But she was learning how to keep on going, in the face of quietdisapproval. With a deep sigh, she reflected that this was supposed to bea celebration, not a pity party. But it was hard to feel celebratory whenthe only birthday card that you got was from the son who still felt thatyou'd somehow killed his father when you came out as a transsexual. Therehadn't been any explicitly obscene words in the card, but the venom wasthere for all to see.Marcy finished up the greasy fare, paid her tab and left. It was a cold,miserable drizzly early March rain, the kind that creeps through yourthickest clothing and chills you to the bone. Marcy burrowed into hercoat and tried not to think about the fact that she didn't pass verywell. Like, at all. All that she had waiting for her in her crampedlittle SRO was the few boxes of piecework that needed to be finished.The piecework was boring, repetitive, back breaking and it paid apittance for hours of hand-cramping work. But it was the only work. His eyes devour you in a way that you hope will be soon followed by his mouth and tongue. He slowly takes off his slacks and shirt, leaving him in his black boxer briefs. He then reaches into his small, gray roller suitcase – his “bag of tricks” you called it – and pulls out a black, silk scarf.With a small grin he walks toward the head of the bed, holding the scarf by each end and twirling it into a blindfold which he then places across your eyes and ties around your head, sending you into darkness. This combination of visual deprivation and being bound to the bed is both unsettling and highly stimulating. You know this by the steady pulse you feel in your exposed clit.You wonder what will come next when the edge of the bed shifts slightly under his weight and you feel his warm breath softly on your neck. His lips brush the edges of your ear and you hear him whisper,“Without your sight you need to now focus all your senses on what you can feel, smell and taste tonight. Are you.
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