Tarotica Ch. 12
Nis 17, 2021 // By:analsex // No Comment
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Reversal. Slowed action. Limbo. Taking your time. Dancing to a different drummer. Spiritual attunement. Now is a time to pause and suspend activity. You need to reevaluate your attitudes, goals, and priorities while remaining true to your spiritual values. Time appears to be moving slowly and you may feel like you are in a state of suspended animation. -Tarot: Plain and Simple, by Anthony Louis
The changing of life’s forces. The period of respite between significant events. The approach of new life forces. Surrender. Outside factors having strong influence. -Tarot Classic, by Stuart R. Kaplan –
It was Saturday. It was noon. It was raining. Nothing was on television, I didn’t feel like reading, and I was depressed. I was tired of hearing the drum beats of the current useless rush to war, tired of speculating on carnage. My friend Alexandra was over, and we sat on the couch, flipping through the channels. Alexandra dropped the remote, yawned and stretched her arms over her head. She had long arms, brown arms, and she swung them, almost artistically, to rest behind her neck. “Isn’t this great?” she said, “A nice quiet day – just stupid things on television – a wonderful rain.” I glanced at her quizzically, then back at the television. “Alexandra – it’s a perfectly hideous day. It’s raining, there’s nothing to do, the country is going to hell in a handbasket. . .” I paused, distracted by a motion on the television screen. “Hey,” I said, “Is that Mel Gibson?” “Yeah,” Alexandra responded, “This is the very first Mad Max.” “Good God, USA is getting desperate.” I sighed melodramatically, and leaned my head back. “No – this is really a great movie,” Alexandra said, “You just gotta ignore the fact that they dubbed American English over Australian English – isn’t that funny?” and she giggled. I lifted my head to watch. The soundtrack was muffled, the words discombobulated. The voices seemed to bounce off, rather than come from, each actor. “Pretty hard to ignore,” I mumbled, “What’s the deal? What’s with the cars and the motorcycles?” “It’s a fuel crisis, silly,” Alexandra said, knowingly. I have never been certain where Alex gets her vast store of knowledge concerning B movie plots. “Great,” I sighed, “In just a few short months – we’ll have war – and our country will look like that.”
Alex rose and turned the television off. “Kristin,” she said, “You’ve got to get out of this – my yoga instructor says, ‘World peace begins with inner peace.’” I groaned. “Oh, Alex, please . . “ “No, really,” she sat on the floor, in front of me, and, her gaze intent, looked into my eyes. “You haven’t got it, Kristin – there’s no peace there.” “Alex,” I said, “You’re crazy.” “I’m not,” she said, in a rather condescending tone, “But if you don’t find some peace, you will be.” I leaned back against the couch, my head hurting form the strain of my eyes’ skeptical roll. “All right, Alex,” I sighed, “Just what do you suggest?”
“Well,” Alex sat back on her haunches, her head thrown back, her hair falling around her shoulders. She looked, oddly, like a cat. Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “My yoga instructor . . .” a dramatic pause. Alex does nothing without drama, “My yoga instructor says that she has . ..” another pause. Alex turned her head, gave a Bergman-esque look out the window, “a . . .” I waited, addicted by Alex’s playacting, my head lifted, my neck straight, the skepticism gone, “a . . . thing.”
“A thing?” I asked, spitting out the words. My head rolled back on the couch and I reached for the remote.
“No,” Alex said, “Not that poisonous box. That’s NOT what you need – you need my – my instructor’s — thing.”
“Just what kind of thing is it, Alex?” I paused, but my fingers still threatened the remote’s buttons.
“Well,” Alex appeared anxious, her hands on my hand, “It’s a thing – it helps you levitate – to find some sort of different consciousness – and some sort of peace.”
“Uh huh,” I said, my fingers tapping the remote, “Does this thing come with some sort of drug?”
Alex rolled her eyes – her turn to look skeptical. “Of course not. It comes from my yoga teacher, remember?” She turned away, then looked back at me and smiled, “You wanna try it?”
Alex and I had no sexual relationship – as yet – but she has catlike brown eyes that somehow never fail to make me wet, nor to acquiesce to her desire – however insane that may be. “All right,” I said, “Tomorrow – you have class tomorrow, right? Can you bring ataşehir escort me this – thing?”
Alex sat back, satisfied, her lithe limbs relaxed and spread wide before her, her back straight – a pose I can never emulate without groaning and looking graceless. I looked at her with envy, “You bitch,” I said and she, knowing what I meant, threw back her head – while still in the graceful pose – and laughed. Her yelps rose to the ceiling to mingle with the sound of the rain hitting the window.
The sun shone the next day, and my spirits improved. I thought about calling Alex and canceling the arrival of the thing, but I didn’t –curiosity, not depression, was now the driving force. I cleaned the house, even remembered to water my ailing house plants, even hummed. “Who needs a thing?” I asked the drooping peace lily, “I’m just fine.” But I wanted – needed, I suppose – to see Alex, so I didn’t call, didn’t cancel.
She arrived after her yoga class. At the cheery sound of the doorbell, I opened the apartment door and found her, in the hallway, sweaty but smiling. She had been tugging a large box wrapped with duct tape that now languished behind her in the apartment hallway. I glanced at Alex’s smile, her feline eyes, then down at the box – on the cover was a picture of a woman, suspended upside down, her ponytail inverted and pointed to the floor, her hands in front of her – though her eyes were closed, she was smiling. It was that – the smile – that made the package seem – well – almost pornographic. I looked quickly down the empty corridor, and, in a hasty rush, helped Alex drag the heavy box across my threshold.
The door closed behind us with a desperate click. I looked at the box, looked at Alex. She was still dressed in yoga clothes – black leggings with a tightly clinging black top. “What the hell is that?” I said – my voice was surprisingly angry – surprising to me, surprising to Alex. For a moment, her eyes wounded – she looked at me, then back to the heavy box, “It’s my instructor’s thing,” she said, not quite whining, but certainly anxious, “And she let me borrow it – without giving her money or anything.” “This is the thing, huh?” Again, I looked down at the box, then back up at Alex – why had I never noticed just how much she looked like Audrey Hepburn? I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. I had, after all, asked for this. “Okay, Alex – what do I do?” Alex was now smiling, and, almost leaping, she bent to undo the duct tape that bound the package. I went the kitchen, pulled out a drawer, and came back to hand her the scissors I’d retrieved. “Oh no problem,” Alex said, “See the strength yoga has given me?” And indeed the package was now disassembled, the tape lying loose on either side of the cardboard box, “Just wait – just wait, Kristin, til you see this,” and she began to struggle with the box, then the apparatus it contained.
“So,” I said, “Alex, have you ever used this – thing?” “Oh, no,” she said, her black-clad legs straddled over the package, “But my yoga instructor – when she talks about it – you should see her. I just knew it would be for you – she just looks – well – rapturous.” For only a minute, I felt a pang of jealousy – lucky yoga instructor, to be so admired. Alex continued putting black metal pipes together as she scrutinized the package instructions, “I always think of you when she talks about it – how good it would be for you.” The pang eased just a bit.
When Alex finished her labors, the “thing” as she called it, consisted of a metal bar, to be strung across a doorway; the bar was fitted with metal boots with rather evil-looking clamps. From the bar hung a canvas swath, equipped with a buckled waist belt (“for ergonomic back and lower abdomen support” read the package) and, on either side of the doorway, handcuffs – one for the right, one for the left. “Alex,” I said, my skepticism regained, “Didn’t antigravity stuff go out with the 70’s? Unless this is some queer bondage setup . “
Alex’s look was, I thought at first, one of intrigue and amusement; this was quickly replaced with her usual star-struck innocence. “Oh, no, Kristin – anti-gravity’s been around for decades – it’s never really gone away.” She ignored the second part of my question. “All right, Alex,” I responded, “How on earth do I get into that thing?” “Well,” she said, turning away from me – I thought there was a hint of a giggle in her words – “First you have to get naked.” “I have to what?” kadıköy escort bayan I said, and felt suddenly angry again. “Okay, Alex, forget it – I don’t think I need peace that badly.” “What’s the big deal, Kristin? There’s no one here – and it’s the best way to approach it. Open, bare – you know. I’ll turn my head,” she was giggling. “No, no, no – I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to do this – do you know how ridiculous I will feel, hanging up there, naked?” “You’ll have no idea how you’ll feel until you try it. Just try it Kris – please?” That Audrey Hepburn look again. Sighing, annoyed, I pulled off my t-shirt and jeans, dropping them in a cloth puddle underneath the “thing.” “Okay,” I said, crossing my arms to ward off a chill, “How do I get into this Rube Goldberg contraption?” Alex smiled. “First, you have to stand on your head.” “I have to what?” I said, for the second time in seconds, “No – No – I can’t do that, Alex.”
“You know,” Alex said, her eyes now filled with nothing but scolding, “If you had gone to yoga with me in the first place – as I asked you to – you’d be able to do a handstand with no problem.” I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, “Alex,” I said, “I am 34 years old – I was a cheerleader two decades ago — I could do a handstand then – Christ, Alex, what on earth was I thinking?” She walked toward me, stood in front of me, and placed her hands on my bare shoulders. I shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. “I’ll help you,” she said, “You have to believe – remember – inner peace.” Was I angry? Crazy? Sunk by those insane feline eyes? Whatever the case – I inverted, Alex pulled on my ankles, and somehow I was in the doorway, upside down, my feet encased in those tortoruous boots, my hands clasped to either side of the doorway. I could feel my bare breasts swaying down, my nipples eyeing the floor. Alex stood in front of me – though standing on the floor, she, too, was inverted. I blinked, looked at her upside down face – her apple cheeks looked plumper but no less appealing. “Now what?” I said. “Now,” and her smile – was this Alex? — seemed almost devilish. “Now, sweetheart, you hang.” She picked up her pocketbook, the sweater she’d left lying on my couch. “What????????” I nearly screamed, and then regretted it – the aggravation caused my blood to run to my head even more quickly, and my temples began to throb. “It’s no use finding inner peace with someone around,” she responded – was she teasing? – “I have to run home and change anyway. But don’t worry, love, I’ll be back. Until then – remember – relax – concentrate – inner peace.” She bent down – or was it tiptoed up? – tapped her lips on mine, and – with the quiet click of the door – she was gone.
“Alex?” I whispered. All alone. I could hear the tick of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator – how come I’d never before noticed either? I couldn’t see the clock and, thus inverted, had no real sense of time. How long would she be gone? How long would she leave me – err – hanging? What if my apartment was robbed in her absence? “Wait,” I muttered to myself, “That isn’t very peaceful.” I closed my eyes, tried to think of waterfalls and flowers, sunbeams and open fields. The quiet hum of my apartment’s inner workings soothed me, somehow, and perhaps if it weren’t for the slight torque on my wrists from the handcuffs, I would have slept that way. After an indiscriminate amount of time, the door clicked again – a quiet sound, but one that, in the echo of my apartment’s emptiness, rebounded almost bomb-like. I jumped – or would have jumped, were I not so securely thing-bound. “Alex?” I whispered, suddenly fearful, the brief feeling of peace and well-being evaporating, “Is that you?” Alex appeared in front of me. She had changed all right, though she was still wearing her tight black yoga leggings. She was no longer barefoot, though; her calloused feet were elevated, encased in five inch black heels. There was a rhinestone on each black spike. She wore an abbreviated black top, and I could see her muscles – though inverted – ripple underneath the tight hem. “Wow,” I thought to myself, “So that’s what yoga does . . “ I knew it was Alex, although she was wearing a mask – not a normal, Lone Ranger mask, though, but a sort of winged thing, exaggerated tips above the eyes. This thing, too, bore rhinestones. She carried a bag – yes, you guessed it, black with rhinestones. The rhinestones traced upside down words. “Alex’s toys.”
“Alex?” escort maltepe I whispered, confounded. I could hear the blood pound in my ears. The tick of the refrigerator, the hum of the furnace, were joined by another sound – the ticking of Alex’s heels across the tiled floor. “I think, Kristin, that you better let me talk – for once in your life, you just shut up.” The last two words were enunciated slowly, deliberately, in a loud stage-whisper. “Alex . .” “What did I say Kristin?” From the rhinestone-studded bag, she withdrew a “toy” – a long whip – not a bull-whip, not a cat-o-nine (yes, I had read the appropriate literature), but a scary whip nonetheless. I swallowed hard – given gravity, a rather awkward function. Alex paced in front me. Click, Click. The rhinestones on her heels glittered frighteningly. The heels, the rhinestones, paused. She began to lightly whip my bare legs, than my bare tits. “I understand, Kristin, that you’ve been upset.” “Yes,” I answered, trying and failing to flinch away from the strokes. “I understand you’ve been having some difficulty – finding – peace.” Her words were again slow, deliberate, delivered with a confidence Alex didn’t often express. “Yes,” I answered, and was surprised at the quiver in my own voice. “Just for a few minutes, Kristin, I want you to call me Mistress,” one rather stinging blow to the bare thighs, “And I want you to listen to me.” “Okay, Alex,” I whispered, suddenly a little frightened. The whip – the sting – one more time. “What did you call me?” “Yes, Mistress,” I said.
Alex walked around the divider, to the kitchen: she was now at my back, and I was denied the advantage of seeing the flashing heels. I could hear them, though, and could hear them pause behind me. Whack. A stinging blow to my ass. I whimpered, tried to move, tried to diminish the sting. “That,” Alex said, in her newly calm voice, “is for this stupid, senseless war we’re about to enter.” I wanted to giggle, but both pain and fear kept me quiet – so this was her release – whipping to cleanse. “Well why not?” I thought, “The Christians had hair-shirts. . “ Before my thought could continue, another stinging blow on my ass. I whimpered. “That is for the Republicans winning control of the Senate.” I could see red against my closed eyelids, and realized two things: my ass was stinging with an almost-glowing warmth, and I was soaking wet. Whack. Another stinging blow, this time to the backs of my poor, inverted thighs, “That is for the absence of any sensible energy policy.” The whippings came faster: Alex was breathing hard, and pausing only to articulate her reason: “That is for the oilmen coming into power,” “That is for the absence of a sensible environmental policy,” “That is for drilling in Alaska,” “That is for the loss of civil rights,” “That is for the loss of abortion rights,” and so it went, as Alex enumerated each disaster, each violation I thought was sure to come. By the end of her rant, there were tears running down (up?) my cheeks and I was pleading with her to let me down — and suddenly, the problems of the world seemed rather distant.
Alex held my waist as she unbuckled the handcuffs and the midriff support. Somehow – I don’t know how – she managed to hold me up while releasing the contraption – and then, somehow, I was upright in her arms, and she was leading me to the couch. I was crying, but now silently, when she returned from the kitchen, her mask gone, the high heels off, and a glass of wine in her hands. “Here,” she said, and, after I took a long, deep draught, she kissed my forehead, then my neck, then lay back on the couch, holding me in her arms. I shuddered a little, and then felt the oddest thing – a wave of peace, almost, somehow connected to my stinging ass and my wet pussy – and Alex’s weird but effective cure. “Feel better?” she whispered, her breath whistling into my hair. “I do, you crazy bitch,” I said, and somehow giggled through the tears and the pain. “I knew it,” she said, “I knew it would work.” Then she said something that made me gasp and almost cry again: “Next time you’re naked, though, no thing, no inversion, and no whips. Just you and me – and delicious denial of the rest of the world.” I couldn’t look at her, and hoped she didn’t notice the juicy flow that was now leaking down my thighs. “And you know what else we’re going to do?” “What?” I asked, feeling vaguely childish but unembarrassed. “We’re going to start a Web site – and we’re going to collect every bad thing we can find – on this administration and its nasty policies – and you know what we’re going to call it?” “What?” I asked, dumbly, my voice muffled by her halter-top.
I could feel her smile against my hair. “We’re going to call it –‘WhiptheRepublicans.com.’”
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