Heart of Neon

The desert, they say, is where the soul goes to find itself or lose itself entirely. A barren wasteland or the place of revelation, depending on which eye you’re looking through. My eye, at this present juncture, was skewed, twisted, and squinting against the barrage of veracity. John J. Morrison, that’s me, or at least it was me. Forty-five years I’ve stumbled around on this celestial playground and yet, what was I?

Somewhere between Las Vegas and nowhere, I found myself caught in a whirlpool of existence. The world had become an inconceivable masquerade, a ceaseless riot of faces, places, and time-dances.

“We were somewhere around Barstow,” I muttered, recalling memories of another life, a ludicrous chase after phantom bats. The radio crackled with old tunes, and the engine’s heart pumped the beat of raw existence.

Where was I going? The question followed me like a ghost. A shambolic mess, that’s what I was. A retired salesman drifting towards oblivion, seeking the meaning in it all, or at least a glimpse of the damned thing.

My old car, a relic of forgotten dreams, drove listlessly to the harbor of memories. A trip to Africa, chasing some legend’s bones, seemed as plausible as this voyage across the desert. Everything was a hunt, a fevered search for what was lost or never had.

I turned to my reflection in the rearview mirror, a mirror stained with the regrets and delights of ages. A face aged beyond years stared back, eyes wild with the thrill of nothingness.

“Maybe you should drive,” I said to myself, a frivolous whisper lost in the roar of the universe.

The tires ate the road, the world swayed in ecstatic oblivion, and on we drove, plunging into the abyss of life’s folly. The journey was both the means and the end, a chase after phantoms in the land of everlasting bewilderment.

Life, you see, had become a divine comedy, a ceaseless play where roles were exchanged, and every man was an explorer lost in the jungle of existence. It was absurd, chaotic, and utterly divine. My midlife crisis was not a crisis at all, but a revelation of a dance with the madness of being.

Ah, the glorious confusion of life! Let the journey unfold, let the roads lead where they may, for I was both the seeker and the sought, the hunter and the hunted, the explorer and the lost, all in this grand spectacle called life.

The desert stretched before me like the beginning of an interminable waterway, and I was ready to dive in.

Ah, the desert! A never-ending pageant of existential folly, a landscape that laughed at man’s meager ambitions. The bats? The bats were memories, figments, twisted pieces of self dancing in the corners of the mind.

What was the city to a man adrift in the ocean of himself? Las Vegas loomed ahead, that citadel of excess, that monument to the absurdities of human desire. A fitting destination for John J. Morrison, a man out of sync with the age, a wanderer lost in the circus of modernity.

I remembered a time, a distant glimmer of youth when I was a part of the machinery, selling things people didn’t need, living a life I didn’t want. Now, here I was, free and chained, chasing phantoms and fleeing from shadows.

I drove on, the arid landscapes of the desert morphing into metaphors for my own existence, a life bereft of purpose, now seeking a new dawn. Or was it dusk? Hard to tell when your compass is guided by whimsy and caprice.

What was it that Stanley said in his letters when he was searching for Livingstone in the jungle of the dark continent? Something about never giving up the chase. I chuckled at the parallel. Life had turned me into an explorer, too. Not of lands and rivers, but of existential tundra, of spiritual wilderness. I was chasing something intangible, a phantasmal Livingstone, perhaps. A ghost of meaning.

I found myself drifting towards the glittering promise of Las Vegas, a city garish and gleaming, a sinners’ paradise that had beckoned many a lost soul. Was it calling to me, too?

I pulled into the city, the lights dazzling like a million stars gone astray. The streets were alive with the hubbub of lost souls gambling away existence on a roll of the dice. I took a room in a rundown hotel, a mirror to my own tattered elegance. The walls were papered with dreams gone sour, the windows veiled in years of longing.

Entering the city was like diving into an ocean of neon lights, each one a flicker of temptation, allure, and decadence. The streets were alive with hedonistic energy, each corner teeming with offers to satisfy your wildest dreams or so they promised.

I wandered the city like a child lost in a carnival, drawn by the spectacle, yet somehow distant. The casinos, the shows, the ceaseless flow of luck and chance, it all felt hollow, a mirage in my own desert.

I went into a bar, where the bartender, a fellow lost in the time stream, poured me a drink with the skill of one who’s seen it all.

“Whiskey,” I said. “Make it a double.”

He eyed me with the curiosity of a cat regarding a curious new specimen.

“On a journey, friend?” he asked.

“Aren’t we all?” I replied. “I’m on the hunt for Livingstone, you see. But maybe he’s hunting me.”

He laughed, a rich sound echoing with wisdom and weariness.

“Livingstone’s dead, but his ghost walks these streets. Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

The bar was a surreal painting of humanity, a place where dreams were traded for coins, and the music played a symphony of broken hearts.

A woman approached, her eyes wild with the desire for something more. We danced a dance of strangers, moving to the rhythm of a world unhinged. Her name was Cathy. She was looking for love in a loveless place; I was looking for meaning in a meaningless dance.

I caught the glint of her wedding ring as it twirled around her trembling finger. The bar was alive with the clamor of voices, the distant laughter of strangers, yet in that moment, we were isolated, connected only to each other, a world of our own creating.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked in a rough whisper, my eyes never leaving her hand. Her reply was uncertain, a confession wrapped in a question, the embodiment of a desire she couldn't quite grasp.

I reached out to her then, my hand gentle as it lifted her chin, bringing her eyes to meet mine. My lips found hers, a simple act that ignited something within us, a spark that had been smoldering, waiting for this very moment.

The room faded away as I led her back to my hotel room, my kisses a path to something deeper, something that transcended mere physicality. Clumsily, we found our way to the bed, Cathy's heels discarded, her body now one with mine, our fumbling attempts at undressing a dance of intimacy and inexperience.

The touch of my hand against her thigh sent a jolt through Cathy, a spark that caught both of us off guard. It was a fleeting moment, a pause that allowed us to breathe, to take in the enormity of what we were doing.

The zipper snagged, the dress refusing to yield, a momentary obstacle that only served to heighten the anticipation. It was a battle we would not win, and with a mutual understanding, the dress became a part of our connection, a symbol of the imperfect beauty of our union.

My departure from the bed was a slow unwinding, a moment of separation that allowed Cathy to take in the reality of what was transpiring. The sounds of my clothes falling away, the sharpness of my belt, they were a symphony, a prelude to something more.

When my hands found her legs, when my thumb brushed against her panties, the world seemed to stop. It was a slow, deliberate unveiling, a communion of souls that transcended the mere physical. The discarded clothes at the foot of the bed were a testament to our journey, a path we had chosen to walk together.

Cathy's ecstasy was a living thing, a force that swept her away, carried her to places she had never known. My devilish smile and tender kisses were an exploration, a discovery of something profound and beautiful.

Our conversation was quick, an understanding that went beyond mere words. The absence of a condom was not an obstacle but a bridge, a connection that bound us even closer.

“I don’t care,” she said, “just fuck me. Fuck me hard!”

As we came together, as my body found Cathy's, the world dissolved, leaving only sensation, only feeling. It was a surreal experience, a dance that transcended mere physicality, touching something deeper, something eternal.

In the end, when my pace quickened, when Cathy's whispers filled my ear, when we reached that pinnacle of pleasure, we were not two separate beings but one, a connection that went beyond the flesh, a love making that spoke of something more profound, something timeless.

With her dress bunched up around her waist and me on top, it was a surreal experience. She wrapped her legs around me and whispered in my ear for me to come inside her. We lay still for a while afterward, the world slowly coming back into focus, the essence of our connection a lingering reminder of what we had shared.

We parted at dawn, two ships in the night that would never meet again.

“I can feel your essence seeping out of me”, she whispered before she got up to go and reunite with her husband bringing her cellphone with a recording of our exchange of bodily fluids with her for him to enjoy.

Now the days and nights merged into a tapestry of experiences, a swirling kaleidoscope of faces and places. Vegas was but a stop on the grand tour of existence, a city that wore its soul on its neon-lit sleeve.

That’s when I stumbled upon her. An old friend, or was she an acquaintance? Time has a funny way of blending faces. We met in a smoky bar, where jazz played and drinks flowed.

“John Morrison,” she said, a smile lighting up her face, “I never thought I’d see you here.”

“Neither did I,” I confessed, feeling a sudden surge of vitality. Something about her presence awakened a spark. Was she a part of this mad quest?

We talked into the night, recounting old tales, sharing dreams and memories, laughing at the sheer absurdity of existence. Somehow, in her eyes, I found an echo of my own quest, a shared pursuit of something more profound than mere existence.

Her name was Eleanor, a painter who had left the bustling city for the desert’s inspiration. She painted life, she said, in all its chaos and splendor.

“You’re chasing shadows, John,” she told me, eyes twinkling with insight. “But maybe that’s the most human thing we can do.”

I took Eleanor's hand, leading her to my private chamber, her eyes widening at the sight of the carefully arranged ropes on the bed. I had decided to explore a new repertoire. A new John, who was no longer confined to a secret life in the deep dark shadows. Her gaze met mine, a question in her eyes, a mixture of anticipation and fear. She was looking for an explanation, a hint of what awaited her.

With a gentle touch on her back, I guided her towards the bed, sensing her body tremble. Her vulnerability stirred something deep within me. Carefully, I began to weave the ropes around her wrists, feeling her resistance yet recognizing the longing in her eyes.

Eleanor's reaction was a blend of surprise and curiosity, her breath catching as the ropes tightened. There was something about this connection, this unspoken need within her, that I understood more than anyone ever had.

Eleanor’s struggles became part of our intricate dance, a battle of wills where she fought, yet longed to be overpowered. I could see it in her eyes, the way she reacted to my firm but careful touch. There was something in her that craved this surrender, something that no other lover had ever understood.

The art of rope, the careful binding, was something beautiful to me, a way to enhance the human form, to create symmetry and elegance. I was not just binding Eleanor; I was understanding her, unraveling the complexities of her desires.

I took my time, working with precision and care, noticing how her body responded to the tension of the ropes, the subtle shifts in her breathing. Her trust was a gift, something sacred and profound.

I wrapped the rope four times around both her wrists and closed the double column tie. She gasped as she tried to free her hands. I grabbed another rope and whipped it across her back. A red streak appeared instantaneously on her porcelain like skin. The sight made me hard. I whipped the rope across her ass. She moaned and pushed her hips hard into the mattress. I grabbed her by the hair, forced her on to her knees and kneeled behind her.

I wrapped a rope around her arms and over her breasts, two passes of the rope across the tops of her breasts and a single pass of the rope, tight, under her breasts. They swelled outwards from where the rope dug into her flesh. I reached around her with my hands and rolled her nipples between my finger and thumb. She moaned and hunched her shoulders in an attempt to free her nipples when I pulled them hard away from her chest. The hot pain that radiated from her nipples set off a tingling sensation in her clit.

As the ropes encircled her, I looked into her eyes, those big, beautiful, hungry eyes, and I knew her. It was not about domination or pain; it was about surrender, the longing to relinquish control to someone who truly understood.

She was seeking something, a connection, an understanding that went beyond mere physical pleasure. I saw her for who she was, recognizing the unspoken desires that had been left unfulfilled.

We kissed, a soft, gentle meeting of lips that sent a spark of electricity through our bodies. Her resistance melted, and she surrendered fully, allowing me to guide her into new realms of sensation.

She was ready to be fucked, but I wanted her bound in more of my rope. I grabbed another rope, uncoiled it and wrapped half its length around the middle her thigh. I bent her leg and wrapped the rest of the rope around her upper thigh and lower shin, just above her ankle. I tied her other leg in the exact same pattern.

I continued to work with the ropes, creating a pattern that honored her beauty, making her part of an artwork that was for her, not me.

Finally, we came together, our bodies entwined, the physical act transcending mere pleasure, becoming something more profound. It was a connection, a joining of two souls who had found something in each other that had been lacking.

I crawled between her bound and folded legs and teased her clit with the tip of my cock. I peeled back her lower lip and licked its soft, moist inside. With a shift of my hips I aimed the tip of my cock at her dripping hole and slowly filled her pussy with my cock's entire length as I bit down on her lip.

Her mouth was open wide, frozen in a silent scream. Her eyes unfocused and rolled back. She had never before had felt as full as she felt in that moment. My hard, twitching cock filled her to the brim. She moaned into my mouth and gasped softly when I bottomed out inside her. I felt the walls of her pussy get slicker and tighter as I continued to pound her closer to the magical moment of orgasm. Suddenly, she snapped her head back and her body began to shudder. Her pussy squeezed tight around my cock. The friction was almost painful as I continued to thrust in and out of her shrinking pussy. My balls tightened, pressure built up quickly at the base of my cock. I grunted with every remaining downward thrust of my hips. I fought hard against the inevitable release of cum. Eleanor came hard, I buried my cock inside her with one last crash of my hips and exploded deep into her womb.

Afterward, we lay together, catching our breath, a sense of contentment and understanding settling over us. Eleanor looked at the marks the ropes had left on her skin, a visible testament to our shared experience.

"There is a full-length mirror in the bathroom, Eleanor," I said, my voice soft. "You might want to see the beauty I see."

She returned, her eyes shining with a light I hadn't seen before. Her smile was genuine, heartfelt. "That was beautiful, John. Thank you."

We shared a moment of silence, a recognition of something profound and life-changing. It was more than a physical act; it was a connection, an understanding, a touch that went beyond mere flesh.

"That smile," I thought, "touches the parts of you that make you human." It was a smile I would never forget.

Eleanor's voice brought me back to the present. "Thank you, John. This means more to me than words can say."

As a pair of wayward wanderers diving back into the desert we split. She brought colors to my grayscale world, a new perspective, and perhaps the companionship I didn’t know I was seeking.

The road ahead was uncertain, winding through landscapes both physical and metaphysical. Yet, it didn’t matter anymore. The journey had become a dance, a shared exploration of life’s complexities, absurdities, and beauty.

Days went by in the desert heat.

Eleanor's call, unexpected yet not unwelcome, pulled me from my daily routine. A meeting, she insisted, something that could not wait. A sense of urgency hung in the air, a feeling that something profound was about to transpire.

The café was dim, the air thick with a blend of espresso and tension. Eleanor sat at a corner table, her eyes scanning the room, waiting for my arrival. When I entered, our eyes met, and without a word, I approached her, producing a single handcuff from my pocket.

She didn't resist as I fastened it around her left wrist, a question in her eyes but an understanding as well. Silently, I led her out into the street, my grip firm, as if guiding her into some unknown realm of sensation.

My car awaited us, parked discreetly away from prying eyes. I guided Eleanor into the passenger seat, her hands now restrained behind her. A black hood soon obscured her view of the world, heightening her senses, focusing her mind on what lay ahead. I yanked her breasts out of her bra, then put a clothespin on each nipple. I lifted up her dress and slipped my fingers under her panties placing a small vibrator ring around her clitoris controlled via an app on my cellphone on the dashboard. She could feel the ring vibrating between her legs. I still hadn’t said a single word to her.

The drive was a journey in itself, a passage through time and space, a quiet build-up to the main event. It was filled with anticipation, the soft hum of the car's engine mixed with the gentle buzz of the clit ring as a reminder of what awaited her.

Forty minutes later, we arrived at the house I had rented on Airbnb solely for this purpose, a nondescript structure hiding our secrets within its walls. The transformation began in earnest then, a methodical alteration of Eleanor's appearance, guided by an understanding, an unspoken agreement.

The broomstick, a tool of simplicity yet, her hands tied to it, stretching her up to her toes. It was an artistic presentation, a sculpting of form that revealed her essence.

Then came the whips, each one different in its purpose, each one a conduit for sensation, a means of communication. The first danced across her back, the second graced her torso, and the last explored her legs. Each stroke was a whisper, a connection, a touch that went beyond mere flesh.

The remote-controlled device added another layer to the experience, a constant reminder of the line between pleasure and pain, always on the verge but never crossing it. It was a dance, a fine-tuned symphony of sensation that only reached its crescendo at the very end.

Finally, I whipped her between the legs. Only when I fucked her from behind and filled her up with my sperm I let her have an orgasm. I left her standing in the middle of the room tied to the broomstick with semen dripping down her thighs while I used the app to guide her through a series of orgasms. I did not touch her.