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Toby again
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
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From: [email protected]
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: STORY, averti, toby again
Date: 28 Apr 92 00:43:31 GMT
averti here. More from my masses of random, nonsequential notes
on Toby and me, and how I got the way I am partly because of the way
she was.
Thanks to all who have written privately. I must clear up one false
impression. Toby is not dead! Anybody can die--she has done something
far more difficult, impressive, and typical; she dismantled part of
her personality and life. So there's no more ``Toby'' but the woman
who played that part is still very much alive and makin' moves. Just
no more playhouse, no more circle of perverts.
Nothing last forever, except cliches. 8).
***
The second time Toby and I played, it was still hot and windy. I sat in
an ordinary kitchen chair, watching, doing as I had been told.
Toby looked at me narrowly. ``Maybe you _do_ need to be tied to that
chair.''
I swallowed. ``Maybe I do'' I heard myself say, in a low, rough voice.
Ten minutes later I was naked and securely roped to the chair. I was
tied by the ankles to the lower front chair legs, and by the wrists
and forearms to the arms of the chair. Toby had achieved this largely
without coming anywhere near me; she ordered my to bind my own legs
and left arm, and then made me close my eyes while she bound my right
arm and then resumed her position on the couch.
I was so turned on I was almost reluctant to open my eyes; the dreamlike
quality of what was happening in the hot, airless room overpowered me.
I had an erection that was practically pulsing.
``Open your eyes'' Toby said. ``This is much better...now I can look
at you while you look at me.''
I didn't have anything to say. Toby's nipples stood out hard and proud,
like the tips of little fingers. She brushed a hand over them as if
absently stroking a pet.
``Look at this'' Toby commanded. She placed a large, strong hand on
either side of her major lips and pulled her pussy open for me to
gaze into. It was a curiously innocent gesture, more pride than
lust--``Look what I have! Isn't it wonderful?!'' Many women don't
like to do this at all; others do it rather grudgingly if their
lovers request. With Toby, I was finding out, the body is not only
a temple, but a museum of modern art, with her cunt as the feature
exhibit.
``Beautiful'' I managed to say. Indeed it was. I have always found
the complicated mystery of a woman's sex attractive. I have
made sure my lovers understood this about me. I don't chase pussy;
I adore pussy, I study it, observe it in its native habitat, pet
it, bring it little presents, and make nice to it with tongue and
fingers and cock until its owner goes mental.
This pussy was not to be the most beautiful I would ever see, by
my criteria--that belongs to our friend Joker, whose rough exterior
conceals an interior that would give eyesight to the blind and make
the dumb begin to speak. But Toby's ways with her body were...unusual.
She held herself open to me in what might have been a demeaning or
silly position had it been any other woman. With Toby, it looked
exactly right. With its complicated inner folds of a rich medium
dark red, and an early dew of arousal glistening at the entrance to
her vagina, Toby's pussy spoke to me. In a language older than words.
***
``Talk to me!''
``Ummm...I'm watching you play with yourself--''
``I'm not playing!''
True enough. Toby now looked as though this was the most serious task
of the week.
``Um, I think I'm beginning to understand'' I muttered.
``How nice for you...'' Toby said. She pinched and pulled the folds
between her legs as if it all belonged to somebody else. I was to
find that that distance was part of her secret. She really WAS at
least two people, active and passive, the doer and the doee. I recalled
seeing cats stage a fight between their front and back legs, for fun
and practice. Toby's principle was similar. She was simultaneously the
butch, stroking and fondling with big, insistent hands, and the femme,
melting and swelling under the hand's invasion.
``Yes'' I continued. ``I'm not a submissive. I'm not really even an
audience. I'm the Chorus.''
She looked up and flashed me a dazzling, sweaty smile. ``That's RIGHT!
That's why you have to talk to me, so I know you're paying attention,
so I know you're watching...''
***
So, I was tied into a chair. I watched, party of one, as Toby worked
on herself. I had seen woman masturbate before, of course. (At the
time I though I had seen EVERYTHING before, a serious misconception.)
But Toby seemed to be making some sort of combined ritual and artistic
statement out of the act. She didn't just rub or stroke, she contrived
with her long fingers to rearrange or displace, to shift the related
positions of her labia and clitoris form moment to moment. At times,
Toby researched with her fingertips, testing and probing between her
legs as if in the middle of some fine surgery. Then, just as quickly,
she would ram four fingers into her vagina (long arms help here)
and assault herself with repeated slamming thrusts until her small
breasts shook and jiggled. And then...
...and then Toby would creep up to the top of her dark vulva, steal
close to her little pointed clitoris, then address the clit itself,
with fingers that stroked, probed, rolled, and even scratched. The
wonderful mixed-emotion faces that went with this plundering of herself
drew my gaze away from her center. Toby sighed and wrinkled her brow
and squeezed here eyes tightly shut and arched her neck and made faces
remarkably like those of grief, all the while fiddling relentlessly
around in her snatch.
***
When she came, it was definitely more of a deliverance than an ecstacy.
A few snappings of the groin and thrusts of the hips, two fingers
vibrating on the clitoris and then pausing, pushing the swollen organ
upward, quiet, discreet moans...Toby was coming somewhere inside herself,
where she did everything. She needed me to watch, through the buildup
and the act. But she didn't need me or anybody else when she got to that
private place where climax lives.
***
``Can't I at least kiss you?'' I was glad to be untied. Some little
corner of my mind had yelled at me the entire time that being alone
and tied up with this woman was like smoking in a powder magazine.
Probably nothing bad would happen; but if it did, it would be major.
Toby hardly heard me. She was _drinking_ fluid from her cunt, scooping
it up on two fingertips and sucking the fingers clean with her puffy
red mouth. It was just this side of distancing, but it made sense
in light of who was doing it. Having recycled her sexual self, Toby
was now recycling her sexual exudations.
``Yes...once''. She leaned forward. I dropped to my knees--it felt
right--and placed one hand very lightly on each side of her face.
Our lips met; she tasted, not surprisingly, of pussy.
There was more, I'm sure. Something along the lines of when will I see
you again and goodbye and really had a fun time must have exchanged
between us. I don't have any clear memories. Later that night I went
out into the messy, heavily sloped street and stared down the hill
at the tatty Eucalyptus trees edging the Panhandle. I could still taste
pussy, special, mystical, dangerous pussy.
Hell, I can still taste it _now_.
***
Over the ensuing weeks Toby and I got together once a week on the average.
During these meetings our psychic and emotional bond grew stronger,
while our physical relationship didn't seem to grow at all. (By most
people's standards we didn't even have a physical relationship, but I
couldn't measure anything about Toby by most people's standards.)
One evening during the first week in October she tied me to a door
frame, arms stretched up, and then lay on the floor at my feet and
masturbated with various large vegetables. (I later met Eloise, who
specialized in this sort of thing; but where Eloise was always more
than a little goofy in her produce-insertion bouts, Toby was as serene
and serious fucking herself with a cucumber as at any other time.)
The next time, Toby handcuffed me behind my back and made me stand
next to the bed, holding a fairly large hand mirror between my
teeth. She admired her reflection in the mirror as she stroked herself.
When I couldn't hold the mirror any longer in my teeth, she attached
alligator clips to my nipples and slung the mirror from them with a
light chain. When she first pinched my nipple to prepare it for the
clip, I thought I felt an electric shock pass from her through me and
down to my genitals. Or I hoped that's what I felt.
The time after that, Toby commanded me to insert a long broom handle
in my ass and kneel on a large California Bear flag that was spread
on her living room floor. (I've never been able to parse the symbolism
of this; maybe it was the only large flag she had.) She stood
spread-legged in front of me and had me blow on her clit while she
worked a vibrator a bit lower down. After she came, she walked around
me, trailing her long auburn hair across my back and shoulders as
I jacked off to her orders. I ejaculated what seemed like six months'
worth of sperm all over the flag. At least I got touched by her hair.
I rightly predicted to myself that little morsels of attention would
be all I would get from this relationship. In the physical sense,
I was right. In the emotional and spiritual sense I was as dumb as
the bear on the flag.
***
One windy, watery sunlit day we rode the cable car from Market
Street to Fisherman's Wharf. City natives, we staked out the rear
platform and let the tourists ride on the sides as they wished.
Toby looked...pretty. Just pretty for once, healthy, trim, faultless
in her tight designer jeans and a billowy, gauzy Indian cotton blouse.
I was vaguely proud to be seen with her, and enjoying our `date;'
out here in the fresh air, we were almost man and woman, not mistress
and slave, or two sicko codependents.
Toby had the neckline of the loose blouse mostly unbuttoned, and as
we lurched up and down the hills, I kept catching peeks of the rich
curves of her small, high breasts as the blouse shifted. (It doesn't
matter if I know the breasts in question by heart, the day I turn
down a peek at some half-clothed tits is the day you can mirror-test
me to see if I've stopped breathing.)
Toby ``caught' me peeking and grinned. She fished in her bag. ``Move
about two feet to your left'' she asked.
`Why?'
`So nobody can see me for a minute.'' Curious, I did as I was told.
Toby leaned against the rear rail of the cable car, looked left and
right like a burglar in a silent movie, and then slipped her right
hand in the loose neckline of her blouse.
I started to smile.
She did something with her fingers inside her blouse. She was pinching
her nipple! I smiled more broadly as I could see the backs of her
knuckles under the sheer fabric, moving this way and that as she
teased and rolled the point of her breast.
This was fun. Toby rolled her eyes upward very slightly and caught
her lower lip in her teeth. She slowly withdrew her hand from her
blouse in such a way as to give me a good slow look at her rock-hard,
reddened nipple, the size and shape of a fairly large pencil eraser.
My cock was stiffening in my pants. What was she going to do next?
Toby opened her other hand and showed me what she had taken from
her bag. It was a tiny, exquisite German-made vernier caliper.
(I believe Toby got it from Eloise, who used it to calibrate some
sort of video production stuff.) No more than two inches at its
longest dimension, it had a miniscule set of jaws that opened and
closed with the turn of a couple of adjusting screws.
I looked at this toy. The thin sunlight glinted off it as Toby
tranferred it into her right hand. She once again reached inside
her blouse. Time seemed to stand still; the notoriously noisy
cable car seemed to float along in a dreamlike fashion. I watched,
seemingly without breathing, as Toby caught her hardened nipple
between the jaws of the tiny instrument...and began to take up
the adjustment screws.
I couldn't have blinked if I had wanted to. Toby made fine,
fine adjustments, drawing the steel jaws ever closer. Her beautiful
nipple tried to flatten itself in accomodation to the relentless
jaws, then bulged out on either side. With each tightening of the
jaws, Toby gave a little gasp, and then a little crinkled smile/
frown...
***
We went on the roof of an art gallery two blocks from Fisherman's
Wharf. I had scoped out this roof the previous year in connection
with some business deal that never went down. Each step of the way
up four flights of metal steps, Toby made a tiny sound, as the
calipers bounced minutely on her tortured nipple.
As soon as we were on the flat part of the roof, Toby threw herself
down on her back next to a sheltering skylight, and started to cry.
I sat down next to her. As usual, I didn't have a clue as to what I
should do. She cried silently, big shiny tears running out of her
eyes and down her face. After a moment, still crying, Toby reached
inside her blouse and gave a couple of fairly hard _tugs_ on the
caliper-trapped nipple. This made her cry even harder.
`Um, why are you crying?'' I asked dully.
``Because I can't have everything my way'' Toby said, in all seriousness.
And in all truthfulness, as the months and years would show me.
Toby's world didn't just belong to her. It existed FOR her, like a
kind of externalized hallucination. Things (people, emotions, problems)
that didn't fit didn't remain.
It's not fair to say that I didn't know what was going on. For all
practical purposes, I knew exactly what was going on; I had just
not gotten used to it's going on with such direct intensity. It was
somewhat like watching somebody calmly remove a bullet from their
own body.
Toby stopped tormenting her nipple long enough to skin her jeans
down to her knees. My mouth was too dry to water--I must have been
breathing through it for an hour--but it felt like it would like to
water at the sight of her gently rounded belly, lush pubic stripe,
and velvety thighs.
``I want you to sit on my legs and watch'' she said. She experimentally
flexed her knees and spread her thighs, which allowed me to determine
that her vulva was swimming in womanjuice.
``And watch?''
``Yes. Watch me, you know...like we do in the bedroom.''
``Do you want me to-''
``Just _watch_!'' She placed her right hand between her legs and
returned the left to the calipers.
``Couldn't I...'' I had some half-hearted notion of asking if I could
operate the calipers, but I knew to ask would only irritate her. So,
for one of the first of the hundreds of times in our relationship,
I shut up, I sat, I watched.
***
***************
More later, as I become somewhat more distanced. This fire is still too
hot for prolonged close work.
averti April 1992
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