|White Tights (standard:horror, 838 words)|
|Author: Famous Annie||Added: Dec 09 2001||Views/Reads: 3062/0||Story 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. Tweet
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