Two is Too Many
- When Saturday Comes
Celia was a lovely, tall, slim, bubbly, confident woman of 28 years who worked at a local hotel as a receptionist. She usually wore fascinatingly thick glasses to correct her minus 8 myopia, well that’s of course if she wanted to see clearly: silver metal roundish frames with lenses sticking out behind, she carried them well and was generally good at her job, and well respected for her efforts therein.
This Saturday night, or indeed any other evening she wasn’t working, things were very different: she had this really odd fetish. She arrived home, had a good bath, a lovely soak, and then got dressed up in a short red dress. She then opened the bottom drawer of a chest and rummaged around. In the back was a hard spectacle case, old and well-used. She pulled it out and opened it: inside was another pair of glasses, very similar to those she wore regularly, the only difference being that although the right lens of this pair of glasses was as normal, the other lens had been removed, and replaced by a shiny black lens blank bought from the internet. A side panel clipped onto the earpiece completed the transformation and completely hid her left eye from view. She took off her normal glasses and put on this altered pair, then looked in the mirror. She made a little sad face, then murmured to herself, ‘oh, poor little me, I lost my eye in a terrible accident…’ The truth was that Celia got a massive kick out of this sort of rather sick play-acting: men would go for her figure, and then she’d turn and reveal herself. Some would bolt, some would stay around and act all soppy, trying to convince her that she was still beautiful and that they found her attractive. Usually she came home with her knickers wet; she never actually had boring old regular sex with them.
She went into a bar some time later. She rotated her visits regularly, trying to appear as if she were a stranger every time: usually it worked, almost as well as her wonderful poor-little-me acting. She sat at the bar, deliberately ignoring the attentions of some poor victim to her right, her “seeing” side. As usual she let him look for a while before responding to his second hesitant “hi…” She turned to face him, looking quite expressionless. She saw his face change abruptly: by the looks of it, she knew that she was onto a “sympathiser”. She loved to milk this sort of man for all she could get. She thought it hilarious, and oh, it felt so good and warm down below, whereupon she felt herself becoming slightly moist…
To be honest, he was a bit of a loser; he asked the inevitable question so awkwardly that she felt a little bit sorry for him. She spun out her story, embellishing it with hints of how much it hurt. That really got her going… her panties were getting damp. He had no idea he was being duped and it was so much fun. Then abruptly he asked, ‘can I have a look?’ ‘Of course not!’ He seemed to be reaching out to grab her glasses, and said, ‘go on… promise I won’t scream.’ Celia kicked herself for this. How many times had she done this? Shouldn’t she have realised that one day someone would want a peek… really badly? Obviously she couldn’t show him, being as there was nothing to see except one perfectly good blue eye with nothing much to do. She was forced to scamper out of the bar and go home, her evening rather spoilt.
- Deeper and Deeper
Celia was sorely annoyed by these events, and quickly determined to put it right; she had to have something to show in case someone wanted to look, or perhaps if her concentration lapsed and thus she took her altered glasses off, as she’d come close to doing before. She spent some time searching on the internet and eventually found what she really wanted: a cosmetic makeup specialist who made “injuries” out of bits of silicone rubber to specification. She posed as a actress with a minor part in some TV hospital drama and sent off an email asking to arrange an appointment.
A couple of weeks later she went to meet the man who would make her the false eye injury: he was completely taken in by her story and made a nice mould to fit her closed left eye. He told her she’d need to have her eye glued shut, but water would dissolve the glue which was also used to stick the thing in place. After a few hours it would probably fall off anyway, he added. She told him what she wanted: a really gruesome looking injury, as if something had smashed and ripped her eye open and it had really just healed up as a nasty mess. He nodded: he’d done this sort of thing and worse many times before.
The next time she went to the man her dummy injury was ready. She gave a little gasp when she saw it, and started to feel butterflies again in that certain place down below… it was gut-wrenchingly awful looking and certainly looked the part. She paid him his fee, saying, ‘oh, sorry, my producer said he’d pay you, but the lines got a bit crossed. Sorry, here’s the money. I suppose I’ll have to chase him up myself so he can repay me.’ He didn’t seem remotely bothered who paid him.
- Trying It On
Friday came around achingly slowly, but when it did Celia almost dashed home in order to get herself into her alternative lifestyle: this time, well, it would be far more fun. The first thing she did after her bath was get out the rubbery, floppy injury prosthetic and stick it over her eye. It seemed to hold her eye shut by itself; with a bit of deft work it was just perfect, and completely real-looking. It looked absolutely awful to anyone else, but for Celia, it was perfect. Quickly she fetched her one-lensed glasses and put them on over the prosthesis. Already she felt warmth and anticipation down below.
Some time later she stood at the bus stop waiting for the bus. Alas, this week her car had chosen to cause her trouble, but that wouldn’t stop her trying her new “kit” out: another of those appealingly low-cut, skimpy dresses that got the men looking at her. And, oh, didn’t this feel good, so much better than usual! Poor little me with one eye, but feeling “oh”… Some oldish woman came up to her and gazed curiously at her: she didn’t hear the faint sigh as Celia’s orgasm shot through her, but then a few moments later she saw something drip onto the ground between this tall, slim girl’s feet. This was the start of a great night out, Celia thought with anticipation.
Some time later she was in a different bar where nobody knew her. As usual it was the mixture of stares and rather embarrassed looking away from those who saw her. Eventually some young man started talking to her, thinking that a one-eyed girl looking like this would be OK for a night, anyway. As they usually did, he tried to be sympathetic and told her she looked beautiful. Really, she thought, I know that anyway…
Away in a quiet corner they sat talking and laughing, then he asked the question she’d been waiting for, the “can I see what’s left of your eye” routine. Celia looked at him as if he was sick, which to be honest, was rather like that proverb involving a pot and a kettle. She gave a fake grimace, then after appearing to mull over the question, reached up and pulled off her specs. She couldn’t really see what was happening, but basically she could tell he wasn’t happy. Perhaps the makeup guy had overdone it, or perhaps this guy was just overly sensitive, but after a few moments she thought she heard him puking up. Quickly she rammed her altered specs onto her face, and thus saw that indeed he had been sick. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because this was hardly the sort of sexual encounter she sought. She said her goodbyes and left in a hurry.
- Melting Away
The night wore on; she got quite a few kicks and more besides out of the misguided sympathy from men, but mercifully no more vomiting. After two o’clock in the morning she was very well drunk and at home, sitting watching TV. She’d had a great night out with her new prosthesis, but now it was time for a cigarette and bed: but she kept her disguise on anyway for the hell of it. After a while, halfway though the cigarette she dozed off to sleep.
After a while she started dreaming that she was in a warm bath, a lovely pleasant feeling. Suddenly she felt some odd pressure across her chest, like a vice and getting worse. She woke into a blazing hell: fire all around her, the house burning, smoke everywhere, and across her chest lay the sofa. How it had got there she didn’t know, maybe somehow she’d rolled off it and pulled it onto her, pinning her and her arms. She was trapped. Over near her legs was the reason why: the tall lamp had fallen over and was jammed against the door and over the upturned sofa, making it quite impossible to get out. But her glasses had fallen off, so she couldn’t be sure of that. And get out she must, because the fire was all around her.
She spent a few minutes pushing and squirming, trying to get free: there was no escape for her, at least not without assistance. She lay back, exhausted. Then as she recovered, ready for the next attempt, she noticed her prosthesis seemed very warm. This was hardly surprising, considering that she was in the the middle of a house fire, but she started wondering what it was made of and whether it was flammable. Her struggles grew more frantic as she realised her danger. She tried to pull the thing off but, unable to get her hands near her head, she couldn’t. The thing was getting warmer and warmer… and causing her some discomfort, nay pain.
Within a couple of minutes Celia screamed in agony as the rubber thing on her face caught fire, melted and burned, flowing down the side of her face and into her eye. Perhaps mercifully it didn’t catch fire that well, but certainly got hot enough to destroy her face. She passed out, and only came around when she heard voices. She had no idea what was going on, but it sure felt cooler already. Then she felt a little rain. No, not rain: the output from a fire hose. Dimly she realised her face still hurt and she couldn’t open her left eye. Then she passed out again.
- Aftermath
Some time later Celia woke again. Her right eye popped open as usual, but her left eye felt like someone had punched her very hard on that side. She couldn’t open it at all, partly because her face was padded with bandages, but mostly because there now wasn’t much left that could be called an eye, whether she wanted to open it or not. Despite her fuzzy uncorrected vision it was obvious to her that she was in a hospital. She sighed, and started to wonder what would happen now.
She didn’t have to wonder very long. A consultant came soon after the nurse had spotted her moving around: he stood at the end of her bed, fuzzily indistinct with her uncorrected vision. He said “hello,” to which Celia asked nervously, ‘what’s happened? Why is my head all bandaged up?’ To be honest, she wasn’t entirely sure if this wasn’t all some rather bad dream, perhaps even one bordering on a nightmare. The pain was real, though. He replied, ‘oh, your house burned down, but the fire brigade pulled you out. Unfortunately the left side of your face got badly burned. There was some strange rubber substance on it.’ He did not go into the puzzlement of the lab guys who’d taken a sample and couldn’t trace it to anything else in the house. Celia dared not say what it was nor why she had it stuck over her eye. Tentatively she asked, ‘what about my eye? Did you save it?’ He coughed slightly nervously, and said, ’no… there wasn’t much left of it to save.' Celia gaped at him.
It took a while to get her glasses restored to her so she could at least see clearly with her remaining eye. Getting her frames over the padding covering what remained of her left eye was well nigh impossible, so she mostly held them up near her face when she wanted to see. Meanwhile she had to begin coming to terms with her injury: in some ways it was what she’d always wanted, but really she’d never actually wanted it beyond her play-acting: she just wanted to blank out her left lens and use that to fuel and sate her kinky fetish. Not this, not by any wish nor stretch of the most uninhibited imagination.
A couple of weeks passed, and the pain died off gradually. The bandages came off quite quickly when it was realised that there was no real need for them to be there. There was nothing there that could be remotely regarded as a functioning eye, just an ugly scarred mess of flesh, mixed fundamentally with some of the rubber from the prosthesis and the glue used to hold it in place. She got her first look at the remains then, pushing her glasses onto her face and looking through her proper glasses. Her other pair had lost the black lens blank and side panel in the fire: the rest had been found, but nobody wondered why they couldn’t find a left lens for that pair. Looking at herself in the mirror, she thought for a moment that she still had the prosthesis on and thus had to prevent herself trying to pull it off… but this was reality, no dream and no disguise. To be honest, it looked worse than the fake one: there was no removing it, no comforting relief of going back to two eyes. One eye would have to be enough for the rest of her life.
She went back to work a few weeks later. Her optician had given her a black lens blank, uncannily almost identical to the one she’d once played with before the fire. At first the hotel was reluctant to let her return to her receptionist’s job, but after a while her sparkle and personality shone through: thus she was allowed to face the public once again.
I happened to stay at the hotel where that Celia girl works last week; you know, when I asked her what happened to her, she looked at me rather oddly with her single eye behind its thick lens, blinking softly. Did she enjoy that sort of attention? I rather think so…