Animal Lust Case HistoriesChapter 6 Animalism In Prison
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Blue-grey Prison free porn video
Consciousness slowly creeps forward into my mind. I blink and open my eyes to stare at the white ceiling and blue-grey walls. I can also see my navy-blue shirt sleeve that ends abruptly at the fold of my elbow where my white arm emerges to dissect the rumpled navy-blue wave my comforter creates across my chest. I push myself off my mattress with my elbows to look at my alarm clock, but something is wrong. I guess that’s an understatement, everything is wrong. I don’t get up. I’m still staring at my blue-grey wall and white ceiling. My white arm still parts my navy-blue comforter.
What the hell? Did I do it wrong?
With undue concentration I try willing myself out of bed. I can feel my synapses firing giant green bolts of electricity to my extremities. Blue-grey wall. White ceiling. White arm. Navy comforter.
Oh my god I’m paralyzed!
I immediately begin to test my theory. I raise an arm, a leg. I bend at the elbow and flex at the knee. I make a snow-angel and pedal an imaginary bicycle. Nothing changes, but I feel like I’m actually performing the movements, which leads me to my next conclusion. I am suffering from some rare kind of blindness where you see the last thing you saw before you went blind for the rest of your life and the dastardly disease victimized me at the moment I awoke and opened my eyes.
At this point I’m not sure what’s worse: Being paralyzed, or being blind. It’s possible for paraplegics to sustain an erection, but who wants to fuck a warm corpse. Also, I would still have my eyesight, another plus, so I could watch porn and take care of the job manually… oh wait, that’s right, I can’t move my fucking arms.
On the other hand if I was blind I would still be able to function without a ‘blow-tube’ operated wheelchair, but I wouldn’t be able to watch my girlfriend give me head.
I decide to hope for blindness.
I call out to my sister, Leslie, in as calm a manner as I can. ‘What?’ she yells from the family room. ‘Can you come here?’ Blue-grey wall. White ceiling. White arm. Navy comforter. I hear footsteps coming through the kitchen and a not so cordial, ‘What?’ I don’t want to freak her out so I decide to be discrete.
‘I need help finding my phone.’
I hear her laugh. She must think I’m pathetically hung over. I hear her enter my room and her phone rings. ‘What up, girl?’
Jesus, I’m in hell. Can’t she tell that I need help? I imagine myself foolishly splayed across the bed, the ridiculousness of it meriting her attention.
‘Leslie,’ I try to interrupt, ‘Find my cell phone. In it is the number for Ball State Information. Call that number and ask for the number of Ball Memorial.’ I hear a low chuckle which is the predecessor of a larger and inappropriate amount of laughter.
She’s not even fucking listening! I’ll never get out of this blue and white prison. The rest of my life will be spent in this depressingly dingy color scheme. I begin to hate the color blue-grey. It’s the color that forges iron prison bars. Blue and white fear surges through my muscles, sparking along my nerves like electricity across steely, taut cable wires, and rending them into a million slivers under the tensile force.
Desperate and terrified, I begin flailing about on my bed. Every muscle in my body contracts, contorts, spasms, flexes, tenses, and finally at once relaxes. My sister continues to talk on her phone as I continue to exist, an unnoticed victim of paralysis.
This hauntingly dispassionate scenery will be the last thing I ever see. Soon enough the blue and white tones will assimilate me into their décor, solidifying my captivity.
Thankfully, a glimmer of hope shines through the murky blue-grey. My right shoulder begins to tingle. Blood carries feeling down my arm and into my fingertips.
I reach up to my mouth, which is slightly open, and pinch the two front prongs of my retainer with my index finger and thumb. I try to pull it out, but my jaw clenches and fights the retainer’s liberation. Undaunted, I wrap all my fingers around the front wire and begin to pull, but my jaw and lips obstinately resist. The wrenching force grossly twists the metal.
The green body of the retainer detaches from the roof of my mouth, a small victory. My jaw has now reached muscle failure, leaving my cheeks and lips as the last barrier to my mouth’s freedom. My sister is now laughing maniacally at my struggle.
Blue.
The wires dig and cut jagged fissures through my cheeks and gums.
White.
I force the left side out first, but the right back wire catches behind my front teeth.
Grey.
Having come this far in war, I cannot surrender now. I pull with all my remaining might. The back wire flexes under the pressure. It grinds and gnashes my teeth, grating off enamel in chunks and fine white powder, which I feel fall onto my lips. The roots struggle to keep my teeth from being torn out of my gums. The front wire bends into an acute angle and snaps off at one side of the body jarring the back wire loose and the entire retainer flies across the room.
Exhausted, I take little comfort in my victory.
‘Leslie,’ I ask my sister, ‘have you called the hospital yet?’ Her smiling face materializes in front of mine like a dream. Surveying the ghastly damage her smile fades to horror. Her mouth opens a little but she can only shake her head no.
At this point I shoot straight up in my bed, my numb arms dangling at my sides, and I shout to an empty room, ‘THEN WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!’
Apparently I fell asleep in a position that cut off circulation to my arms and then dreamed I was paralyzed. What a fucking relief!? The nightmare is over.
Miracle
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