## Archive-name: elisa2-3

From: Touchstone <Touchstone@phadra.demon.co.uk>

Subject: Story: Elisa II {Touchstone}

Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage

Elisa left for University... However good our resolutions and however faithful our intent, the gaps between letters draws out, and phone calls for all manner of reasons of time verses availability do not assist. Elisa was attaching herself to her studies and by all accounts was doing well. I had been there and knew the strange atmosphere that distorts all memories of a previous lifestyle.

We drifted out to a letter a week before one of us started talking about letting it rest until the break (possibly me in a mood of rejection) and then feeling hurt that the other didn't write and protest. An offer of an overseas project took me out of the country for the whole of her Christmas recess; and evenings spent with a litre of wine and a couple of Australian backpackers reduced my letters to postcards and finally a spiteful response to what was - I found out later - another sonar ping in the shape of gift-wrapped tennis shoe lace but which I took to be ironic.

By April the following year we had ceased to write and I was with another girl who offered new horizons that I trampled down in my greed. I wince at the thought of the things I did to her. And I will tell you now because I deserve your contempt - that I doubled back on the games I played with Elisa but the part where the affection fitted had been lost along the way. I have no apologies and I offer none to defend myself.

Others came and went - like towns along the route - and varying degrees of fun within my interests. Perhaps its fitting that eventually I was waylaid by a girl - a woman - that had diminishing interest in such games and almost a negligible involvement after the honeymoon. The most enduring memory of the whole affair was that I ripped my arm open on my stag night {not totally sure how} and ended up being stitched by a nurse I had last encountered handcuffed to a friends' bed - the handcuffs were a gift from me; I brought them back from Munich - at a party. As she taped up the minor cuts she offered me the roll of sticking plaster as a wedding gift - makes a good gag, she assured me.

At the end of the honeymoon my wife helped me peel off the tape from my wound, removing it slowly and with the pain of hairs being ripped from my skin. We both were of the type who took off plasters slowly, prefering the pain to be little and spread out rather than the immediate wrench. And that was precisely the way our marriage ended, slowly and painfully, leaving the stark white mark where the sun hadn't shone for a long time.

I worked abroad again for a while and revisted haunts that used to bring me pleasure, and they did, for a while, but always with the feeling of recycled experience, and all the girls I met - whether straight or kinky - were Version II, like Mary the second, Julie the forth, and so on. If I thought of Elisa at all it was only a vague recollection, and prompted by some parallel characteristic, such as a girl who had a noisy orgasm. And that would draw back to me events of the past, like the time late at night in her kitchen {with her parents asleep upstairs} when she gagged herself with a scarf and knelt in front of me, string held in her hands which were pulled up and cocked like a dog's paws when begging for a biscuit.

Coming back to England yet again I rented a house on a temporary lease and was living about 20 minutes out from S_____. I got caught up with old friends and enjoyed a bit of renown on the basis of a narrow [very narrow] fame, nothing spectacular - local boy makes good, etc. - and I mention it only because it is pivotal in this account.

I was in the bar of a hotel near the town centre meeting a few friends and colleagues, and colleagues' friends and one of them singled me out for an introduction. We did the usual stuff and he dropped in the fact that we had a mutual friend; it was a theatrical build-up; I was required to ask who, etc., and he named Elisa.

Whether I covered up my interest sufficiently well, or represented it as a passing curiousity, I don't know, but I was interested: S______ was riddled with my sightings of her ghost, in the parks, the cafe and all the other stomping grounds we had. She - or rather the memory of her - was homing on me and it was a distraction at the time. But the guy was elusive about her; he suggested dinner one night, which I accepted thinking that a run for contacts [which I took to be his motive] was a decent price to pay for seeing Elisa again. I took their address and made a date for two day's hence.

The days went slow.

Eventually I pulled into their drive and he welcomed me in. Elisa was in the kitchen he explained and she'd be through in a while, so I sat and did small talk perched on the edge of a seat. The place had nothing of Elisa about it; it was well-furnished for sure, but there were none of the little things that I would have associated with the girl I knew. The art on the walls, for example, was bland - Sheep in a winter pasture! - and no books or stuff like that. I talked absent mindedly sipping a drink whilst I wondered if I too had changed so much.

I recoil from describing our meeting when it finally happened; enough to say that it was odd, and Elisa was strained and riddled with self- consciousness. I was glad when the first course gave me a cover to collect my thoughts and study her slyly from the corner of my eye. He talked a great deal. I drank a lot of wine.

By the end of the dinner I had uncovered little of Elisa's character now except that she was scarcely a bit like the girl I once knew. I wanted to leave - I bitterly regretted coming - especially when he started talking about sex games and I could see from the flash of emotion on Elisa's face that he knew about the things we used to do. It became sordid. He started telling me about the things he did to her, offering to compare notes, and I wasn't sure whether he was being tactless (sic) or cruel. I only recall seeing one other person look as humiliated as Elisa did then - and I had caused that - which made me all the more eager to leave; I started making the noises of departure.

At his prompting Elisa protested about this, begged [literally] me to stay. I somehow inherited a coffee and a cognac, a seat in the other room, and a weird horror/fascination about what was going on here.

Things just got worse and deteriorated to the point where he started tying her up in front of me. Elisa was sort of compliant in a rag- dollish way but her eyes had gone glazed. She was hog-tied on the floor by the time I'd got up and was going out the hall shouting some sort of obscenity at them. He came to the hall as I reached the door. Whatever he was going to say disappeared as I turned and hit him.

The sight of Elisa struggling on the floor, and the sound of both of them sobbing for different reasons, made me halt in mid-flight. The absurdness of the situation and the nausiating parody of our kinks washed over me and I felt like I wanted to be sick.

"What the fuck is going on with you, Elisa?" I shouted; "How did you let yourself get into this shit..."

Her reply gutted me: "Help me. Please help me, A___ I can't help myself any more...".

I loosened her feet and picked her up in my arms - her hands were still tied - and I walked to the door once again. He leaped up to grab my shoulder. I headbutted him and he slumped, and I was kicking him on the floor with Elisa in my arms. When he stopped dodging the kicks I gave up and bundled Elisa in the car. We drove half way to my house before I thought to stop and untied her hands.

Oh these are weird, weird things that I write here and it seems somehow to sully the whole picture I have conjured up of Elisa. I can't do justice to the description of the mess she was in, or the fact that we spent the next 24 Hours without sleep of any quality, just spending the time talking, yes, talking and seeking a toe-hold in reality that would serve as an anchor point where I could collect my reason once again.

I made a couple of phone calls that served to negotiate a contract to return to Greece, to cancel my lease on the S_____ house, and to book a flight out of Heathrow for the two of us. Elisa and I were had supper in a cafe in the Plaka that evening and we slept together for the first time in our lives.

She said I snored.

I said she was a half-decent fuck.

Just pings of a sonar

I know now, but I didn't then, how Elisa found her way into the situation I found her. We were still feeling our way back to each other in Greece. But it was by no means easy and we both had to feel our way so carefully despite our willingness - or commitment - to make it happen.

One of the first things I told her about in Greece was the relationship (sic) I had immediately after she had left, and I promise that she got more of the detail than I gave earlier. I guess that I was sounding my ground and whilst I could never go back and apologise to the girl, Elisa gave me absolution and cited her own experiences as the legitimacy of her right to do so.

Elisa's ride through her degree had been a rough one. Academically she was fine - she has a superb mind that is full of nooks and crannies - but socially or sexually she floundered. I've mentioned the fact that she could never state what she wanted but within her first year - still missing the level of understanding she had with me, she says - she tried to express her needs to a relatively new lover who shared the course with her. Not only did he misunderstand and abuse her, he also told some friends who told some other friends and so on; Elisa became known on campus as 'the kinky bitch' and became a sort of rite of passage for a certain type of undergraduate. Open, fun-loving and incredibly sensual, she was easy meat for the tale of 'I understand all about your needs; I've worried for years about whether I was a monster, etc., etc.. Each time she was added to a trophy case she became that little bit harder to catch and when she had finally hardened to the come-ons she was raped at a party and found [still tied to a bed] later by some girls - who also knew of her kink - and was advised not to seek redress through the law. Elisa withdrew from Halls and lived alone.

She continued to attend the lectures but left the campus immediately after they ended. She switched from reading psychology to sociology. Her parents were killed in a car crash during her final year; she took a month off to mourn them and settle their affairs. At the end of the three years she graduated with honours. But what might have been the triumph of her youth, and the point of her life that should be recalled with nostalgia, it became the initiation to a lonely future and the notion that only the superficially normal are entitled to respect.

She wrote:

Mine are not the sort of looks that catch the eye in a crowd; more a
subtle attractiveness - and my defensiveness towards men allows
me to escape to some small degree the overt persecution of the
venomous but makes me prone to the more subtle seductions of
the constrictor type

Her experience also confirmed the wisdom of her earlier reticence. Even within a stable relationship she would never express her needs or desires. Her men either found them where they lay or they mistook it or they didn't notice it at all. And Elisa who doubted that anything different could be sustained without being plastered over the sunday papers or talked about in the places where she worked began to forget her desires and accepted life as more or less disappointment.

The arrival of 'him' on the scene was comparitive utopia. He found her Diary and understood the things that were there for the perceptive to see, and under the cover of exploration they developed an uneven exchange of sexual need and fulfilment. There were times when it was bad but how much worse was it to be tied, raped and abandoned, and considered to be at fault, which was the only other realistic scenario she had experienced in the mistaken name of her desires? No, she settled and there were good times - read the first passage again and see the traces of warmth that must have been there at some stage - but there were also the bad times and these were coming more frequently and carrying greater violence than she was equipped to handle.

But I will not dwell on these things; these are towns on the route that are behind us now and more pressing is the plans for the future.

(c) Touchstone 8/1995 & Restructured 7/1996

Path: bull.hkstar.net!hk.linkage.net!news.hk.net!news.hk.gin.net!news-hk.gsl.net!news.gsl.net!news-tokyo.gsl.net!news.gsl.net!flagship.gsl.net!news.gsl.net!news-res.gsl.net!news.gsl.net!hunter.premier.net!news.cais.net!world1.bawave.com!newsfeed.internetmci.com!btnet!zetnet.co.uk!dispatch.news.demon.net!demon!phadra.demon.co.uk!Touchstone From: Touchstone <Touchstone@phadra.demon.co.uk> Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage Subject: Story: Elisa III {Touchstone} Date: Wed, 24 Jul 1996 08:43:14 +0100 Organization: The rag & bone shop of the heart Lines: 102 Distribution: world Message-ID: <gxICHIASQd9xEwDh@phadra.demon.co.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: phadra.demon.co.uk X-NNTP-Posting-Host: phadra.demon.co.uk MIME-Version: 1.0 X-Newsreader: Turnpike Version 1.12 <FUmzD8CYF2G0syVPEdI6Q2hE3p>

Elisa and I went to Greece...

Things took their own course and their own timescales. Without really discussing it, the rescue and the recooperation in Athens that followed it became an understanding of permanence. We still worked towards the casual comfort with each other that we had previously known. I suppose we had different concerns although they centred on the same kind of issues. Being with her for all but 5 hours a day - when I worked - produced a growing attachment that serves by the name of love but within that were the fears of causing or receiving hurt.

And contrary to the squandering of such opportunities when you are young, we were now aware of the rarety of these chances to find real satisfaction. Or perhaps its just that the young are more maliable; that as we grow and form the stiffer edges to our characters we are harder to suit and more difficult to fathom and much less inclined to lay the markers on the trail to our inner selves. Elisa's sonar was searching me out and I was responding albeit with a confusing array of unassured beacons to guide her onto me.

I felt insecure of her because I now understood her value to my life. Had I known this, or felt this, in my youth I would have abandoned my own career and followed her to Loughborough. Had I done that I would have discarded the very thing that made me desirable to her; I would have been tame and therefore absorbable into her world and hence again unrequired. The fact that I could and did walk away was the facet of me that most attracted her to me. This is the damned paradox of our type. And most of the above is true of the way she felt about me.

And this led me to think about what I wanted from her. If she had discarded her ambition for a degree and settled instead for me and the relationship we were forming, would that have satisfied me over any great length of time? Given that I had had a woman who was, for a time, willing to take whatever I chose to do to her, I found then that the only escape for me was to intensify my demands of her and slip into excess. I bludgeoned her in the same way as 'he' eroded Elisa: were either of the second parties satisfied? I certainly wasn't. I'm decreasing in my opinion that my kink is a power thing, however much it manifests itself that way. Perhaps for some it is true; I reflect again on my victim and recall that the only thing I found there was the self-destructive cruelty I inflicted, it gave me a buzz of sorts but the cost of that upon me was high; I must settle to the view that for me, and perhaps only for me, it is more true to say that it is the potential to be cruel that is the drug. The challange for me is to handle this potential and to hold it forever in check.

For Elisa, (as best as she would ever explain) it is the security she finds in surrender that leads her on. It is reassuring to her to be tied by me precisely because of that dark side; to show her vunerability to the beast and to pass by undamaged is the renewable task she undertakes, and for that reason she sets no limits and no restraint upon my actions. If she is consumed by the rage that her frailty evokes - as she was before, then it is only the inevitable and would occur in any case.

[I quibble on minor points here but I believe I understand her drift.].

If she is damaged in the process she receeds, she shrinks. And it follows from that, with delightful simplicity, that if she survives her frailty then she is replenished by the act of surrender. In her vulnerability she grows strong, she becomes completed.

We respond to each other, we create a psychological reaction in each other that in turn reacts upon us again. In her capture she becomes free, in her submission she grows; I am imprisoned by her need and trapped by her frailty. Her openness raises the beast and the suppression of the beast extends me.

She is precious to me.

As I write these words she is close by me. She is tied by knots that were laced with slightly trembling hands and in her mind, as best as she will ever explain, she soars within the hinterland of her being. When she drifts down again she has only to struggle against the bonds to be raised up again and to revisit this nothingness of sensation that replenishes her. The sight of her stirs me, just as it does when she sits by my chair in the evening with her head upon my lap, nipping, very playfully, my groin and giggling until I either tie her hands or gag her - which is what she wanted but would never request.

Nearby she stirs and I am soundlessly called to her. I see her hands writhe in the bonds I set and I surrender my urge to be away. She is descended from her hinterland and soon - too soon - she will ejaculate me and I will soar within my own nameless void. I watch her fingers flex within the ropes I tied about her - and I say now, without doubts, that there is no other sight and no other gesture that can consume me so quickly. Not even the crooked finger of the Gatherer of Souls summoning me for an ambiguous intent could match the feeling in my gut as I turn to her...

And I recall my name and that is all.

(c) Touchstone 8/1995 & Restructured 7/1996

Comments, criticism or simply the acknowledgement that this has been read would be welcome. Let me know?

Thank you

Last modified (12/24/96 14:10:34) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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