Copyright © 2008 bt BlindSight

AUTHORS NOTE:

I PERSONALLY DO NOT CONSIDER ANYTHING IN THIS PIECE TO BE YIFFY, except possibly for the initial wet dream sequence, which I have tried to make as close to the way a child's first wet dream is actually experienced.

Be warned, this is a horror piece. I didn't really intend the story to be, but that's how you learn as a writer. I screwed up the character development, I screwed up the plot. Stories have a logic of their own, and you follow where they lead. A harsh lesson for me, but I know exactly what went wrong and it won't happen again.

This is an excerpt of a character development piece for the character Blindspot, who is sightless since the age of 2, socially deprived and physically abused, You have to FEEL what is going on, you can't see it when he can't. I've written this to hint ahead and back in the plot. I want to get feedback from readers as to the effectiveness of the imagery and emotional journey. It's painful for me to read it in places, even a month after writing it.

And I promise you, Blindspot won't remember any of this in the morning. Promise, promise, promise. It was the least I could do.

EDIT HISTORY: fixed formatting and italics, 11 Nov 2008.

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BLINDSPOT DREAMS

Rising from the ocean of blackness he floats in, Blindspot begins to experience a jumble of sensations, smells and vague imagery that slowly focus themselves. From the sense of déjà vu, he recognizes it as a dream about a dream.

The sense of another leopard, a female, begins to grow. He can see the female, something that he only rarely experiences in dreams now. An old recollection of his mother? No, this is somehow different, stirring a strange fascination that will not let him look away. An unfamiliar scent tickles him deep inside his muzzle, somehow igniting unfamiliar yearnings as it spreads strange tensions through the dream body that he now senses. Strange pressures begin to build within him, unfamiliar but somehow completely natural. His viewpoint approaches the female with dreamlike smoothness. What was she doing with her tail? And her back? The dream body blurs into a sudden swirl of merging, surging delirium as pressure builds further somewhere within him.

Suddenly the building pressure explodes into a shocking convulsion that spreads along his belly, accompanies by a sensation so strong and unfamiliar that it could be pain or pleasure.

And again. Definitely pleasure this time.

And again. And again. Seemingly endless repetitions gradually subside into a ocean of drowsy pleasure. Could there still be such joy in the world? He has not felt such wonder and awe since kittenhood, when he slipped out of his family's hut to stare at the mountains and forests. That was his last and most treasured vision, just before the priest and his followers had swooped, making warding signs at his blue eyes and dragging him off to the temple for blinding and enslavement.

Moments later, the drowsy bliss is shattered by agony that erupts from an unexpected quarter, as what feels like a knife-studded ball is brutally forced under his tail. This must be a real memory, as he is no longer disembodied. The remembered feelings of loss and betrayal are as vivid as those he experiences now.

As the agony of the attempted violation peaks, the scene suddenly stutters and returns to its beginning. But something has changed this time; the female is somehow wrong, and the pain and violation continue throughout the fast cut-action replay of the dream, tainting the remembered pleasure with sickness.

The sequence repeats again. And again. On each repetition, the horrible smearing of pleasure and agony is increased. Blindspot realizes that a clumsy attempt is being made to associate the pleasure with the violation instead of the female, but instead the entire sequence is being defiled.

No! Blindspot struggles to recall the pristine rightness of the first sequence, but fails The sequence repeats again, this time suffused with the nauseatingly sweet taint or rotting flesh as whatever is manipulating the sequence begins to lose control. No! No! No!

The scene freezes. Through his revulsion, Blindspot senses small--voices?--in his mind.

_# The host does not desire to Feed.

Hungry. Must Feed very soon.

Food depletion nears critical._

Abruptly the dream/recall resumes where the previous sequence left off, and the nightmare of callous manipulations, asphyxiation, and terror continued to unfold, punctuated by tearing, crushing, and stabbing agonies. Blindspot curls up as tightly as he can, trying to block out the forced recall. A memory of a cold, familiar presence in his mind gloats accusingly "Your choice! Your choice!"

My choice? The demon had promised his freedom and his sight, not violation and torture. He had thought there was nothing to lose, after the priest had repeatedly clawed his face to the bone while gloatingly describing the death that awaited the next day. What other choice was left but agree to the demon's price of a small part of his mind, body and soul? Was everything the demon has said a lie? Perhaps he would have been wiser to choose death in the flames instead.

After what seems an eternity, the recall/dream freezes and the shocking sensations begin to fade. The small voices--no, presences, which he can somehow sense in his mind--return.

_# Cannot control recall without neural link.

Neural link incomplete.

Hungry. Must Feed.

Host refuses to Feed. Cannot compel host without neural link._

Host? That had disturbing implications he didn't want to think about. Blindspot attempts to wrap himself in the comforting embrace of his long, thick clouded leopard's tail, longer than his body and as thick as his stubby muzzle. His tail was always there when he needed comfort. Many nights in the temple he would seek refuge from nightmares of his blinding and beatings by hugging it while it enfolded him with its soft, furry warmth as it muffled his mewls and wiped away his tears. When he was sure he was alone, he'd even talked to it, and it never responded with curses or cruelty. But his tail didn't seem to be there anymore, and attempting to move it resulted in only a horrid flailing of something at the base of his spine.

At that moment, the recall sequence stuttered to life again in a crescendo of remembered agony. It was too much. Let me die! Please, whatever you are, just let me die!

_# Host nears catatonia.

Suppress host consciousness. Neural link now extreme priority.

Agreed. Memory edit first priority for neural link._

Horrified, Blindspot feels something--several things--wriggling slowly as they travel within his abdomen, accompanied by shifting visceral pressures. His entire body clenching in terrified revulsion, he vomits and defecates in racking spasms. His ears begin to ring as a black cottony darkness swallows him. As he loses consciousness, the remembered demon presence taunts once more: "Your choice!".