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My Former Self
6th. Jun, 2009 | 10:29 pm
A while ago I decided to repost some stories which I took down from the archive years ago. After restoring Fable I realized that doing so was a waste of time, as it's impossible, really, to remove any story posted to the EMCSA, unless it is removed within days or weeks of its posting. The webpages of my old stories, and my old author page, had been archived long before I asked them to be taken down. Perhaps this was the internet's way of implying that self-destructive behaviour is futile. It turned out for the better, because my opinions changed. I'm glad they were preserved.
So my old stories, like Pulmonary Archery, Bimbo's Guide... and Alone with Myselves, can be found on the wayback machine through the link called "My Former Self". You can find it in the menu on the left side of this page.
So my old stories, like Pulmonary Archery, Bimbo's Guide... and Alone with Myselves, can be found on the wayback machine through the link called "My Former Self". You can find it in the menu on the left side of this page.
My Former Self
from: anonymous
date: 13th. Jun, 2009 12:38 am (UTC)
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Snappy.
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Re: My Former Self
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mikethefable
date: 18th. Jun, 2009 01:15 pm (UTC)
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Maybe you could send it to me. I may not even have it either...
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Re: My Former Self
from: anonymous
date: 19th. Jun, 2009 02:22 am (UTC)
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Snappy.
Brainwashed (By the numbers.)
The machines whirred and rumbled, tumbling and spinning their various loads of laundry, ever looking like portals into far off dimensions, probably inhabited by single socks.
“242, 244, 245.” Amber sighed to herself, though her voice was never heard over the machines. The laundry room was awash with noise, ever-loud and droning, never changing save for the odd beeping and mechanical sigh that signalled the end of another load.
She parsed through the pile of clothes that had come out of the dryer, baffled. The clothing had come from 242's, 244's and 245's bags, but she recognized none of it. 242 favoured slacks and cardigans. And 244 made the inside of a washing machine explode into a flourish of flower-prints. 245 wore puppy socks.
But then, who owned the lace-fringe stockings? She'd never found a thong in any of these girl's bags before, yet now there were many in the pile before her. Corsets she'd never seen, yet there were three to be found in among the summer dresses, beige slacks and white knit cardigans. There were collars, too, and cupless bras. Though there was also another, a hot pink bra with lace, weighing in at an astounding GG. She'd never seen anyone that big, let alone washed any of their laundry.
The usual garments she could easily separate—they were labelled. Slacks went to 242, frocks to 244, all it took was to read the tag. She held up a pair of sweatpants, turned over the tag, and found the room number inscribed with her written hand: 244. But after sorting through the three girl's laundry, there seemed a fourth girl's laundry still to account for, a girl who worked at a brothel, apparently. Either that, or 242, 244 and 245 each owned some of these strange new items themselves, had not labelled them, and, as if to seemingly make her job all the more difficult, had attempted to take up the same whimsically whorish new style all at the same time. As in, like, just today. Now everything was all mixed up.
**
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Re: My Former Self
from: anonymous
date: 19th. Jun, 2009 02:24 am (UTC)
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Amber wiped the left side of her face, and briefly she looked like a stroke victim, her cheek and lips smooshed against her palm in frustration. Were laundry not so down to habit, she might have checked what was in the bags before hand, instead of taking their contents for granted and just dumping everything into the machine and pushing the button.
All work and no play made Amber a dull girl, to quote.
And then there was that damn load of... something in the large dryer, which Dave had put in for some reason he cared not to share. The heat wasn't even on, he'd simply said that the clothes within needed to be 'spun' for a while. Well, there they were, spinning and swirling, holding Amber up and allowing her one less machine. She looked through the window in the dryer, into the dimension of socks, her eyes consistently drawn to the unidentifiable, brightly coloured garments tumbling inside. Around and around they went.
Amber shook her head. You couldn't tell with David. It was strange enough that the girl's dorm had received a male senior resident, but he was always up to strange, seemingly trivial little things, making strange requests, and so forth. Though... Amber thought in retrospect, he wasn't that bad, all things considered. She didn't explicitly object to having a male present in the dorm, in case that counted as sexism, and in some ways a male presence had proven helpful, like when Dave assisted in setting up the exercise bikes and pilates pads the girl's had unanimously voted—in a rare case of collective agreement—to set up one day, all of them feeling the urge to get in shape and burn off some of that dorm food.
Yes, after a while Amber and the girls had grown accustomed to him. Even Amber had gotten over her brief anxiety about showering with him. Nobody minded, now, that he used the girl's shower like the rest of them. Where else was he to go? Nowhere, it seemed, so he'd become one with girls and their exclusive, dorm-community. Gradually he became 'one of the girls', privy to all the juicy details about their steadily accelerating sex lives, or playing the judge as they posed for him in sexy outfits before going on dates, admiring his honesty in the face of daring questions like “If you were my date, and I looked like this, would you fuck me?”.
Still, in Amber's mind there lingered a doubt about why a male had been assigned to watch over them in the first place. At times he seemed almost alien, like an alzheimers patient. Today it was tumbling clothes in the dryer, without heat, for the length of her laundry shift. Tomorrow it would most surely be some other strange request, seemingly acted out in regards to some delusional end only he could appreciate.
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Re: My Former Self
from: anonymous
date: 19th. Jun, 2009 02:24 am (UTC)
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It was an aesthetic change, though, she thought, her eyes latching onto the bright swirling colours again. A nice change from the dullness of the girl's usual wardrobes, it was nice to have something to focus on, a point of interest, she might admit. Maybe that realization had been creeping up on her, as she was only appreciating it now. Even the new—albeit unmarked and mixed-up—clothes in the pile seemed a nice change from the every-day. Maybe... she could just put them aside, she thought, gathering the salacious new items into a basket, and veg for a while. She wouldn't get all her work done today anyway, that was certain. So why not take a break?
Amber sighed and slumped to her knees. In short order she was kneeling on the ground, chin on her hands and hands on the table, watching the soothing colours in the dryer go round and round.
**
201 emerged from the laundry room at the end of her shift, rejuvenated from her break, and reinvigorated—reinvented—by a dramatic new change in style. She couldn't just leave the unmarked clothes all crumpled up in a basket, and so sometime during her idle appreciation of Dave's 'special load' she had changed out of her uniform and donned them.
She had to admit, they put her in a good mood, brightened her up. They were so much brighter than her usual clothes, and this new outfit really gave her a boost, mentally and physically. Sure, the heels she happened to come across—completely out of the blue—weren't her usual style, but they were surprisingly easy to walk in, despite any initial doubts she might have had. And that GG bra she'd found must have been some kind of boosting bra, because it made her feel so totally huge, just by putting it on. She never thought she'd fill the cups, let alone feel as though she need more, the edge of her areolas peaking over the lace demi-cups. She appreciated the gentle swaying of her boosted rack, which felt novel and titillating, supported yet free.
She turned towards the elevator, ready to go to work on her floor. She just loved to work, sometimes she could forget that. And she'd just remembered—how silly she was to have forgotten—that she needed to be up in her room as soon as possible for the evening shift, lest she let Dave down. She wanted to make her boss proud, always. He took care of her, and all the other girls. Maybe if she were really good at satisfying her customers tonight, he'd treat her badly after.
201 sauntered ever purposefully towards the end of the hall, which appeared beyond the bend. She walked deliberately, intricately, one heeled foot in front of the other, hips swaying, chest swinging in counter-motion, hands held like little wings to either side of her firm, wagging bum, palms towards the floor.
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Re: My Former Self
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mikethefable
date: 19th. Jun, 2009 01:04 pm (UTC)
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