Blind

by Alyha

  BLIND

  A HOMOEROTIC STORY OF SENSORY DEPRIVATION AND ALIEN LOVE

  ALYHA

  -

  GLISSANDO

  PUBLISHING GROUP

  Copyright © 2018 by Alyha

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher / author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at the address below.

  Alyha

  alyha@alyha.mobi

  Cover Artist: Alyha

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Kia

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TRIGGER WARNING

  1

  2

  DESCEND DEEPER INTO DARKNESS

  ABOUT ALYHA

  FREE BOOKS FROM ALYHA AND MORE

  ABOUT GLISSANDO PUBLISHING GROUP

  TRIGGER WARNING

  THIS STORY IS NOT FOR the faint of heart.

  And while it’s intended to titillate, to stimulate, to indulge in the more depraved side of pleasure, to give readers access to impossible things that may only exist in their darkest fantasies …

  The extremes of far-fringes sex acts and fetishes depicted in this story may be disturbing to some readers. Triggers include xenophilia, masochism, agraphilia, algolagnia, biastophilia, macrophilia, salirophilia, dubcon, mindbreak, drugging, distension, and WAM (wet and messy) / sploshing / hygrophilia.

  For a particular warning, this story indulges heavily in a specific fetish involving arousal by the object of one’s disgust; arousal through sensations and experiences that would otherwise trigger revulsion. For some that may be too much. For some it may be enticing. And some may simply read out of a curious, horrified, or amused fascination, wondering just how far this will go.

  Regardless, please use this warning wisely to determine if this story is appropriate reading for you.

  1

  THE LAST THING ITSUKI TORIYAMA remembered about last night was nearly drowning himself.

  Not even in a pool or an onsen at the spa-slash-club he’d stumbled out of at two in the morning. If that had been the case, he might at least have an interesting story to tell over Kirin and tempura at the usual after-work meetup at his favorite yatai down the street from the station.

  No, he’d almost drowned himself in his own bed, trying to guzzle a bottle of water while lying on his back, half-asleep and wholly drunk and just trying to stave off the morning-after hangover after he’d had ten too many Sake Blossom cocktails at that bar down in Shinjuku Ni-chome, the one whose name he could never remember but the lights were always blue and shining off the bodies of the hard-muscled, bulky-yet-pretty young men moving among the patrons with their drink trays. Itsuki had been talking to a salaryman with a loose collar and looser lips, letting the man ply him with drink after drink when Itsuki had no intention of going home with him. He just hadn’t been feeling it, and the tan line on the man’s finger had said he was married.

  Itsuki didn’t need that kind of mess, or lack of integrity. He might sleep around—discreetly—but he had a certain moral code about it.

  And he had a code about hangovers, which was why he’d struggled to get half the water into his mouth before the rest soaked into his hair and pillow, with a good shot of it pouring up his nose and choking him, nearly asphyxiating him in his bed.

  Then he’d passed out cold, slipping into a dark and dreamless black.

  That was his last cogent impression. The last thing he’d seen: the neon colors of the sign outside the all-night noodle house across the street, filtered through the shoji blinds in his single-room apartment to make bars of color on his wall. He remembered, rather fuzzily, that the lights had seemed strange. Like they’d been blinking. Moving. Talking, but not in Japanese. Speaking in some kind of special language of illumination made up of changing hues and subtle color-sounds.

  He must have been really, really fucking drunk.

  With a groan he rolled over, dragging a hand across his eyes. He was afraid to open them; the second he did, the headache would kick in and kick in hard. Morning sun and hangovers didn’t play well together. Neither did his back and this thin futon pad. Neither did cottonmouth and whatever had been in those drinks last night. His mouth tasted like rotten peaches, spit, and he cum he’d swallowed in the back of the salaryman’s fucking Kia.

  Unprotected oral in the back of a Kia with a married man.

  Even if he hadn’t fucked the guy and technically hadn’t broken his moral code, Itsuki had hit a new low.

  But he needed to get his ass up, get out of bed, and head in to work. He hadn’t heard his alarm. If he was awake early he’d at least have time for a long shower, maybe a soak, before he had to put on his uniform and white kid gloves and hit the grind. If he’d slept through his alarm, well … he was already late. So fuck it. Just fuck it.

  He was a gas station attendant. He’d graduated from Tokyo Daigaku, but was doing the sort of work reserved for high school students and doddering old men who spent their entire lives in a single job, married to the Japanese ideals of customer service. Itsuki could be replaced in a heartbeat, he could replace this job in an even shorter heartbeat, and maybe at a new job he’d find a boss who didn’t think degrading gay jokes—which weren’t nearly as subtly polite-impolite as his manager thought they were—were a funny way of “bonding” with a subordinate who had no choice to grit his teeth, take it, bow, and say “Hai, Fujita-sama” as if he actually respected that slovenly prick.

  Branch Manager Fujita Hayate wasn’t even attractive enough to get away with that, and he took terrible care of himself, not even bothering with the same standards of neatness and cleanliness he expected of his employees. Itsuki might be able to endure his constantly running mouth if he could distract himself with a few fantasies of pulling his grease-stained shirts open, running his hands over his toned body, and climbing into his lap to ride his cock.

  Not happening. Under his shirts Fujita was all aging sag, and his skin was so loose and waxy and clammy that it wrinkled in thin folds around his collar like a walrus. Itsuki imagined the body underneath was a decaying thing, left to rot.

  It wasn’t about being fat, or old, or imperfect. He’d fucked older men with aging bodies and pot bellies and whatever, they’d still been hot.

  It was about how the rot inside Fujita’s soul seemed to have infected every inch of his sallow, sunken flesh, making him poison, repellent to the eye, repellent to the touch.

  But there’s a certain appeal to that, a whispered voice inside Itsuki leered. He called that his drunk voice. His drunk voice was disgraceful, degenerate, and thought things he didn’t dare admit by the light of day. Sometimes, after a rough night, his drunk voice lingered to whisper in one ear while his hangover voice whispered in the other. Admit it. If he pushed himself on you, you’d say no, but there’s something about that. Something about how sick it would feel, how wrong, how disgusting. You’d tell him to stop, you’d push him away, but every time those clammy hands grabbed at you or that slimy tongue ran over your neck, you’d be panting and sick for his cock worming its way inside you like some kind of twisted prehensile limb.

  Itsuki’s gorge rose with a b
itter taste in the back of his throat.

  And his cock throbbed against his inner thigh, pulsing and starting to swell with a hot, needy jolt.

  Gods damn it.

  Sometimes, he really thought all the drinking and back-alley sex had ruined his brain.

  A cold shower would get him back on track. He rolled over, pushing himself up, and opened his eyes.

  His vision remained black.

  He blinked. Several times. But nothing changed; eyes open or eyes closed everything remained pitch black, until his eyelids didn’t even feel real anymore. What the fuck. Was he actually awake? His senses were still dull and sluggish, but maybe he was stuck in that weird dream-state where he felt mostly awake but his body was still frozen and locked in sleep, his thoughts trapped inside the cage of unmoving flesh.

  But he’d sat up. He’d felt himself move. He felt his eyelids as they opened and closed. He pressed his fingers to his eyelids—and he felt that too, the whorls of his fingertips against his skin, the pressure as he dug in just enough to hurt, just enough to feel real. Then he opened his eyes.

  Nothing.

  Nothing but black.

  “K’so,” he gasped, then scooted toward the edge of the futon. “Oh, k’so.”

  Only there was no edge to the futon. The surface underneath him—it wasn’t his bed. Things were coming clearer now as panic slapped him awake and his senses started to filter through with a thousand details of wrongness, but this wasn’t. His fucking. Bed. The surface was smooth and cool and softly textured, slightly yielding, not very different from his futon but more like—like—he didn’t even know. Like a padded room or something. As he felt out with his hands casting left and right he ran up against a corner, a wall with the same texture, but no edge. He was on the floor of … of … he didn’t know, but his gut lurched so hard and his heart beat so fast with confused panic he thought he was going to puke.

  Calm down, he told himself. Calm down. Itsuki dragged in several rapid breaths, then slowed them, deepened them, until his head no longer spun and the rhythm of his breaths kept him focused on something other than freaking the fuck out.

  He wasn’t blind. That was the first thing he needed to calm down about. The room was just dark, no lights anywhere. Probably windowless. Not overly cold, just maybe a few degrees below room temperature, not really uncomfortable. The floor, the walls were a little warmer, like whatever that material was had absorbed and held heat generated from somewhere else. It didn’t really feel like padding; it almost felt organic—maybe a sheet of pressed moss or foam. He pressed down on it as hard as he could. His fingers sank in, if he could guess without being able to see, maybe a quarter of an inch before they wouldn’t go any farther.

  There was something hard under that layer, then. Maybe ground or concrete or metal. The air smelled faintly metallic, with another smell that was almost … chemical? Maybe? He didn’t know. He wasn’t really in a state to figure out when right now everything his brain tried to settle on whirled away until he could hardly remember his own name.

  “What the fuck,” he whispered. The room picked up his voice and threw it back at him in faint echoes that said the space was big. Big. “What the fuck.”

  Had he been kidnapped? Had that salaryman drugged his drinks at the club? No, he would’ve felt that long before he got home. And he didn’t feel like anything had been done to him; he patted his hands over his body. No bruises, no pain, no sore twinge that said he’d been sexually assaulted while drugged. He was still wearing the t-shirt and boxers he’d fallen asleep in, as far as he could tell by touch, the clothing whole and undamaged.

  There must be a way out. Someone had put him in this place, so there had to be a way out of it. Itsuki pushed himself to his feet, wobbling as the yielding floor shifted subtly underneath him. He took a few tentative steps until he found his balance, then pushed his arms out in front of him and walked forward until he hit the wall again. He kept his palms flattened to the wall at different heights, one at his shoulder, one lower, as he slowly walked the length, stroking and searching for … for …

  Anything.

  Anything but this featureless blankness, as smooth and empty as the darkness itself.

  He hit a corner and turned. The corner felt like it was at right angles, so the room must be rectangular. He felt like maybe, from the number of steps he’d taken, he’d walked maybe fifteen feet from where he started to that corner. Focusing on details like that kept him calm, kept him from panicking. But his unease mounted as he paced the length of another wall without encountering a single differentiation, traveling at least thirty feet, maybe more. Just … nothing. No door. No window.

  With a shaky breath, he turned another corner onto a third wall. His steps quickened and he stroked his hands quickly, frantically over the wall, searching desperately, stretching up on his toes in case maybe he was missing something—some ledge he could climb over to pull himself out, anything. But he found nothing on the third wall, the fourth wall, or the first as he came full circle and passed the point where surely he must have overlapped where he started.

  His heart sank. Fear churned queasily in the pit of his stomach. He dropped down the wall, sagging, resting his elbows on his upraised knees and burying his fingers in his hair. This was real. This was fucking real. He was blind in a locked, lightless room room with no doors or windows, with no idea who had taken him, why, or what they meant to do with him—if they meant to do anything at all.

  Maybe they’d leave him to rot in here forever.

  Maybe this was some kind of prison. He couldn’t think of anything he’d done to earn being locked up here, and even Japan’s most conservative politicians wouldn’t kidnap and imprison a twenty-something gay kid just for being gay. That kind of thing just wasn’t done. He hadn’t done anything else, though, even if his karma wasn’t so great with fooling around with married men and thinking horrid thoughts about his boss and being rude at work. No one put you in prison for being an asshole.

  Unless this really was karma, and he was dead and awaiting judgment for a lifetime of little petty accumulated awfulnesses.

  “I’m not dead,” he whispered, curling up tighter. “I’m not.”

  He took in a shaky breath. That metallic smell was on the air, a cold and tinny taste, and he shivered; something about it didn’t taste right. Poison gas? No, it was … it was oddly artificial, like the taste of the air blowing out of an air conditioner. He tilted his head back, searching for the glint of an air conditioner vent or even some indication of where the ceiling might be, a light fixture, anything, but it proved as fruitless as anything else.

  Don’t panic, he told himself, but his self wasn’t listening. His self was sweating, rubbing his slick palms against his knees, breathing in little panicking shallow gasps while his heart jittered and stuttered and terror prickled up and down his arms in horrible little bumps. He wrapped his arms around himself, as if he could hold his trembling body into one piece and stop himself from flying apart.

  “Anou … hello?” he called, pitching his voice high and far. It came back to him, a thin echo of hello … hello … hello? that sounded as sad and lost and lonely as he felt. He swallowed hard, then raised his voice to a shout. “HEY! HEEEEEEYYYY!” He dragged it out until his throat protested and his voice guttered out. Maybe whomever had taken him was just waiting for him to wake up, and if they heard him they’d come and explain what was going on.

  He waited for long moments, breathing hard, but no one answered him.

  “Can anyone fucking hear me?” he shouted. “Is anyone there? Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

  Gods, for all he knew this was his parents trying to scare him straight. Lock him up and freak him out until he swore to never suck another dick again.

  Oh, fuck.

  His parents.

  Suddenly it clicked. Someone had connected him to his parents. His rich parents. He let out a barking, brittle laugh, his chest aching. “Hey. Hey. If you’re trying to get a fuckin
g ransom, you grabbed the wrong guy. My parents won’t care if you kill me. They tossed me out as soon as they caught me fucking the gardener. They won’t pay to get me back, and I don’t have any fucking money. My apartment building should’ve been condemned in the fifties. I eat gas station bento boxes for dinner. I work at the gas station. So good luck with that, assholes.”

  Still no answer. Either no one was there, they didn’t understand him, or they just didn’t care. He made a face, then tried in his rusty English, “Hello? Is some person there?”

  Frankly his English was bad, but he could manage. He’d said something sensible, at least, but it wasn’t enough to get a response. He groaned, closing his eyes—not that he could tell the difference, but straining into the dark was starting to hurt—and rolled his head back against the wall.

  “Come on, you guys,” he whispered. “Whoever you are. Just … give it up. I’m worthless. You couldn’t even sell me on the black market.”

  My parents don’t even want me.

  Why would anyone else?

  A faint hissing and heavy whirring sound rose from across the room. Itsuki jerked upright, straining toward it, opening his eyes, but he couldn’t see anything. No light, but it sounded like a door had opened, dragging in its tracks.

  “Hey!” he called, scrambling forward, half on his hands and knees and lunging toward the sound. “Hey, you’ve got to let me out of here!”

  He heard something else—a heavy, fleshy dragging sound, and a heaving like thick, rattling, wheezing breaths. An overpowering, almost meaty smell assaulted him, something like rotting flesh and sweat and some harsh and bitter musk, murky and cloying enough that he could practically chew it on each of his indrawn breaths. Itsuki gagged, choking, stumbling. But that whirring sound came again, and panic clutched him when if that had been a door opening the first time, the door just might be closing now. He flung himself toward the sound.