Displacement
- 2 years ago
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Displacement free porn video
This is something I wrote under a different screen name on a social media site with a journal facility. I toned the sex down in the original, but we’re all adults here right? I’ve put it in the non-erotic category, because although sex is a part of the tale, [a] it’s at homeopathic levels and [b] the story is about how lustful thoughts can keep one’s mind away from the prospect of an imminent mangling. When I put it up in the other place, both of the people who read it said it was almost not bad, and since the journals where it used to live have now gone west, I thought I’d rehome it here.
Are we sitting comfortably?
Then I’ll begin…
*
‘A lot is said about Dragonmasters, but being one is easy. You just walk up to a Dragon and say hello – If you’re alive five seconds later, then you’re a Dragonmaster’
The line was written by Ursula LeGuin and the book it’s from is lost to me, but that line is dancing around in my forebrain as I climb the steep path to where my Dragon abides. I first set eyes on it in 2001 when I was paying court to its neighbour and receiving my first serious lesson in respect from the same…
The Dragon that I’m about to present myself to is, in fact, a climb, and what makes it loom over me, so huge and malevolent in my mind, is that there’s three hundred feet of it, The second pitch is hard, And I have no idea if I can climb it, although my thoughts tend towards the negative. At a time like this I’m reminded of Sassoon, speaking before the Somme offensive about the iron curtain that the impending events formed between his present and his future. The event approaching me isn’t in that league, but nonetheless it’s sufficient to render my future highly indeterminate. You only need to make two mistakes to die on a climb: The first – pick something too hard, The second – fail to protect it. I think I ought to be able to climb this, and I ought to be able to protect it, but nothing in life is certain, and as I approach the base of the crag some five hundred feet above the valley floor, the uncertainty increases. My throat is tight and my mind seems locked in a loop. My speech is infrequent and monosyllabic. In the forefront of my consciousness are the things I’ve heard said about the crux pitch:
‘Seconding the second pitch I did think ‘Shit me! This is pretty sustained for an HVS!”
‘…but it did strike me as a pretty sustained pitch – it just kept on coming!’
‘…You certainly know you’ve been climbing when you’ve climbed it.’
So – I think that there’s a good chance this will be too hard for me – but I’ve learned that what other people call difficult isn’t always that way for me, and I’ve been put off leading a pitch in the past, by seeing a better climber than me struggling. Only to find, when following my partner up that section, that the move wasn’t that hard after all. So – I’m discouraged by the grade of the route and its reputation, but I’m going to throw myself at it anyway. I believe that if all you ever do is stuff that you know is within your limits, then you might as well not bother calling yourself a climber, because nobody else is going to – and the thing about harsh and judgmental opinions like that one, is that only two types of people hold them. Those that have earned the right to, and hypocrites – Since I’m unable to change my opinion and being a climber is important to me – Here I am. Earning the right to call myself a climber again.
Climbing’s a head game, and as my feet carry me up the path, my mind is folding in on itself. I’m monitoring my mental state very closely, and it bothers me slightly that I’m not as apprehensive as I should be. Trepidation is the norm before a hard climb, and the climbs I’ve approached blithely assuming success have usually gone badly. My apparent lack of nerves is making me nervous. Have I subconsciously decided to back off? Is that it? Am I going to look at the start of the second pitch and just give up? Surely if I seriously intended to try, my nerves would be singing like windchimes in a gale, so where are they? Ah well – we’ll find out…
Sometime later, I’m standing at the belay at the top of pitch one, about half a ropelength above the base of the crag. I’ve taken the rack of protection gear from Nick and clipped each item to my harness gear loops. I have been deliberately looking elsewhere rather than the start of the second pitch, which I now must either lead, or retreat from. I look. A steep, undercut corner begins about ten feet above the ledge. Hand and footholds are far from obvious. To fall before placing protection is the worst case scenario regardless of distance fallen. The mechanics are simple. A climbing rope absorbs kinetic energy as it stretches. In a fall you travel just over twice the distance between you and your last piece of protection. If you fall before placing any gear, then you fall twice as far as there is rope out to absorb the energy. Climbers call this a factor two fall and what makes it bad has nothing to do with the distance fallen. It places the maximum force on the belay anchors. If these blow out, then both of us will fall to the foot of the route about eighty feet below. This is why if there’s going to be a hard move on a pitch it’s better for it to be at the top, rather than the bottom. At last I’m feeling nervous. ‘We could go ten feet to the left and climb an easier route’, a part of me says, ‘There’s no disgrace in leaving it for when you’re good enough. Look at it – it’s way too hard for you. How many climbs have you done at this grade? Come on, think of Nick, it’s his neck too, nobody’s going to think less of you for exercising judgment…’
I hate that voice. I want it to shut up, and then I see a slot for a small nut and it does…
With some protection in place I can think about the moves into the corner. I look for footholds at head height first because when my upper body is past the undercut I won’t be able to see them. Then I look for something for my hands in the corner itself. I can see a small edge that I can get three fingertips on and a little further up, a finger jam. I’m making the moves before I’ve consciously decided to do anything. The holds are there, small, but positive and not too widely spaced. Soon I’m established above the undercut. Now what? My heart is galloping as I brace my back against the right wall of the corner and push against tiny vertical edges on the left.
‘Got some back and front action going here…’ I shout down to Nick.
I’m well above my runner now, and I know if I fall I’ll hit the ledge before it can stop me. I can’t stay wedged in this position, I have to get higher, I need a runner and I need a rest. Fortunately I can see good holds just above me, one more move will get my hands there and then all I need is to get my feet on to them. Absorbed in the technicalities of the sequence, I have little awareness of the consequences of failure. I reach out for my next hold and commit…
Soon my feet are on good holds and I have a solid runner placed. My footholds are no wider than a matchbox and the wall is about ten degrees off vertical, but I can rest my cheek against the rock and stand in balance with no weight on my arms. A perfect resting spot. I look around and take in the situation. I could stop here indefinitely apart from the fact that daylight is limited and there’s still the best part of a hundred feet of hard climbing to do. Anything could stop me between here and the belay. There’s no guarantee that protection will be there. Holds break off, especially after a hard winter. I’m here now alive and uninjured – that may not be the case five minutes from now…
A familiar quandary. I need to rest and this is a perfect spot, but without the climbing demanding all of my concentration, the reality of the situation and the worst-case implications are starting to intrude. I can’t allow that…
I close my eyes and I can feel her skin, soft and warm against my hand as I run my fingers along the in
side of her thigh, skirting her centre and circling her stomach in wide slow circuits. Her breaths are coming faster and shallower as I trail the back of my hand down her side and along the outside of her leg and back to its starting point. She gasps as I draw circles on the back of her knee with my fingertips.
As my hand begins its journey again she squirms, trying to intercept my fingers, straining against the scarves that secure her. I chuckle as I lightly pat the very top of her thigh. Then again, but not so lightly. The next time around, my hand travels higher. As her nipple grazes my palm she arches her back and moans. I give her my thumb to nurse on. When I lightly pluck her nipple she bites my thumb. I take her puckered bud between my thumb and forefinger and squeeze. She cries out…
My arms are as rested as they’re going to get and the sun is still sinking. Time to move. Somewhere above me the groove becomes a jamming crack. I’m out of practice at jamming. I wonder what will happen when and if I get to it, but I don’t wonder for long – I’ll deal with it when it’s in front of me. What’s in front of me now is plenty to occupy my mind and it does. As I steadily gain height I begin to think that I might, perhaps, be able to climb the pitch after all. I suppress the thought. ‘Stay focussed!’ The rack of cams at my waist is heavy and there’s been nowhere to place them so far. The crack above is wide, according to the guidebook. I may well be glad of them there. But right now all they are is weight.
A rest and a thin slot that grudgingly accepts a No.2 wallnut. I don’t think much of it. Another slot to the right accepts the same size. I have two of each size, but no more. I’d better not need another one then. Oh well, nothing to be done about it…
The sun is hot on my bare back. We’re in her garden. She’s naked underneath me. Her hair is spread out on the grass. As I fuck her she claws my back and I grit my teeth. Pain is her thing not mine, I take her hands and hold them above her head. Her hips rise up to meet mine with increased force. I’ve never known her this wet, this eager. She rolls her head from side to side like a boat in a storm. Her voice is a hoarse whisper that she fights to control.’ I whisper that I’m going to make her walk back to the house naked, with my come on her face, and she loses it. I cover her mouth with my hand and she screams into my palm…
Twenty feet above me is a tree, ten feet above that, the groove is undercut, and above that I can see the crack that I’m not ready to worry about yet. First I have to get to the tree. I desperately want to thread a sling around it for a bombproof runner. I look down at my last piece, ten or twelve feet below me. I see a slot for a small cam and place it, I never feel fully secure with cams. Even though my brain knows they work, my gut won’t accept it.
The tree is reached and passed, the sling placed. I’m on a steeply sloping ledge. In front of me the rock has been scooped away by hundreds of years of freeze thaw, undercutting the last ten or fifteen feet of the corner I’ve been climbing, now it’s shrunk to a deep groove in the face, containing the jamming crack I’ve been suppressing thoughts of. I find a slot that accepts a No.8 Wallnut placed sideways. There seems to be little for my feet and not much more for my hands. A hand hold well to the right and a high, awkward step seems to be the only way into the groove. I can’t rest too well here, since I’m using my arms to keep myself in balance, but I can rest one arm at a time. This isn’t a place to hang about. I stretch to place my right foot on the high hold, and commit to the rockover to bring my weight over it. The rope doesn’t move and I’m brought to a dead stop halfway through the move. I scream for slack, none comes, and my arms are on fire. Fuck!! the ropes are stuck. Now I’m scared but with arms that feel like butter, I manage to reverse the move. A quick flick of the blue rope frees it – the yellow was running ok. I’m shaking, partly from adrenaline and partly muscle fatigue. I shake my arms out alternately and don’t think about the fall that seemed inevitable a moment ago. I breathe deeply and slowly…
…And as my mouth leaves a line of moisture across her belly, her excited musk fills my senses. I want to plunge into her wetness and devour her, but I force myself to move slowly, prolonging the anticipation for both of us. I kiss my way down to the top of her thigh and lightly flick the skin of her groin with my tongue. The warmth of my breath on her as I move across to the other side, makes her squirm. I know where she wants my mouth and I wonder which one of us wants it more. Her rich, earthy scent is filling my senses, and soon thinking will stop. I reach up and palm her breasts as my lips and tongue trace filigrees across her thighs. Her hips move of their own accord, seeking my mouth. Finally, I can’t wait any longer and I lower my mouth to her delicious, succulent centre, soft, juicy and wet as a ripe mango. Soon my face is shiny with her moisture as she gasps and writhes under my tongue…
I reach out with my foot and place it. I lock my fingers over the handhold and rock over, pulling my body over my right foot. I stand up. Another few moves take me to the crack. My crack climbing technique is rusty, but this crack isn’t overly technical. I finally get to place my big cams. I get to make a couple of handjams. I layback a short section and the rest is straightforward. The angle eases and I can see the belay. Once again I have to suppress the thought that the pitch is over. I can still fall…
But I don’t, and I reach the belay and luxuriate in the security of good anchors, into which I’m firmly tied, and a belay stance which allows me to sit comfortably. I know I’m going to be here for a while – those moves weren’t easy. Now they’re behind me, the fear they engendered is impossible to connect with. Soon they’ll be gone from my memory and the pitch will be a blur. The sun is a whisker above the skyline and the valley and the lake at its head are spread out some six hundred feet below me. We’re not at the top yet, but the difficulties are behind us. The dying light provides a sense of adventurous uncertainty to the enterprise, but it’s a challenge I know I’m equal to – I’ve climbed in the dark before. I take in the ropes as Nick begins to climb, working by feel since he’s out of sight, and will be for all but the last five metres or so of the pitch. My thoughts drift off and I remember the feel of warm skin against mine, her head on my chest and my senses full of her as my fingers drowsily stroke her hair…
How was that for you? I ask…
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