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Objects of Desire

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The objectification room was his off-time indulgence. When he wasn't stealing memories for an agency that had rendered him nameless and faceless, a specter in the shadows, it was his own pleasure to go to a place where he could leave his name voluntarily.

He had shed everything at the door, not only his clothes but the Company and all its ties. Here after the preliminaries (arranging safewords, acts, and the room where he was bound carefully with a blindfold and ties of his own choosing), there was only silence, waiting for the unseen people who would touch him, give and take away good memories.

The patrons of this place were paying not to know his name (as he was not to know theirs), but it didn't matter because he was not in service to them, no matter his position. They weren't important enough to have his true name. He was not the one touching and the taking would be good; they would touch him, and lying down for this was mutual pleasure, one where they were all aware of and bound by the rules of the room. He had only to speak a word (his name) and it would be over. And so he let them touch--small, smooth hands; large callused fingers, slightly damp and warm palms stroking up his legs, over his chest, across his face where the marks were just interesting texture that hands lingered on. In the darkness, he was beautiful, unknowable because he wanted to be unknown. And here his gift took only what he pleased, here he didn't have to know these people in extremity-their secrets, their terror, their worst and best and most intense moments. He didn't have to know them at all and he was only a shadowy unknown because he wanted it. here, touching them, the worst he saw was spilled coffee, lost socks, the petty argument they had with their sister two hours ago, fleeting feelings of nervousness. He saw brief, beautiful things they had never even known they had registered--the colors of the flowers outside their office building that day, a glimpse of a carnival as the F train rocketed past, the smell of jasmine right after the rain.

They touched him and he touched them back, all these anonymous strangers with no more name than him but they gave him sensation and he gave it back (and its lack) in a continual stream--hands skimmed across his breastbone and up the arches of his feet at the same time; wet fingers skimmed his balls and pressed behind, his cock was caressed by smooth hands; his lips tasted again and again, all at once. He sank back and surrendered his body to the pleasure and press of people, no overwhelmingly present freight of individual needs, desire, fear, secrets, orders but only a steady stream of touches, fleeting and firm, until they were just people, just bodies spinning in this world, gasping and crying out and moving together, reveling in anonymous touch. And he was one among many and they were many with him and in this no name space, he was simply himself and he was vast and he contained multitudes.