Eyesight to the Blindbyegamar©
Before the accident took her sight, she was a sculptor of some note.
Unlike most of the modern sculptors, whose work too often resembled random junk welded together under some pretentious "title," she carved her figures in the classic mode, realistically and in detail, paying sincere homage to the human figure.
But one night a deer stepped out of the trees close to the side of the road. She swerved to miss it, and her car struck a tree. While the only apparent mark from the mishap was a tiny scar on her forehead, her head hit the dashboard with enough force to detach the optic nerve, and her world had been dark ever since.
That was nearly a year ago, and she had not worked since.
She was adapting to her blindness, learning how to read Braille, learning how to get around independently, re-learning the myriad mundane tasks she once did without thinking when she had her sight, but her one trip to the basement workshop was a short one -- for a few moments she handled the tools she had once used with such joy and to such beautiful ends before an overwhelming sense of loss washed over her and she left the shop in tears.
It just was not possible, she thought, to create something visually compelling without being able to see. She cursed the misfortune that had robbed her of her life's work.
Her husband was supportive and patient and comforted her when the inevitable depressions enveloped her, and his compassion went a long way toward bringing her back into the world around her, but there remained a bitterness she simply could not overcome.
Eventually, she began to visit old friends and entertain those who came to see her, to do many of the things she used to enjoy, but the loss of her artistic ability was never far from her mind.
Her husband recognized what was going on, and was at a loss. As one of her biggest fans, one truly amazed at what she produced, it bothered him that he could not coax her back into her shop to turn the blocks of stone and wood into the detailed and stunning figures she once created. Try as he might, he could not figure out how to accomplish that mission -- until it came to him one day, a plan so simple he thought at first it could not work. The more he turned it over in his mind, however, the more it seemed workable. He decided he might be able to provide her the inspiration she so desperately needed after all.
One night, soon after his epiphany, she came home from a dinner date with a girlfriend. As she shucked her coat and scarf in the hallway, she called out to him, and was mildly surprised to find him absent. Carefully, she felt her way to the phone and the answering machine and hit the button -- thinking bitterly "I used to be able to just look at the display to see if there was a message." He had called, and she learned he was staying late at work and would be home in a few hours, adding that he had left a surprise for her in the workshop and would like for her to go ahead and "look it over."
She was a trifle miffed at his vagueness and the insensitivity of the "look it over" remark, but intrigued nevertheless, so she ventured down to the basement.
It was eight steps down the stairs, two more steps forward and five to the left to enter her shop - she had familiarized herself anew with the dimensions of her home since the accident, but having been away from the shop for so long it still felt foreign for her to be there. She flicked on the light - old habits die hard - then flicked it back off, exasperated, when she realized what she'd done.
The room smelled familiarly of sawdust and rock dust, a scent that in the past never failed to stir her creative juices. She made her way to the tool bench, but found nothing there that had been changed since her only post-accident visit. Her tools - the chisels, hammers, saws, knives and sanding blocks - were right where she left them when she ran out in tears all those months before, and she could feel the fine layer of dust that had settled over them in her absence.
Around the edges of the room she discovered the blocks of granite and wood just as she had left them, almost a year ago now, and she stopped to run her hands over them, feeling the textures, the rustic roughness of a large maple log, the striations of the white-and-gray granite block delivered the very day of the accident. Still, nothing "surprising" she thought as she absently brushed her fingertips over the flat, rough surface of the stone.
In the corner was the chain hoist she used to move the heavy blocks to and from her work platform. She pressed the "up" button, listening to the metallic tinkle of the chain as the main sprocket reeled it in, providing a stark counterpoint to the loud industrial hum of the motor. When she shut it off, the silence seemed deafening.
The surprise must be in the center of the room, near where she did the carving, chiseling, sanding and shaping of her sculptures.
"Dammit," she said aloud. "Why couldn't he just leave whatever the hell it is upstairs?"
Carefully she felt her way to the platform and began to carefully pat down the surface, looking for something, not knowing what. Frustration built in her, exacerbated by her presence in the workshop and the way it reminded her of her former life. Finally, on the corner of the platform, she felt a piece of paper.
It was a note, written in Braille - he also had learned to use the Braille typewriter they kept in the den so he could leave her messages. The note read "Your surprise is eight feet out from this corner of the platform."
Puzzled, yet intrigued, she positioned herself at the corner and began to shuffle forward slowly, one hand straight out in front of her. After a few steps, her hand touched something.
It was a body.
Frightened and startled, she pulled her hand away and stepped back.
"Who's there," said, unable to keep the tremor of fear out of her voice. "Who are you?"
There was no answer.
Soon she realized, despite her fear, that there was no sound of footsteps. Whoever it was had not moved to leave or accost her.
Again, "Who are you? What do you want?"
In her fright she could not make her feet move toward the door. Still there was no answer.
"Please," she said, pleading now, "What do you want?" She was near tears, but as time slowly passed and she still heard no sound of the person moving toward her, she began to calm herself. She said her husband's name questioningly. Silence was the only reply.
She held her ground for another long minute, then tentatively, timidly, she took a step forward. Then another, and another. Finally, she touched the body again, a chest, a man's muscled chest. She said her husband's name again, got no reply again.
Even upon contact, however, the person did not move. She did not remove her hand, feeling the slight rise and fall of the muscles beneath her fingers as the person breathed - but that was the only movement she could discern.
Slowly, she slid her hand upward - it felt like her husband's chest except that it was smooth, without the hair that covered his sternum in a diamond-shaped patch, but still it felt oddly familiar. The skin was cool to the touch - in the past she often had gone to her shop when it was hot, even if she wasn't working, because it was cool as a grotto in there. She said her husband's name again, not really expecting an answer, and got none.
Her hand came to the shoulder, and felt the man's hand, the left hand, angled up and touching the shoulder, an obvious pose, somehow familiar. Her fingers wandered over the hand, feeling the individual tendons and bones, the firm softness of the raised veins, the delicate, bony curve of the wrist. Without her willing them, hr fingers led on, touching the twisting, ropey muscles of the forearm, noting how they grew in girth toward the elbow.
It occurred to her she had forgotten her fear. Whoever it was (and she was almost certain it was her husband) obviously meant her no harm - whoever it was was absolutely still.
Now she brought her other hand up as well, both hands encircling the bulge of the bicep, the long flat tricep, up to the muscular cap of the shoulder, and as her hands worked up and around the arm, she circled the figure.
The deltoid muscle sloped upward, leading her exploring hands to the neck. Now behind the man, she ran her fingers up the back of the neck, noticing that the head was turned slightly to the left. Again she had the feeling that this was a pose with which she was familiar, yet maddeningly she could not say what it was.
As lightly as a spider walks its web, her fingers crept along the angle of the jaw, now lightly touching the lips, the top one forming a fleshy peak in the middle, the lower soft and full - it was her husband's mouth she thought, but still was not absolutely sure. Leaning in close, her nose only inches from the man's neck, she breathed in deeply, and then she knew - it was her husband, his scent as familiar to her as the workshop itself. Had he shaved his chest hair? If so, why?
She smiled slightly, and after a short pause her hands resumed their journey, their tactile information helping her to form a mental picture. Her fingertips roamed the wide expanse of his back, coming to the right shoulder before traveling down that arm.
Unlike the other arm, this one was more or less straight down at the side, and she noted how different the musculature felt in this position, the biceps longer and flatter, the forearm less blocky. At the wrist the hand curved gently inward toward the hip, which canted slightly outward. And as she felt the hip it occurred to her - he was nude.
Her hands moved back from the hip, came to the dramatic rise of the gluteal muscles. Using her whole hands now, she ran them over the smooth, firm flesh of the buttocks, cupping them, kneading them, feeling the powerful muscle beneath the skin, tracing the slight indentations at the sides that gave way to the larger muscles at the top of the thighs.
And then she knew.
The hips were canted slightly to the right, and as she felt around to the front of the left thing she could tell the left leg was extended forward. It was the pose of the classic Michelangelo sculpture of David.
Pleased with herself for solving the mystery, she moved around to the front of the figure, letting her hands follow the contours of the stomach, feeling the abdominal muscles beneath the thin layer of flesh, the understated ridges of the ribcage and the pectoral muscles that flowed up and away from them.
Languorously she sank to her knees, her hands sinking with her, running down the thighs, over the hard, rounded kneecaps, touching the blockier calf muscles that tapered down to the relatively delicate ankle bones, then the wondrous maze of tendon and thin bone and of the feet and toes.
She felt these things as though for the first time, and while she could not see, the picture in her mind of this man's anatomy became clearer than any her vision had ever produced.
Her hands began the trek up the insides of the thighs toward the only place she had not thoroughly examined. She remembered the David's small, flaccid nub of a penis and the tiny, bulbous scrotum, and she almost laughed -- her husband was far better endowed than the young model Michelangelo had employed as his model. When she reached the apex of the thighs, the urge to laugh suddenly vanished.
For the first time, the figure dramatically parted from that of the Michelangelo masterpiece. He was amazingly hard, and while the rest of his body had been as cool as the air, here he was not just warm, but hot.
She traced the veiney contours with her fingertips, delicately playing along the length of him, noticing how he curved upward and slightly back toward his belly, and when she reached the sensitive spot just below the plum tip, she deftly tickled him there. For the first time the figure moved, his manhood twitching at her knowing touch.
Smiling, she brought her face close, and with the very tip of her tongue she slowly, barely making contact, followed the large vein on the underside of his erection. When she reached the top - making him twitch involuntarily once more - she gently took him in her mouth.
Gradually she took him all the way into her mouth, and when she reached the bottom, her tongue playfully snaked out and fluttered in the place where shaft met scrotum. For the first time the man made a sound, nearly inaudible, a low "Mmmmmmm," the meaning of which could not be questioned.
She held him there, teasing him with the barest of movements, trying to break the still pose he had held for so long.
She admired his discipline -- he would not move -- but just as she decided to make her ministrations more vigorous he broke the pose, bending to take her hands and pull her to her feet, giving a sharp intake of breath as she brought the broadness of her tongue into full contact with the length of him as he withdrew from her mouth.
Still not speaking, he ran both hands down her skirt to the bottom, then up and under to the elastic top of her panties. Hooking his thumbs in the waistband, he peeled them down, and she steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder as she stepped out of them.
His powerful hands curled around her thighs, just below her buttocks, gripped her, raised her into the air and positioned her over his hardness. Her own ample wetness and the saliva she had moistened him with allowed him to slip easily into her, to the hilt, and she gasped to be filled so suddenly and so completely.
She wrapped her legs around her David, who began to slowly rock back and forth in his standing position, not thrusting in and out of her, but grinding within and against her in a dizzyingly satisfying way. Her arms locked around his neck, and she brought her lips to his, kissing him hungrily, her tongue aggressively wrestling with his, occasionally moving to his neck to kiss and suck and lightly bite him there.
Attached to her still, he took a few steps toward the platform and sat on her work stool, pulling her more squarely onto him as he leaned back slightly, allowing her more freedom of movement. While one hand supported her back, the other moved to the front and between them, his thumb finding the wet cleft of her and stroking her most sensitive part.
She ground against him more insistently, throwing her head back as he leaned forward to suck her nipples through the thin fabric of her shirt, at times grazing the hard little buttons with his teeth.
That was all it took. Her face reddened as she climaxed, harder than she could ever remember doing before, wave after wave of intense pleasure that seemed as though it would go on forever. And as she tightened around him she felt his spasms as he jerked uncontrollably inside her, felt her wetness running from her, making the tops of his legs and the bottoms of hers deliciously slick.
Gradually their thrill subsided, and he softened by slow degrees. He pulled her to him and they clung to each other. She buried her face in his neck and kissed him softly there while their heavy breathing slowed.
After a moment, he lifted her from him, setting her lightly on her feet, though her legs - and his too - were still slightly shaky. He took her hand and led her from the workshop and up the stairs.
He still had not spoken.
* * * * *
The next day he returned home from work, and as he opened the door he smelled the savory aroma of a roast cooking in the oven. He smiled and walked into the kitchen, expecting to find her there. But she wasn't in the kitchen.
"Honey," he called, "I'm home. Where are you?"
"I'm in the basement," she called up the stairs.
"What are you doing?"
"Working," she said, and there was no mistaking the satisfaction in her voice.