He put his fork onto the empty dessert plate and handed her a small bundle of cloth.
“Here,” he said, “put this on.”
“What’s this?” she asked, looking down at the red fabric, noticing the subtle pattern worked into it. She shook it out, and it spilled over her hand; a padded strip of silk, about three feet long and three inches wide. Mystified, she looked up at him. He was smiling a secret smile that she had not seen on him before.
“Put it on,” he repeated. At her blank look, he added, “It’s a blindfold.”
“A blindfold? Really?” she asked, not sure whether she was amused or intrigued.
“A blindfold. Really,” he replied, smiling a smile more like the one she knew. “I want tonight to be a little different. I have a surprise for you.”
“And it needs a blindfold?” she asked, now certain she was amused and intrigued. “Okay.” She reached up and carefully spread the fabric across her eyes, tying it firmly behind her. She heard him stand up, then felt him check the positioning and tightness of the blindfold. She added “mildly offended” to her list of moods; did he think she would cheat at whatever game he had in mind?
They had been lovers for some time, and had explored the edges of their respective boundaries, but this was something new. She resolved to go along and see where he was taking her.
He helped her to her feet and led her down the hall toward his bedroom. This was a familiar walk to her by now, but not being able to see changed the experience. She was more aware of echoes and the texture of the carpet beneath her feet. She opened her eyes for a moment, but the blindfold was thick and broad enough that no light filtered through, so she went ahead and closed them again.
The walk seemed longer than usual, and suddenly she remembered stories of people who had gained their victims’ trust over time, only to spring some horror on them. Had he been grooming her all along? She knew the apartment was well-soundproofed; certainly, she had never heard neighbors, and she hoped they had never heard her cries during sex. She wondered what he might be planning, and adrenaline chased a small pulse of fear from the base of her spine to the base of her skull. ‘On the other hand,’ she told herself, ‘I think I know him pretty well. And I don’t want to be rude if he’s just adding a little spice to things. I mean, what are the odds he’d be some kind of murderer?’ She vacillated and had almost convinced herself to take off the blindfold when he stopped her.
His hand left her arm, and suddenly she was surrounded by soft music. She recognized the tune instantly; he had played it for her before, and when Van Morrison’s voice crooned the first verse to Moondance, she almost sang along. Just as her body started to sway to the tune, he was there again, one arm around her waist, the other taking her hand, and they danced slowly in place. She had always liked this song, and she relaxed into the music and his arms.
To his lead, they turned, then danced in place, turned, then danced in place, turned… suddenly she was flying backwards. She had no idea what was happening, but his hand was still holding hers as she landed on her back on the bed with him astride her, and she felt something encircle her wrist. There was a click, and before she could react his hand was on her other arm, pulling it away from her body. Another click, and she realized she was in a crucifixion pose; arms out to her sides. She could feel a little bit of play in the tether, so her arms could move up and down a few degrees, but that was all. The edge of the bed was under her knees, and in her mind she oriented herself. She could see how she must look; blindfolded, hair disheveled by the fall, arms outstretched, blue dress across her legs, feet on the floor… She felt the bed bounce as he shifted off her, then felt him leave it entirely.
She heard fabric rustling and wondered what he was about to do next, but as she lifted her head to speak his fingertip was across her lips. “Shhh…” he said, soothingly. His voice had been one of the first things that attracted her to him, and she relaxed slightly despite herself. “Shhh,” he said again as his finger left her mouth.
She felt his hands on her ankles, then massaging her calves. His fingers worked the muscles, moving slowly upwards. She had never been aware of tension in her calves, of all places, and she wasn’t sure she felt any being massaged away now, but it still felt good. She enjoyed it, remembering the parable of the tigers and the berries; whatever was about to come, this moment was enjoyable. She was still not sure of his ultimate intentions, but she relaxed into the sensation of his fingers working her leg muscles.
He bypassed her knees and began to work on her thighs. He kneaded top, bottom, and sides, still working slowly upwards. He touched her inner thighs very little, although that was swiftly becoming the exact place where she wanted him to touch her most. She felt little tingles of arousal when his fingers moved in that direction, and moments of disappointment when he moved away. His hands slipped under the hem of her dress, still working the flesh of her legs, and her arousal became more pronounced as she remembered other times his hands had slid up under a dress or a skirt; driving on the highway, at a concert, at a new upscale restaurant, on the subway, and any number of times in this very apartment.
She knew where he was going with this, now. She felt his hands gradually approaching the tops of her legs, and his thumbs were more often on the insides of her thighs. She lay back, relaxing, anticipating. She knew how his fingers would feel on her, and she knew she would like it; she always had.
In a sudden motion, he flipped the dress up. Again, she saw herself in her mind’s eye; bare to the waist except for the black lace underwear she had picked out for him. She knew his game now; he would explore ways to circumvent them. Would he tease her through the lace with his fingers and tongue? Would he pull them aside, or down? Would he have a vibrator to get her off while still wearing them? Or would he massage all around her vulva, until they could stand it no longer, then unlock her for raw, fast sex? Whatever his plan, she was ready to go along with it. The blindfold and shackles (padded, she noticed) seemed a bit much, but she supposed he’d wanted to add some novelty to their sex play.
His touch became less firm, more stroking than massaging. He was using his whole hand now at least part of the time, rubbing her legs, her lower stomach, her hips, her inner thighs, everywhere but her vulva; everywhere but where she wanted him to touch her now. His hands moved over her skin in random patterns, swirling, touching anywhere there was bare skin, but nowhere — suddenly both his palms were on her upper thighs and his thumbs were on her vulva. She felt pressure through the lace; he didn’t push between her lips, but rather rubbed them up and down against her clitoris, his thumbs moving in opposite directions. She had become wet as he massaged her, and her lips moved slickly against her clit. She shivered a little and let herself settle completely onto the bed. His movements continued, easing her into pleasure. No orgasm was in sight, but she was enjoying this trip; she already knew he was good with his hands, and what he was doing now just confirmed that previous experience.
His thumbs moved in a rhythm, never pressing between her lips but rather moving her own flesh against her clit. Sometimes she thought she could discern a pattern, but he changed his movements often enough that it never felt routine, never gave her time to get distracted. Sometimes she was aware of the sensation of his palms on her hips and the difference in texture between where his skin touched hers directly and where she only felt him through the lace. Those moments of awareness became briefer and fewer as the sensations from his thumbs gradually grew to eclipse other awareness.
After a while, she began to think an orgasm might be on the horizon, but then his hands moved away, sliding slowly, sensually down her legs. He caressed her thighs, then her calves, moving his hands in sweeping downward curves until he reached her ankles. She felt him remove her shoes and begin to massage her feet, working his fingers into the soles, massaging each toe carefully. She had not known he had this skill, but she was glad to discover it. She’d never had a foot massage before, but this unexpected experience was one she thought she would like to have again. Regularly. The sensation was delicious; soothing and insanely sensual but not sexual at all; a dramatic change from what had been happening just a couple of minutes ago.
She relaxed into the massage, letting herself drift in a warm bath of sensation. His hands seemed to evoke warmth everywhere in her body; hadn’t she heard something about there being parts of the foot that were connected to the rest of the body? She couldn’t remember. In fact, it was hard to remember much of anything but the feeling of his hands on her feet. She was so relaxed, she thought she might fall asleep. The drifting sensation was soothing, like floating on waves of warm water…
She realized he was no longer massaging her feet. She lay still, feeling the afterglow of the massage. Idly, she wondered where he would touch her next, but it didn’t seem terribly important. She wondered why he’d felt the need to incorporate handcuffs into the experience. Then there were swift clicks, and her ankles were bound, as locked in place as her hands.
Suddenly, before she could start to analyze this change, there was a touch on her inner thigh. It wasn’t his hand, nor his tongue, nor … what was it? Something flat, longer than it was wide. She could not identify it. And why was it so cold? Was it a metal ruler? A spoon? What was he going to do now? Was it a speculum? Did he intend some kind of weird medical roleplay?
She realized with a thrill of fear that it was a large kitchen knife, the same kind he had used to prepare dinner. Suddenly, all her previous uncertainty came rushing back, with added force because now she was completely bound. The knife lay on her thigh, over her femoral artery. If he wanted to kill her, she would be dead in under two minutes, she knew. What was he doing? She wanted to struggle, but knew that the restraints would hold her. Moreover, if he did not intend to hurt her (but then why the knife?), struggling might cause an accident. She held very still, every nerve vibrating like a piano string.
She felt the knife move. He was pulling it away, outward along the flesh of her thigh, sliding the flat of it over her skin. He slid it along the outside of her hip, upwards, the point trailing, leaving the faintest of scratching sensations. She felt the point bump over the side of her underwear, then stop. He held it there a moment, then she felt him lift the waistband and slice the elastic. A moment of indignation overcame her, but then he was slicing the other side of the waistband and pulling the fabric away. She was nude from the waist down, wondering frantically what he would do next. Should she speak? Should she ask? Should she plead, or demand, or … she didn’t know. She lay still, so still, so uncertain, still so tense.
All at once, she felt his fingers on her vulva, parting her lips. She was startled; this was such a departure from the implied threat of a moment ago that she was stunned when she felt the familiar touch of his tongue on her clitoris. Her mind whirled. She was completely lost, her emotions whipsawed every moment since she had donned the blindfold. Where was he going with this? Would he do what he had done so many times before, bring her to orgasm with tongue and fingers? Or was this just another step in some devious plot? Where would it end? She remembered watching slasher movies in her teens; surely that wouldn’t happen to her here, today, with this man who she had thought she might be falling in love, who had certainly been a talented and sensitive lover every time they had gone to bed (twice in the shower and once in the park, her pedantic mind reminded her). Surely, nothing like those movies would happen to her today. But that knife…
She felt his tongue curl around her clitoris, making small circles in the way she loved. He rested his tongue on the little nub, still for a moment, then went back to circling. He moved his head as he licked, so there were subtle differences to how his tongue touched her. She could not tell whether to let the sensation flow; did she dare? She tried to think of something else, of how she might get out of the handcuffs, but she knew there would be no way until he unlocked her. His tongue moved deeper inside her, then pulled back out and returned to her clitoris. He circled it again. And again. And again. He pressed a little more firmly, still moving his tongue in circles on her center of pleasure.