pathos hous

burning eyes: a visitation

Burning eyes.

I picture the father, eyes red, without clothes standing at the foot of my bed, his mouth is moving, in his hand he’s holding a white tank top presumable belonging to his daughter. Why that article of clothing and not something more delicate? He offers it to me.

I wake up. Recalling his daughter when she had left, her braces, that was what I remembered sharply, how it cloud cut my sensitive skin. Without showering I returned to the sleeping computer, woke it up to log in again. XRAYEYES. It didn’t quite convey the contents, a different world a different word bridging something primal. There were no new pictures in there, just the same gallery that was there the night before.

His daughter.

This man isn’t your typical animal headed pervert. There was an artistry to his work and definitely an arc to his relationship. “She’s 17.” He wrote, “and we were lovers in another life.” I could tell that she loves him, in that one and only picture of normalcy, taken in a café (with a half eaten birthday cake, cups of coffee) She’s sitting there in a pink tight t-shirt, the small of her breast profile stirring my blood, she gazing into his face caught in half laughter as the flash of camera bounced off the rear window (in daytime) They looked at each other, dad and girl, entwined, twisted in some secret disturbing affair. The mother and brother was not in  the pic.

I want to rush through (excitements), describe the most erotic pictures on XRAYEYES but I restrain myself. Restraint. I think that is where best to start. The site has a black background, there are posts and there are 5 pages, each with a different alluring headline. The header picture was well selected.

She’s on the bed, in simple white cotton bra and panties, her frame small and slender, skin unblemished. The father had used black cable ties to bind her ankles together, her arms behind her are probably bound but cannot be seen in profile. Red tape is wrapped around her lower face and there is a palpable fear in her eyes (well executed) as she stares at her father at the foot of the bed, half naked (in his black underwear) staring back at her with burning eyes. (He comments rhetorically: Can one’s daughter be controlled so completely without transgressing on her freedom to feel sexuality without contact?)

The whole scene has a vintage sheen, like taken with instagram or a lomo. Maybe her iphone was used, maybe they sit together at the laptop after the shoot to adjust the mood with photoshop filters pirated off a torrent site.

“I never touch her intimately” her father writes, “it is not right for me to explore her vagina or breasts but I like stroking her legs, to think that her flesh and bones and blood was made from me and the woman I married, our structures convalescing, creating such a beautiful fulfillment…”

 There’s a certain poetic sensitivity to the man as I scrolled through some of his thoughts and reflections. I’m not sure if there’s a sadness in him (everyone has a certain sadness sin them) but I know he seems comfortable making such work for such strangers as me to view and understand. He is a father I would desire to be (at least in terms of his perversions) and I think him very blessed to have such a daughter who would allow such closeness. How many daughters even speak to their fathers nowadays? I really don’t know. Outside, the world seems so normal, so safe and vanilla compared to the energies trapped on this miraculous site of the socially deviant.

The page I enjoy visiting most in a way is called basket. You see pictures of a gloved hand (blue latex worn by her father) fishing out her daughter’s used panties from the laundry basket. He dangles them between his fingers, snaps a shot. She has a penchant for snug cotton mini-cut panties, some with cute cartoon figures on the crotch. There are several g-strings and Triumph thongs. Her favorite colors are simple, light blue, light pink, whites.

“I try not to sniff them.” He writes. “but I like the softness of the fabric, the smooth feeling when I stroke insides of the crotch.”

 I Leave an anonymous message but made sure there was enough clues for him to know who I was. “Sell me one of her unwashed panties. A tiny white one. As white as the milk I drink at cafes…every Wednesday…”

I wonder if something would happen after that.

There are pictures of several panties hanging on clips, hung out to dry in their flat. One can never truly see where they’re staying, the background scenery is generic (an opposite block, trees, but never any road signs or block numbers or prominent recognizable buildings.)  The vagueness gives the whole site meaning, that behind some random family door lay secret lives and details of passions too taboo for the heartland heart.

There’s a curious picture in one of the galleries. Categorized as Mindphase.   In it, the daughter is in a uniform not belonging to her school. It’s beige, with a skirt that ‘s two sizes too small, short and fitting. Her tongue is out playfully, her eyes bunched up like a hide and seek game and her father is placing a black orb in her mouth. The captions suggest a kind of telepathy experiment or some kind of complicated ‘Shared experience modality.’

“It helps us relive the nubile days before this life, without violation or guilt” The descriptor says cryptically.

“I’ve never had such lucid moments.” Her daughter commented. “Thank you papa.”