nitrous oxide
Sep 1997
I was bound to the bed with
yellow rope. I had a vibrating silicon dildo in my pussy, a silver
bullet shaped plug in my rear, and a clear
anesthesiologist's mask,
its elastic tight on the back of my neck, pumping nitrous oxide into
my face. As I watched my boy manipulate the dials on the nitrous
tank and dildo, I began to wonder if researching orgasmic potential
hadn't hollowed the act. But then a blast of cold nitrous hit my
face and all the room's audio garbage - the hum of the refrigerator
and computer, street noise, the parts of words and songs - echoed
around me. I was absorbed in the bright colors and didn't notice my
boy remove the bullet and begin tonguing my ass. But then I did
notice, remembered, and came. All the colors and echoes tightened
and then I was blind, pelvis reaching for the ceiling, my back in a dramatic
arch only performable with bound feet. I whimpered a single
unconscious puff and then came again. Objects in my immediate view
repeated and then receded into a lost
vanishing point. The intensity
of the colors overwhelmed the shapes that contained them. Pleasure
rolled through my body and colors overwhelmed geometry. My face was
cold. My breath's deep and hurried. The nitrous was blasting. I laid
there in a mock hyperventilation with my pelvis shaking and my mind
mushing. I was not sure where my partner was but the white psshhhh
of the tank suddenly cut off. I laid there and what had just
occurred began to slip out of my memory like a dream. An hour later,
after I got on the
subway and sat on its filthy seat, I could not
remember the little details of the night or the grandness that made
it seem so
necessary.