[Adrian never told him to keep his eyes closed, at least not yet. That's something he's doing on his own, testing how it feels. And as he does, he discovers with some surprise that he actually feels less awkward doing it, and wonders why.
It doesn't take him long to figure out. Stripping away his sight takes away his easiest immediate gauge of the reality of the things he's doing, limiting the most informative of his senses. It pushes him back further into his own head, and if he wants to know things about his surroundings, then he has to focus more intently on them to work it out; he can't just look. And it means he has to trust more. He's more dependent, without his eyes. He couldn't possibly hope to keep up with what he's being asked to do without entrusting some part of himself to Adrian along the way.
Case in point: he's walked the path to his bedroom a thousand times before now, but doing it on all fours with his eyes closed is suddenly daunting. He starts to lag a little, not out of reluctance but to put a touch more tension onto the leash, so that he can better feel where it's guiding him as he goes.
And the fact that their travel becomes a puzzle to solve means that he's so preoccupied with doing it right, he forgets all about the notion of feeling stupid or silly. He doesn't have the ability to focus on something like that, not when he's busy with making sure he doesn't walk headfirst into a wall or miss a turn and choke himself on the leash.
He goes slow, but soon enough the warmth in the air changes — that's right, his bedroom is always a little warmer than the rest of the apartment, it's just insulated better — and he crawls along the carpet until he feels the lead go slack and his shoulder lightly bump against the side of the mattress.
Kneel, Adrian said. Kneel means upright, no hands. So he shuffles, and he tries to orient himself in alignment with where he thinks the mattress is, and then he gets up on his knees and sits back onto his heels, head lowered and heart pounding and waiting.]
no subject
It doesn't take him long to figure out. Stripping away his sight takes away his easiest immediate gauge of the reality of the things he's doing, limiting the most informative of his senses. It pushes him back further into his own head, and if he wants to know things about his surroundings, then he has to focus more intently on them to work it out; he can't just look. And it means he has to trust more. He's more dependent, without his eyes. He couldn't possibly hope to keep up with what he's being asked to do without entrusting some part of himself to Adrian along the way.
Case in point: he's walked the path to his bedroom a thousand times before now, but doing it on all fours with his eyes closed is suddenly daunting. He starts to lag a little, not out of reluctance but to put a touch more tension onto the leash, so that he can better feel where it's guiding him as he goes.
And the fact that their travel becomes a puzzle to solve means that he's so preoccupied with doing it right, he forgets all about the notion of feeling stupid or silly. He doesn't have the ability to focus on something like that, not when he's busy with making sure he doesn't walk headfirst into a wall or miss a turn and choke himself on the leash.
He goes slow, but soon enough the warmth in the air changes — that's right, his bedroom is always a little warmer than the rest of the apartment, it's just insulated better — and he crawls along the carpet until he feels the lead go slack and his shoulder lightly bump against the side of the mattress.
Kneel, Adrian said. Kneel means upright, no hands. So he shuffles, and he tries to orient himself in alignment with where he thinks the mattress is, and then he gets up on his knees and sits back onto his heels, head lowered and heart pounding and waiting.]