1. Other Colors -- Ch. 18


    Date: 9/12/2015, Categories: BDSM, Author: mascodagama, Rating: 4, Source: LushStories

    reluctant to pull anything from his little wasteland of psychiatry, and stone. Then, at the far end, I spied a gold-lettered spine that might have been left there by mistake. Bonsoir... I reached out, balancing carefully at the edge of the ladder, and fanned through the pages. What on earth are you doing here, my dear? It was a slender Emily Dickinson, bound in oiled, black leather. The aroma alone was enticing enough, but in the margins of each page, I found something I absolutely couldn't resist. With an ice blue pen, he'd jotted out notes in his fastidious and unmistakable cursive. At random, I stopped to skim a verse entitled ‘The Master’, under which he'd scrawled the words: ‘Anticipation / Algolagnia. She craves pain upon arousal.’ Oh, come on! I gasped, and snapped it shut. D’un ridicule acheve. C'est du pipeau! I shook my head. Get your mind out of the gutter, Monsieur. It seemed insane to me, saying such things about poor, timid Emily Dickinson. Belle of Amherst, locked away in her beastly cottage . Every hazy memory I had of her from high school was slathered over in a chaste and puritanical whitewash. But still... I glanced at the book again, still grasping it tightly. Very slowly, I made my way down the ladder, and tucked it bashfully beneath my arm. I was reminded of when my oldest brother left for college; how I'd slipped into his room once he was gone, hoping to steal his old box of drawing charcoal, and pastels. Instead, I found his box of old ...
    pornography. I was too young still to really understand what I was seeing, but I knew instinctively that I was never meant to have seen it. Perhaps it traumatized me. Perhaps not. But all these years later, discovering Dmitri's dirty annotations hardly felt any different. Just one thing, however, had definitively changed in me—now that I'd found it, I didn't want to put it down. From the moment I agreed to move in with him, it seemed I'd been breathing ambivalence instead of air. Now, little as I liked to admit it, I could see him rubbing off on me. I could feel it. His deviance, his decadence; they were contagions that had invaded my body. They made me sick. As sick as him. By the time my feet reached the ground again, I knew nothing could be more tempting to me that night than the chance to poison myself with every last, ghastly word he'd scribbled down. I let the book fall open in my palm, and buried my nose between the pages. I barely noticed moving out into the corridor. I barely noticed descending the stairs; nor sitting down to dinner when Monsieur Partout summoned me to the table. In retrospect, I really hope I wasn't rude to him. But If I was, I couldn't help it. I was rapt. I was... enthralled. And when at last I found myself upstairs, already undressed, and slipping into bed between the blankets, I'd been over every page, ravenously, perhaps a half dozen times at least. I stared up at ceiling, wide-eyed, clutching the duvet across my chest. I suppose I ought to have been ...
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