Lines Of The See Through Man Pt 01

This unusual story combines elements of mind control (especially) and freeuse (somewhat). Although it doesn't seem like exactly either, it's closely related — alongside the questionable consent such may imply — so if you don't enjoy elements in that ballpark then I can't recommend this tale. Be warned that it starts pretty slow, because there's a fair bit of premise and backstory to get through. However, once the ride starts, it doesn't stop. All characters are 18+.

* * *

I've always been invisible. Not in the "wrapped in bandages/objects hovering midair" kind of way... more in the "does anyone even know I exist" way.

My condition has perplexed me for as long as I can remember. Being the youngest child, I would routinely be ignored by my older siblings. Even my parents had a hard time keeping me in focus. They would answer a question of how many children they had with a variation of, "Five — no, six." They'd pause, focusing. "We have six kids," they'd repeat, furling their brows.

I can count the number of times a teacher chose me to answer questions in school on one hand, and I was always the last kid picked at any sports... if I got selected at all. Sadly, this affliction has become worse as I've gotten older. Now when I'm waiting in line at a fast-food joint, people will literally walk around me, as if I wasn't even there. And I have to be careful at four-way stop signs, in case someone tries to run into me.

If I really,

really

concentrate, I can make myself be seen for brief periods. I'm pretty sure I've heard "Oh! I didn't see you" more than my own name. But exerting my mind in that way is honestly exhausting, and almost always gives me a splitting headache afterwards. So, I don't even bother most of the time, unless I

really

need to interact with someone.

If I'd been born a few decades earlier, my life would be unbearable. Fortunately, whatever has caused me to be "invisible" doesn't seem to extend to the internet, text messages, video chat, phone calls, or other avenues devoid of face-to-face contact. Between online shopping, web portals, self-checkout kiosks, it's actually pretty straightforward to live without needing human interaction. I'm probably one of the only people who looks back fondly at the Covid years, because the possibilities of those trapped at home and existing solely online exploded. I had so many more friends and associates, even in my own town.

"Had." Operative word.

What's weird about my invisibility — and I think of it as "invisibility," even though that's not quite the right word — is that people

actively

do not see me. What I mean is, their brains and bodies will do literally anything to avoid acknowledging that I'm there. Anyone who sees me (well,

doesn't

see me) just goes on with their life as best they can; if I interject to stop them from doing what they wanted, they'll do something else and pretend it was their idea. For example, if I stand in front of a doorway, anyone who wants to get through will walk around me. If I hold the door closed, they'll pull futilely on the door a few times before giving up; they might even mutter something about changing their mind.

I'm not an idiot. I know I could do a lot of... well,

evil

stuff with this ability. But I always tried to make the most of my situation, keeping my head down and trying to be a better person. I did adequately in school, probably because (inconceivably) my in-class tests still seemed to be acknowledged. Or maybe the teachers are just embarrassed that they don't remember me but don't have me marked as absent, so they assume I'm doing well enough to pass. I never quite worked out the parameters, because it doesn't really matter much. Point is, I'm a B student — short for "barely there"? I made it into university (thanks to an application process that exists entirely online), where it's easier to get ignored in larger classrooms.

So, that's been my life for the first 21 years, here but not really, trying to do what's right but mostly muddling through. Interpersonally, the sole bright spot in life shined from my parents. They were the only people who could see me more often than not, acknowledge me by name, carry on conversations with me. They loved me, their loser virgin son.

April 9. "Deadliest Crash of Year on I-66," the headlines declared. There were 16 total fatalities when the tanker truck overturned, too fast on rain-slick roads. The news focused mostly on the 10 who died in the charter bus, or the tanker driver, or the three nuns who were driving back from a Catholic pilgrimage. It's ironic, in a way, that the two most-invisible entities in that story were my parents.

"Were." Operative word.

My five brothers and sisters spoke at the funeral. I wasn't invited. Not because of any malice, but... well, you know. But I was still there. It was nice, for what it was. The flowers, the music, the words of consolation. Closed casket (for obvious reasons).

All of it was meaningless. I lost the only people who meant anything to me, who knew I existed.

The following weeks established my new reality. Walking to class across the huge campus felt even less corporeal than before, my steps floating with the weightlessness of my grief. I tried to look at matters intellectually: In a tangible, day-to-day sense, my life wasn't appreciably worse. Financially, I was even

better

off than before, with a million bucks in savings. (I'm not sure if my

five

siblings felt any oddness or confusion when the

six

-million-dollar insurance payout resulted in each of them getting exactly a million dollars, but — if so — I haven't heard about it.) And it's not like I saw my parents every day, or even every week. On a daily basis, my life hasn't changed at all.

But I changed. Whatever had previously been holding me back had now deteriorated into something darker... something I struggled to understand the shape of.

One element I did not struggle to understand the shape of was Marcia Keller. Her form came into focus as I saw her at — where was I?

The campus library. I had apparently wandered into that venerable building along with my thoughts. That made sense. In years past, I would often find comfort at that catacomb of tomes... floating among my peers, all of whom were mostly invisible in their own way and lost in their academic pursuits. My feet must have been on autopilot, hoping to bring me someplace that would comfort me. But I was

not

comforted, because of Marcia Keller.

I mentioned earlier about being a virgin. I know it's something that other guys my age obsess about, but it didn't bother me. I take a matter-of-fact approach. In a way, I had kind of accepted that I may never know the touch of a woman, feeling her determined breath against my skin, her hot hand wrapped around my manhood in anticipation, the feel of her fecund femininity caressing my turgid cock as I — okay, maybe it bothered me a bit.

When it came to relationships, there was only one time I really made an effort, in my senior year of high school. And that was Marcia Keller. With her sandy-blond hair, wavy curls, hazel eyes, lipstick smile, and cute form, she was a dream come true for any hot-blooded student. We were both 18 and preparing for college, and I somehow deluded myself into thinking I had a shot with her.

I focused for months to be seen by her in myriad interactions; we had actual conversations. And she even seemed to

appreciate

knowing me. Sure, the mental exertion resulted in splitting headaches when I got home, but she knew my name. She liked me.

I asked her to prom. She said,

"Yes!"

with a light laugh. That one syllable still echoes in my ears, a

yes

with a titter that exuded an energy of, "I'd be

delighted

to go to prom with you! It's one of the most natural things in the world for us to do, together." We sorted out our plans, after which I went home and took far too many painkillers.

Prom night. I arrived at her house (well, her parents'), with my rented tuxedo and store-bought corsage in the colors she picked. I knocked on her door, and it opened. The doorway framed her standing there, hair tall, makeup immaculate, wearing the luckiest dress in the world. Blue velvet, like the old song my parents liked to dance to. I looked down at the azure orchid bouquet and realized it would look amazing on her.

The door opened further, guided by another hand — a hand belonging to Richard Todd. I hadn't seen Richard in a year; he was a senior when we were juniors, and had been going to college the past year. He must have realized that Marcia was old enough to date while he was probably struggling to establish himself as a small fish in a big university pond.

"Yo... is someone there?" asked Richard. He, too, was wearing a tuxedo — no doubt also rented — and carrying a blue-themed corsage, similar to mine but less attractive (if I say so myself). He looked

through

me standing there, with the vacant eyes I'd grown accustomed to my entire life but hurt more than I could recall.

"I'm not sure," said Marcia, her red lips frowning in a crimson arc.

Her

invisible gaze hurt even more than Richard's.

"Well," replied Richard with a shrug. "Guess we'd better get going! So glad you agreed to go to prom with me, babe!" he smiled.

"Yeah," said Marcia, still looking around outside. If she saw me, she gave no indication. "I feel pretty lucky. I'm not sure why I bought a dress before I had a date, but if you hadn't asked me like a blast from the past, I don't think I could've gone alone. I probably would've just stayed home, crying with a pint of ice cream."

"Hey, now," Richard chuckled, stroking her chin. "I can't stand the thought of your face being all wet and sad." He kissed her, a perhaps too-aggressive gesture for the beginning of their first date. She laughed nervously as she pulled away, a strand of saliva briefly bridging their lips. She gave another furtive glance outside (at me but not), still looking slightly confused, as if trying to recall something really important.

Obviously, she had forgotten I existed after we'd made our plans, and her mind couldn't put the fragments together in a way that made sense. I considered trying to focus and make myself visible, but what would be the point? It'd just explode an evening that I'd wanted to be magical for her. And for who? I'm nobody.

They drove off, and I followed them to the venue in my own car. The whole night I watched them dance from afar. I know it was stupid, and probably not healthy, but I just wanted to be there with her on this special night. The DJ had a web-based request app, and I asked for "Blue Velvet." The two of them swayed together, the closing notes of the song seemingly swallowed by her perfect form.

That same form was still perfect years later as I saw her in the college library, standing behind the services desk. The "Marcia" name tag advertised the fact she worked there, as if standing behind the venerable oak counter didn't establish that. She had an air of unfamiliarity, as if she were still learning the ropes; if this part-time job was new, that would explain why I hadn't seen her here before now.

She was still beautiful — more so, if that were possible. The college years had been good to her, as if broadening her mind had given her always-gleaming blue eyes more depth. She wore a smile (lipstick red, as ever) that gave her the aura of someone laughing at a joke only she knew. She was taking advantage of the warm weather by wearing a blue pleated skirt that came to her mid thighs, and a thin white blouse that tucked around the curves of her still-fit form. She clearly wasn't trying to look sexy, but that made her all the sexier.

My heart both elated and broke seeing her again.

It was a big university, and we hadn't crossed paths since we both came to the same school three years ago. I was glad for that; if I hadn't settled on the college's acceptance letter before the prom-night incident, I would have almost certainly chosen a different school. But the inertia of bureaucracy meant it was easier to stay than to try making any significant changes. (And if any such plan would have required

face-to-face

fixing... well, that's basically impossible.)

Honestly, if I'd seen her at any time

before

the accident, I probably would have been fine. At least, that's what I tell myself. Regardless, I definitely wouldn't have ever done what I ended up doing. Only the most broken of a man could do that. But that's who I was on the cusp of becoming.

My mind hadn't fully registered who she was until I stood directly in front of her. Marcia wasn't looking at me, of course. But something in me clung to the normality of our earlier years, when I'd concentrate so hard at being visible it felt like my head would explode.

I felt compelled to acknowledge the moment. "I... I know you can't see me." I started to talk, an act I was obviously unaccustomed to. "That's fine. It's just... I'm sorry, it hurts. God, how it hurts. You meant so much to me in high school, and I don't know if you know that. I would've given anything if it'd worked out between us. And now my parents are dead, and I miss them so much every day. I think you would have liked them. But, I just... feel so lost and broken without them. And I don't blame you. I want you to be happy, and even though I still think about y—"

"Hey, babe." A baritone voice shattered my unheard monologue with a cadence that echoed across my eardrums like a fork across the hood of a Porsche. It couldn't be —

Richard Todd?!

He walked over to her. "Gotcha busy here?"

Marcia nodded, obviously not acknowledging me. "Yeah, but I think I'm getting the hang of it." She laughed. "I swear, this computer system hasn't been updated in decades. I keep thinking Clippy's going to ask me if I need help with a Library of Congress classifi—"

"Yeah, that's great," Richard interrupted. "Say, do you mind if I get home late tonight? Me and the rest of the frat haven't hung out for a while, so it'd be cool to get some brews."

I choked in disbelief. By his energy and demeanor, it was clear their relationship had continued past prom to the present. And it was also clear that he didn't appreciate her. I felt my rage rising. You get the opportunity to spend time with the most amazing woman in the world, and you'd rather hang out with your idiot friends?!

"Umm... yeah, I guess that's okay," she said, obviously hiding some disappointment. "I, y'know, miss you." She bit her lip and giggled, almost nervously, as if she were expressing some odiously unreasonable request.

"Yeah, miss you, too." He sounded noncommittal about that. "I gotta go find a book for Faulk's class; I'll see you before I head out?"

"Oh, okay," she said. He smiled and leaned across the desk for a kiss. She seemed hesitant but allowed herself to lean forward. Their embrace sickened me, but I couldn't turn away; as they broke apart, a strand of saliva bridged between their lips.

Triggering a flashback to years earlier, it was the strand that did me in.

He wandered off amid the stacks, and I looked at her in disbelief. "You're dating

him?!?

" I shouted. It seemed odd to be shouting in a library, but it's not like anyone could hear me anyway. "And he doesn't even

like

you. Not like you want to be wanted! Did you listen to him?!"

She obviously couldn't hear me and resumed sorting papers in front of her.

I stammered in rage. "You want him, and he doesn't want you. Not like I wanted you. Like I

still

want you. Do you have any idea how much just looking at you is driving me

crazy?

" My heart was beating like a jackhammer. "Any man in the world would be lucky to have you bite your lip in his direction, and he blew it off — like it was nothing! Nothing, like

me!

Will you

look at me?!

"

And that's when I crossed my first line.

I pulled down the waist of my sweatpants and dropped my underwear, revealing the erection that had been building since the moment I saw her again.

I don't want to brag. I'm not, like, porn-star material or anything. But I try to be honest, and — at just under seven inches and with a circumference I had difficulty wrapping my hand around — I knew that I was at least somewhat above average. (Or my hand was small; I don't exactly measure a lot of dicks.) Regardless, I'd hoped to be able to share whatever blessing I'd had bestowed with a special someone someday, before I became fully aware of the challenges presented by my invisible affliction.

However, I'd always envisioned that my first time showing my full raging hard-on to a special woman would be within — say — the confines of an intimate bedroom, revealed amid the coos of loving declarations or earnest-but-smutty talk... not framed by bellowed rage in a college library.

"Look at me!"

I screamed, holding my cock. "Every iota of me wanted —

wants

— to share this with you, share my life with you. Can't you see how much I loved you? How much I wanted you? How much I

still

want you? Christ, I'm dripping so hard, it's taking all I can just to keep from making a mess!"

I wiped the long strand of precum bubbling up from my pisshole slit. I considered wiping it on my threadbare Nirvana T-shirt, but — in an instant — I had another idea. I guess you might say I crossed my second line.

Leaning over the desk, I took my index finger, gooey with my own prerelease, and wiped it against her cheek. It was the first time I'd touched her in years, and her skin was still as pleasantly soft and pliant as I remembered. My fluid glistened on her face, the light reflecting the line drawn by my own Cowper's fluid.

She scrunched her brow a bit and touched below her eye. Her flesh had already absorbed most of the discharge, but she still was able to collect some on her fingertips. My erection still raging in my hand — twitching, even — I watched as she pinched her index finger and thumb together, creating a tantalizing filament of pre-ejaculate. She wiped her fingers quickly, dispelling it. "Hmm," she muttered.

Seeing her casual handling of my privately personal pre-seminal fluid somehow raised my lust even higher. And that's when I crossed my third line.

"It just doesn't matter, does it?!" I was almost sobbing in frustration and rage, my erection wobbling in time to my monologue. It is certain I did

not

look dignified. "I can do literally anything to you, and you

still won't know I exist!

" I climbed on the desk, its hardwood surface echoing my own hard wood that bobbed menacingly in Marcia's direction. I smacked the side of her face with my dick, the meaty

thwack thwack thwack

of my shaft echoing in the august halls of learning along with my increasingly labored breathing.

She instinctively closed her eyes, but otherwise didn't give any indication of being aware of my existence.

I began rubbing my cock furiously as I looked directly at her, my angle presenting me a tantalizing glimpse down the top of her blouse to an understated black-lace bra. "It doesn't —

nngh

— matter..." My breathing picked up pace. "What... I do...

ngh

... and... I can...

hphh

... do

anything

... I want..."

Two large drops of my precum fell with an aqueous splat on the papers in front of her, which elicited an exclamation of, "What the-?" from her. She looked up.

Was there a dripping air conditioner or leaking pipe?

her mind probably asked. She snatched a tissue and started wiping at the mess.

"LOOK AT ME!"

I grabbed her chin with my free hand and pivoted her toward my face. Her eyes opened wide with confusion, as if she were asking herself why she turned that direction.

"THIS IS WHAT I WANTED TO GIVE YOU!"

I shouted.

"FUCKING

TAKE IT ALL!

"