your visitor

[patrick1]

She didn't hear him. Did she?

She wakes, naked as usual, half-exposed, sprawled across her white bed, and instantly she tenses. There's a faint tang of something sour on the air. And too much of a breeze.

Up. She's sitting up, the sheet around her. There's somebody in the room.

No. No. Lights on, she's sure she's alone. The breeze through the drapes. Is there something in reach she could use for a weapon?

Soon she's in her silk gown, and clutching the big heavy torch she keeps on the lower tier of the bedside table for when the electricity's out. Soon she's patrolling the other rooms, sniffing like an animal for that sour smell she woke to, pretending she hasn't seen something strange on her own dressing table, something that wasn't there when she went to sleep.

A burglar? If so, a damned strange burglar. He's taken nothing.

Eventually she's sipping mint tea and back in her bedroom and facing up to the mystery of the burglar. Not only did he take nothing. But he's left something behind, even now the smell of him is fading. Two things, actually. On the polished pine surface of her dressing table, between the hair brush and the tub of cream, he's left two gifts. One: a pair of handcuffs, leather, padded with soft wool, attached by a single link of chain, the cuffs open, with tiny, open padlocks attached to the metal buckles. Two: a blindfold of pale cream velvet, with leather to attach it to the head, to buckle it there, with another tiny, open padlock.

On each of the strange gifts is a business card. Should she touch them, smudge whatever fingerprints might be there, ruin the evidence?

She picks up each of the cards in turn. Pale cream vellum, with print on one side only, in dark brown Arial: www.yourvisitor.com .

She goes back to bed, in her gown, with her mint tea, and the torch clutched in her hand. She stares at the cuffs, and the blindfold, and the cards, where she left them, on the dressing table.

She tells herself to call the police.

She tells herself to go back to sleep, with the light on.

She tells herself not to go to the computer.

She sits upright in her bed, staring, wondering...

 

[DeliciousMaiden]

… wondering just how long he has been watching her and just how it is that he has managed to break into her room, yet again.

“yet again”?

Yes … she’d known he’d been in her bedroom before.
Suspected that things on her dresser had been moved around, but had never let herself admit it … until now…

She pulls the sheet higher and winds it around her with a shiver.
The drapes flutter and there is heaviness in the darkened room.
The pool of light from the lamp is the only comfort.
She wants to run around the house and throw on all the lights.
But she knows that would be silly. What help would that be?
What defense did she have against this nightly prowler?
Each time he was getting bolder … and now those gifts!
What did it all mean?

She forces herself out of the sanctuary of the bed and moves to the dresser once more.
She stares at the cuffs and blindfold.
She should call the police.
This had gone on long enough.
At least she now had hard evidence and not just what could be termed the neurotic paranoia of a woman living alone.

She walks to the telephone and picks it up … she begins to dial …

But still the questions run through her mind … did she know this man?
What had she done to make him act this way … and the gifts …

She blushes as she looked over at them, the telephone forgotten temporarily.

She puts down the receiver and crosses the room.
She picks up one of the cards.

www.yourvisitor.com ...

She picks up the card and pulls her laptop out from beside the bed.
She leans back against a mound of pillows and pulls the sheet about her.
She switches on and logs on.
The internet springs into life.

With quivering fingers, she types in the webaddress …

 

[patrick1]

www.yourvisitor.com

(On the flickering computer screen there are pictures...pictures of her bedroom, obviously taken during the day, and a few murky night-time pictures...a foot sticking out of bed...a blurred face against a pillow...pictures that must have been taken when she was sleeping, perhaps without the flash to avoid waking her, perhaps that's why they're so indistinct...and then these words weave in and out of the photographs...)

Thank you for responding to my oblique invitation to visit this website. It's a place I've made in your honor. Maybe you were expecting vague references to all sorts of places, that I was the kind of man who had visited many houses, speculatively, in the hope of a response.

So I hope you're pleased that the pictures dotted around this text are of you and your home. I expect you'll be disconcerted too. I'm an invader, an intruder. I want to intrude into your life.

But I need be no more substantial, to others, than a will o' the wisp. You can explain me away as a dream you had. If you need to explain me at all.

I want to explore you. I want to explore your desires with you, and to satisfy some strange desires of my own. For our first encounter, I should like to render you blind, and helpless, and then caress you all night. My caresses will always be accompanied by a little strangeness, a little infliction of pain. That's the way I'm made. But you need only say, and that will stop: the pain, but not the pleasure.

If you would like to experiment, to accept our first encounter, simply leave the window open tonight, and wear the cuffs I left behind on your wrists.

If you don't want to experiment, you need do nothing. Or you can write to me here. Click the 'write to my visitor' button.

Visitor

 

[DeliciousMaiden]

I hit the enter key and wait for the website to load.
I lick my lips nervously as the blue bar shows the pictures loading.
It’s going to be pornographic, I decide, or a selection of links …

I stare at the screen as a montage of pictures appears on the screen.
One by one each picture moves to the centre and then recedes into a large thumbnail.
I look and look again incredulously.
I shiver as I realise what I’m looking at.
Photographs of my room, my bedroom by day and then some at nighttime and then some… ohh God… some with me asleep in my bed.

My mind races!

How many other people have seen these pictures!
I know logically that nothing is recogniseable … but I know …
I shiver feeling violated…

I pull the sheet around me and look round nervously.
I click and read the text that now appears between the thumbnail images.

”So I hope you're pleased that the pictures dotted around this text are of you and your home.
I expect you'll be disconcerted too.
I'm an invader, an intruder. I want to intrude into your life. “

How could I be pleased?
Pleased that this man selected me?
Selected me to intrude .. invade?

I read on.

”I want to explore you.
I want to explore your desires with you, and to satisfy some strange desires of my own.”

I shiver wondering what he means.

“For our first encounter, I should like to render you blind, and helpless, and then caress you all night. My caresses will always be accompanied by a little strangeness, a little infliction of pain. That's the way I'm made. But you need only say, and that will stop: the pain, but not the pleasure.

If you would like to experiment, to accept our first encounter, simply leave the window open tonight, and wear the cuffs I left behind on your wrists.

If you don't want to experiment, you need do nothing. Or you can write to me here. Click the 'write to my visitor' button.

Visitor "

I look at the button and hesitate.

His words weren’t threatening and yet I knew I had no privacy.
I knew this man must have been tracking me for some time now.
I should call the police.
I knew I had evidence now.
What he suggested was… outrageous… how could he expect …
And yet the idea had … the idea of such exploration had appealed to one side of me. But I would only admit that to myself.
How could anyone trust themselves to a stranger and a stranger who said he wanted to inflict pain, no matter how minor. How did I know he would stop.

I sighed impatient with myself for even considering …
Quickly I hit the “write to my visitor” button.

Dear visitor

I write and then pause.

Why I should call you visitor or write like this I don’t know!
Visitors are invited and you definitely were not.
I don’t want your intrusion.
I don’t want your experiment.
I’m not some guinea pig you can play with.

Please leave me alone.

I considered signing it “ your victim” but thought he might actually like that!

Quickly I hit the send button before I changed my mind.

I had to tell the police.
I really had to.
I clicked to save the web address on my favourites and set up a shortcut to desktop.
Only so the police could easily retrieve it!

I sat numbly and glanced over at the cuffs.
For some strange reason I was tempted to go over and try them on.
I sighed annoyed with myself once more..
I watched the website screen flickering.
I felt so … exposed …

 

[patrick1]

verses from the visitor

How did that fragment of paper get there? Between the pages of the book she's been reading? Was it there yesterday? Whose strange handwriting is that?

It's his. A message from him: the visitor. Just when she's succeeded in putting him out of her mind, just when she's stopped finding the cuffs he's left behind hypnotic...here is a note from him...hand-written, in a careful, almost italic hand...black ink on white paper...something he must have left behind on one of his visits...

Well, it's not really a message. Or, only obliquely so. For it's a set of verses...and surely she could have him traced through this, through his fingertips' touch on the paper, through the curves and curlicues of his writing? Why has he exposed himself thus? Is that in itself a message? With trembling hands she reads over the verse again...

nocturne
the woman is music in the night
her taut helplessness a dangerous gift
to her gentle, cruel visitor

nocturne
the woman is music in the night
her cries arpeggios, her body's moves
the graceful anguish of an instrument

nocturne
a new, strange creature in the night
writhes inside her skin and plays
wild melodies she's never known before

nocturne

 

[DeliciousMaiden]

The screen … the cuffs … the blindfold.
She crosses the room and shuts the window firmly.
She pulls her laptop onto her knee and closes it down.
She moves under her sheet, her security blanket and settles down.
The lamp stays on.
Time and again she glances at the dresser.
Even when she closes her eyes she can still see those gifts.
His gifts.

Exasperated she throws off the sheet.
It’s stuffy, but the window remains closed.
She reaches down and opens her book.
The book she’s been reading for the past week.
She turns to the page about half way through and tries to settle down, to concentrate…
Concentrate on anything apart from Him.

And then she finds it.
The paper … the verses … his message.
She reads.

Phone the police!”

Her mind screams at her.
How foolish to spend the night alone, knowing that He wanted to enter, to experiment with her to …
But as she reads her mind is captured by the words.
She trembles and re-reads.
The words weave their spell, conjure the images that her fear would not allow.

An erotic image.
Her helplessness is not a gift and yet … she has a choice … or so her visitor says.

The poem is littered with oxymoron, opposites that reflect the chaos in her mind.

Dangerous … gift …
Gentle … cruel …
Graceful … anguish …

All those words dance through her mind, conjuring an image of erotic helplessness … the spell weaves its magic until she suddenly becomes aware of her shallow breathing, of the response of her body.

Abruptly she throws the paper aside and crosses to the window.
She wrenches it open and breathes deeply as she stands naked in the darkness.
She presses her forehead against the cool pane.

”Don’t… don’t do this to me …”

She whispers her plea.

She has to get help.
She has to stay strong.
She …

She turns and crosses to the bed.
She picks up the paper and slips it into her bedside drawer.
She moves to the dresser and picks up the pair of cuffs.
She turns them, examining them with her fingers.
They are fine, well made, strong, yet very soft.
She strokes the fabric.
She slips one about her wrist.
She shivers as it encases her slender pulse.

She starts.
Did she hear a sound?
Is someone forcing his way into her apartment.
She retreats fearfully to the bed, her eyes wide and staring.
Even as she draws on the sheet, she knows it can’t be Him.
He is silent. He is beyond detection.
How long she sits and stares blindly into the darkness she is not aware.
Just as she is not aware that finally her guard slips.
Finally her eyelids flutter.
Finally sleep takes over.

And so she sleeps as the drapes flutter by the open window and the cuffs remain, unsecured; yet encasing one of her wrists.

 

[patrick1]

the visitor

She wakes to tenderness.

A hand strokes her hair.

She is lain on her back and blind. Blindfolded. BLIND!

'Ssssh, ssshhh,' says a soft male voice. 'Take a few moments to understand.'

Her right hand is at her crotch: that's one thing she understands straight away. But what is she to do? Take it away and expose herself more? Or...?

As if in answer, his hand strokes the back of her right hand. 'Sssshh,' he says. 'You look beautiful.'

Her left hand is secured, in the cuff, somewhere above her. To the bed, perhaps. She is helpless, at his mercy, oh no, oh please...

His hand strokes her left arm, up, from her shoulder to her elbow to her forearm to her wrist. 'You can unfasten it any time you want,' he says.

He's English, his voice is quiet, frank, honest-sounding.

But he has invaded her night. Her home. her body.

Now his hands are at her feet. Massaging the toes gently...then the feet themselves...

'I should like you to caress yourself,' he says, 'while I...'

And his hands are under her calves, and over her knees, and move up her thighs...

...then skip to her fingertips, and over her hands, and up her arms...

'In a moment I'm going to fasten two little metal clamps, attached by a silver chain, to your nipples, until it hurts, and then carry on caressing you. And if you want all this to stop, all you need to do is to say, Please stop, Sir...and I shall leave you, straight away, to release yourself...but if you don't speak, I shall carry on, until you come to orgasm for me, blind, cuffed, clamped, nude...'

And his hands trace the contours of her face...the peaks and hollows of her shoulders...and then she hears the clink and chink of metal...

 

[DeliciousMaiden]

I stir, belatedly aware of my slumber.
At the moment that I awake, I’m blissfully unaware of the panic that overwhelmed me before I escaped into sleep.

I open my eyes … I blink.
Something is wrong.
I feel a hand stroke my hair.
I move my head, but see nothing.
I panic as half formed fears come crashing back into my consciousness.

'Ssssh, ssshhh, Take a few moments to understand.'

A voice … his voice! Oh God!
I’m naked on my bed … a hand shields my sex from his gaze.
But other than that I am fully exposed.
My body flinches as I feel his touch on that hand.

'Sssshh, You look beautiful.'

His voice is soft, gentle, coaxing.
His touch light as he strokes my hand, the hand I want to pull myself free with, the hand I want to pull the covers over me with and shield me from his sight.

But I can’t just lie here … can’t just let him come and manipulate me like this …
I go to move my left and and find it secured.
The cuffs! How did that happen?
I struggle to remember, even as I pull against the cuff.
I don’t want this .. I don’t want him here … with me …
I whimper in fright and panic.

His hand trails along my body, a soothing, gentle touch, ending at the cuff.

'You can unfasten it any time you want,'

I want to scream at him to let me go… now … and yet I am intrigued by his voice, his accent … so different to the spectre I imagined my visitor to be!


I wriggle as I feel hands move along my feet .. to massage … to caress…I bite back a soft sigh … his touch is soothing .. gentle …

'I should like you to caress yourself, 'while I...'

And his touch continues, weaving a trail up my legs and to my thighs. I brace myself for an intimate touch, but he moves to my fingertips, hands and arms …
In the enforced blindness, his touches seem to leave a blazing trail along her body.

'In a moment I'm going to fasten two little metal clamps, attached by a silver chain, to your nipples, until it hurts, and then carry on caressing you.”

I gasp and then pull with renewed panic.

And if you want all this to stop, all you need to do is to say, Please stop, Sir...and I shall leave you, straight away, to release yourself...but if you don't speak, I shall carry on, until you come to orgasm for me, blind, cuffed, clamped, nude...'

I let out a groan.
I see myself as he must see me … knowing he wants to make me cumm … cumm for him … for this invader.
All I have to do is say.
All I have to do is protest.
I lick my lips and take a breath …

All the time his hands have wandered across my body and lingered on my face… intimate … loving caresses …
Calculated to arouse, I realise. Calculated to stop my objection.

”Ahh!”

My back arches as I feel the clamp at my right nipple.
I pull at the cuff as I react. His voice hushes me.
His hand strokes my hair as he croons.
As soon as my body relaxes, the action is repeated.
Again my nipple is clamped as I squirm against my restraints.

”Ohh.. God… “

I moan softly … the exclamation turning to a gasp as the connecting chain is pulled gently…
He pauses and then continues to run his hands along my body.
His touch is possessive.
His touch is intimate.
I try not to be carried away with the heady sensations, but I know I’m responding to his touch …

My dark world is a whirl of stimuli, both calming and painful.
And I’m drowning in it … falling into this pit …
each touch drugging me making me less and less capable of rational thought and protest.

 

[patrick1]

the visitor

She moves, blind, under his touch.

He is beside her somewhere on the bed and he tightens the clamp at her left nipple and his left hand is stroking her inner thighs, left, then right, left then right...and his tongue is licking the whorl of her ear...

'The poor helpless woman,' his voice says, 'what can she do but lie there...?'

She seems to strain at the cuff fastening her left wrist to the bed. As if in response, he takes her free right hand, and makes her thumb and forefinger squeeze together at her clitoris, and he pushes her other fingers a little way into her...

'...what can she do but lie there and take her pleasure...'

...as he tightens the clamp at her right nipple...and then his hands are roving, roving...at her ribs under her breasts...over her belly and hips and down her thighs...oh and then one hand at her face and another here and there about her body...

...she makes some sort of sound and yes he releases a little of the pressure at her left nipple and oh, that's worse, worse, despite his tongue at her neck and his free hand at her shoulders and then he's tightening the clamp again...

...her body rises and falls, rises and falls, and does she even remember that he said 'All you need to say is Please stop sir'...? And if she remembers, would she want to say it? As his fingers-and-thumbs now begin to pinch her lightly at either side of her waist, and then inside her thighs, and then behind her legs, and then...

 

[DeliciousMaiden]

'The poor helpless woman, what can she do but lie there...?'

His voice fills my mind, even as his touches.
His hot breath is on my ear, his hands move along my thighs,
His tongue flicks making me exclaim at the sensitivity he arouses.
And all the time the clamps pull, the pressure is increased.
How could I just lie there?

I pull against the cuff.
I moan in protest.
And then his hand is on mine.
Instead of guiding me to release myself, he moves my right hand down between my legs.
And I let him.
I let him move my fingers and ease them into myself.

'...what can she do but lie there and take her pleasure...'

He releases my hand and it stays.
It stays because I do not have the power to reposition it.
Blinded but overloaded with sensation, I lay compliant.

”Aaahh… “

I moan and arch my back.
The clamp tightens again.

But even as the pain causes panic, it is neutralised by the feel of his touch, the constant roving of his hands all over my body.
I cannot predict the touch. I do not know where he will touch next.
My mind tries to predict, but fails, fails over and over.
And all I can focus on is where he’ll touch me next, what part of my body is next to be sensitised by this stranger’s touch.

I cannot hold back a moan.
Even as I allow a response to pass my lips, the pressure on my left nipple is eased.
My head thrashes from side to side.
His tongue joins his hands.
It was if he knows … knows that targeting my neck, my ears will make the ache worse.

”Aahh….”

I gasp and arch. The clamp is tightened once more!

Ohh.. God… those touches … on and on and on…
All over my body … hands … tongue …
Now pinches … here … there … no pattern … impossible to say where he will tease her next!

And then I realise.
My right hand is teasing my clit, had been moving in circles.
Even as I become aware, I want to stop … I want to pull my hand away … but I don’t … I can’t.

His hand is on mine again.
He urges my fingers to ease inside.
I gasp … feeling my own digits slide into my slick entrance.
I blush in shame.
I’m wet … aroused …
He lifts my hands and suckles my fingers.
I’m humiliated and yet ...

”Please…. “

I moan, not knowing what I’m asking for.

He stops sucking and releases my hand, laying it gently on my mound, but not positioning it.
He seems to sit back.
I lay .. I wait … I strain to hear … I move my head trying to sense where he is … what he’s doing …
I try to anticipate his touch … but his hands, his tongue have left me.

And this is so much worse!
He’s in the room with me.
He must be looking at me.
And yet … what is he doing?
What is he thinking?
What is he planning?

I pull at my cuff.
My head moves from side to side.
Then … just as I begin to panic he …