Dreamed 6/4/1996 by Chris Wayan
My friend Cecy hopes to make it as a writer. She scrawls in cafes all day and polishes her prose at night. Cecy and I share a big San Francisco Victorian house with a cult of writers and artists who worship a dead woman who wrote tales of the Central Valley, like Saroyan a generation earlier. Personally, I don't think this particular writer is a goddess, but my housemates are fun and they don't push me to conform to their cult.
One night Cecy goes into the makeshift chapel (an old pantry), turns off the light, puts fresh votive candles in the wine bottles on the packing-crate altar, lights them, and prays on her knees to the portrait on the wall. Cecy swears "If you grant me Publication, I'll give you the ultimate sacrifice: Felicity!"
The next morning, our housemate Felicity's typing away on her own novel, when Cecy slips into her room without knocking and purrs "Oh, Felicityyyy... I have a surpriiiise for you." Felicity swivels in her chair to find Cecy's nipple bra nearly poking her in the eye. Cecy's wearing boots of genuine Spanish vinyl, spike-heeled and black, a skimpy little high-thigh thong, black-latex bra and studded collar. She's holding padded cuffs and a blindfold. Felicity gasps "I had no IDEA..." She's always been into bondage--a submissive.
Easy prey for Cecy.
"Stand up, Felicity!" She does, nervously smoothing down the oversize T-shirt she wears when she writes, suddenly aware of her bare legs. Cecy eyes her thighs till Felicity blushes.
"First... the blindfold!" Cecy slinks behind Felicity and ties it on, sweeping back Felicity's fly-away hair and stroking her ears till poor Felicity's legs quiver, before tightening the knot.
She slides around Felicity's flank to the front and wraps her arms around her, whispering "Then the cuffs," and clicks them on behind. Then she walks her prisoner across the hall into Cecy's bedroom, steering her by the hips and breasts. Though Felicity can't see it, a huge cardboard box stands open in the middle of the floor. Cecy lifts Felicity's leg over the rim, eliciting whoops and giggles. She grabs the other leg and maneuvers it in. Felicity's thigh is slippery with excitement, and Cecy can smell her. But she mustn't get distracted. She pushes Felicity down into the box. She just fits, curled fetally.
"Now the parcel tape!" says Cecy, and gags Felicity.
"Fefy! I gag breave! Vif iv poo pipe!" complains Felicity.
Cecy, humming, pours in styrofoam peanuts around Felicity. She tapes the top of the box shut.
"FEEFY!" But the sound is faint.
"And now, my little submission," muses Cecy, "which publisher shall we submit you TO?"
"Hellllf..." murmurs the submission.
Cecy scrawls the address of an editor she knows at Manic D Press, here in San Francisco. Slaps the label on....
And at that moment I walk by the room. I don't know how I sensed it--a faint noise from the box, or the crazed look in Cecy's eyes, or just her bondage outfit, which makes me instantly think of Felicity, who I haven't seen today... but I walk in and kick the box. It shivers slightly and I hear a squeak. Cecy threatens me with a box cutter, but in a kinky half-naked wrestling match I snatch it from her. I hack the lid open.
One look at the wild-eyed, squirming, Felicity drowning in foam peanuts tells me this is no consensual game. I snap "Cecy! She could've DIED in there!" and pull Felicity up. As I peel the tape off Cecy laughs "Yessss! She must DIIIIE for ARRRT!"
I carry the wobbly Felicity back to her room. Behind me, Cecy is muttering "Spoilsport!" She doesn't get it at all... we'll have to have a house meeting about Cecy. Over the edge, and I doubt she's coming back.
I feel sexy and strong, holding Felicity in my arms. Long bare legs... her dress has ridden up and her cunt's like an open plum. I've never been into bondage or dominance but she looks up at me through tears and I temporarily feel like playing big dominant hero. So I say "I'll kiss it and make it better," and lay her down on her bed and pick off the sticky foam-bits from her legs, higher and higher, till I'm petting that lovely cunt.
And Felicity just gives a little-girl "Ooooh" and closes her eyes and I play with her... and soon we don't care at all that no one submitted anything for publication.
"Never trust a writer"?
"Publish AND perish!"
Now there's a bumper sticker!
What the hell is it, then?
"Get a life"?
I give up.
NOTES NEXT MORNING
Felicity is my happiness, I guess--sex and play. Though she too has her creative side--she was writing away as busily as Cecy. But sweet and submissive--well, I knew I was unambitious...
But CECY? I had no idea there was really a side of me who'd sacrifice ANYTHING for her one true god:
To the real non-dream Cecy (whose name has been changed). She wouldn't hurt a fly. Of course, FLIES never sent her a hundred snotty rejection slips...
And my apologies to all those Hollywood screenwriters who have given us such sympathetic portrayals of lesbians, all of them homicidal maniacs. I know my little dream is but a styrofoam peanut on the shoulders of industry giants. Keep those hetero heroes coming, guys!
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