexual
incompatibility.  And I didn't want that to happen to
us.  Partially because it was so ridiculous and, more
importantly, I loved Patrick so much that I didn't
want to lose him.
   I started praying a lot, very desperately, and I
told God that Patrick meant more to me than any damn
orgasm.  If the things required to make me come made
Patrick feel small, I'd rather not come at all.  "It's
okay if I never come again," I said.  "Just please
don't take Patrick away from me."

   But, as it turns out, I was able to keep both.  And
there was no miracle involved, not unless you count a
birthday as a miracle.   It was my twenty-ninth.
   Patrick had me put on the blindfold, and he led me
to the car.  I asked where we were going.
   "I've been doing a lot of thinking," he said.  "The
most important thing in the world to me is to make you
happy."  He talked awhile then about all the times
before when he had tried to give me an orgasm.  It
wasn't so much that he wanted to feel virile, he said,
but that he wanted me to be happy, as happy as I made
   I interrupted him, said that he did make me happy
before, that this wasn't important.
   "It isn't but it is," he said.  He wanted to make
me happy in all ways, just like I made him happy in
all ways.  It was kind of gushy, but at the time it
touched me very deeply.
   "And now you can have an orgasm," said Patrick,
"and that's great.  But I'm not the one that gave it
to you.  And before you even start, it wasn't the
dentist, either.  It was you.  You don't really need
   "That's not true," I said.
   "Sure, I was there, and I helped, but at the same
time, it's like I don't count.  You don't come with
your body, Elise, you come with your head.  It's all
you, baby.  Not me.  Well, that's the way I felt,
anyway.  And maybe I still do feel that way a little
bit.  But it comes down to this, Elise.
   "I love you.  And I want you to be happy.  And so
maybe I can't make you come when we're making love,
but you know what?  I can still help out in some small
   "In a big way."
   "So," he said, "however it happens, whatever kind
of sex you could call it, I want you to enjoy yourself
sexually.  I'm sorry I've been kinda sore about it."
   I still didn't understand where this was going, but
Patrick refused to answer until he brought the car to
a stop.  He told me I could take off the blindfold. 
We had been driving for about an hour.
   "JCU?" I said.  "Why are you taking me to college
for my birthday?"
   "They've got a sensory deprivation tank," said
Patrick.  "I've paid to give you a session.  And so
either this is just going to be weird and trippy and a
really stupid present, or I'm going to give you the
best orgasm in your life."

   I tried to describe it to him afterwards, and even
now when I try to describe it I find that I simply
don't have the words.  I'm no good with abstracts. 
Details I can handle-- but what details can you
recount when you can't feel, can't see, can't hear,
can't taste, can't smell, can't taste?  Inside the
tank, you can't even think.  It was like I was
completely cut off from my body, from the world,
surrounded only by the vast ocean of myself.
   It was the strongest, best, purest orgasm I ever
had.  I don't know if it lasted the entire hour or
just five minutes.  And even now, at thirty-two,
having gone back five times in the interim, none of
those that followed, incredible as they were, have
ever touched the first.
   Once I got out of the tank, I got dressed and found
Patrick waiting for me in the lobby.  "You're
glowing," he said, and he smiled; I think at that
moment that he was even happier than I was.

   After that, our sex life returned to what passes
for normal.  We play our little games and we make
love, and we cuddle afterwards, usually until Patrick
falls asleep, snoring while my head rests on his



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