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White Tights (standard:horror, 838 words)
Author: Famous AnnieAdded: Dec 09 2001Views/Reads: 2872/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Everyone has their own twisted fetishes.
 



She sat there, somewhat dumbfounded and in deep awe with her
surroundings. No one except her was really paying attention to the 
show; they were, as she assumed, there just because. 

Olivia was so overwhelmed with the presentation that she did not even
notice the horrendous caterpillar crawling aimlessly about her 
shoulder; the critter was placed there by a small freckle-faced boy. 
He, as most boys do, thought that taunting a girl until every bone in 
her body has cracked with annoyance, was the best possible way to get 
her attention and show admiration. Olivia did not find this funny and 
did not think about the boy or the caterpillar again, but simply 
brushed them off, for to her, they were as insignificant as dust. 

The boy found himself another helpless victim. The critter had ended up
scurrying about the lap of a hairy-legged Frenchman who was as 
unresponsive as a mustache above someone’s lip. To the boy, this was 
more entertaining than the show. 

The tension in the small performance room was unrelenting, and Olivia
could feel it. The atmosphere around her was so intense, and as the 
show progressed, it only thickened. 

Olivia could see the performers sweat, and their large, extensive bodies
dance with difficulty about the stage. The two men were performing 
delectably on the platform—prancing about the misty room without a 
shame. 

Olivia was not paying any attention to the notes that they sang, but to
their white pants which fitted them so tightly around their vast, 
jelly-like bodies. She could not admit to anyone but her own conscience 
her infatuation with obese men. 

She could recall the very first time that she had found herself
fascinated and aroused by an oversized fellow. Olivia was watching the 
12 o’clock news with her aunt and the subject in matter was suicide. A 
man, maybe in his late ‘30s she thinks, was found atop a 22-story 
building, ready to leap to his death. Olivia remembers getting up from 
her seat and going to get a glass of water, and by the time she was 
back, the TV showed the man falling—his plump stomach flapped and 
tossed as air passed over his immense, beautiful body. She watched him 
from behind the kitchen door—fascinated. Olivia was but 8. 

The memories faded as the music rose and then fell, bringing forth the
finale. The show was over, and the audience was whistling and 
applauding in presumed glee. She looked about her and could see the 
faces of friends who, in the shady mood and uneasiness of the room, 
looked unfamiliar. 

Olivia was not sure if it was during the applause or when she was trying
to distinguish the foreign faces that the idea fell upon her—she was 
not even sure if it was her that had thought of it. She would sometimes 
hear a little voice speak to her, and sometimes, but not often, she 
would turn and look at her sides to make sure that the voice was indeed 
in her head and not an unworldly apparition sitting upon her shoulder. 
She could not think when or where the idea had originated, her head 
hurt, and she wanted to get it over with. When her conscience had 
gotten to her once again, she confessed her undying excitement. 

The idea seemed somewhat absurd when spoken allowed, but in Olivia’s
sad, sick mind, it was rational—and ingenious. 

As she continued her ascent to her final destination, Olivia thought.
She thought about how much fun she had had at the performance, and the 
tightness of the pants on the performers. She felt no shame thinking 
this way. Olivia thought that every girl thought indecently every once 
in a while; her conscience thought otherwise—after all, Olivia was only 
14. 

At last, she was there. A throbbing pain of excitement rushed through
the young girl’s arms, and she could feel her heart pumping and beating 
like a stampede of lions and elephants and bears. The rush zoomed 
again, to her arms, to her very fingertips, to her head, and then, at 
last, to her legs. Thoughts of indecency filled her head and a smile so 
maniacal swallowed her face almost simultaneously. Thunder cracked 
behind her. Her laugh was more insane than orgasmic. 

In the heat of it all, everything seemed to burn. The voices in her head
were screaming; her blood raced to the very edge of her toes. She 
jumped. 

***** 

“I think she’s dead,” a plump, young Boy Scout hovered above her
disfigured body, poking her with a stick. 

“She’s not dead, Boy, I could see her breathing,” another voice had
taken a turn with the stick, “Get up, you mangy thing. You're 
good-for-nothing cow, get up,” he poked her harder. 

Olivia turned towards the voices, looking up with her bloodshot eyes,
“You look yummy today,” her face was expressionless. Laughing, without 
a thought or concern, Olivia spitted beside the man, then laughed 
again. Both of her legs were broken, and for her own deranged reasons, 
she couldn't stop smiling. 


   


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