I wish I could say that the waiting had settled me, that I had sunk into peace in the darkness. But I can’t. I didn’t. I was being driven crazy by my eyelids brushing against the inside of the blindfold. By the urge to tense and release my muscles; like trying not to swallow in the dentist’s chair, but a whole body experience. By wondering how much flexibility there was in the instruction to “clasp your hands together behind your back”. Did opening and closing them like robotic clamshells still constitute clasping? And where were you anyway? I could only assume you were watching me but I couldn’t hear you. I had only been in this flat, in this room, for a few minutes before you asked me if I would wear a blindfold, and now I was struggling to remember much of it. I had taken in the extensive bookshelves. But I had expected those; you were an academic after all. I felt thick carpet beneath my feet but couldn’t remember its colour. Was it even carpet? Was it a rug? How could I be this unobservant?
Squeeze and roll my shoulders; rock on my heels; arch my feet and toes.
Wait, and wait, and wait. Were you near? Wait and wait.
And then you touched me. Fingers on my cheek, sliding down across my neck, and away, as suddenly as they had appeared. I heard my breath whistle in my nose.
Then tracing down the side of my body. I became rigid. “Remember, keep your hands together. Keep your fingers locked. Your palms touching.”
Your fingers back on my face, now your whole hand. Coursing across my cheek, your fingertips on my lips, your hand on my neck, and suddenly on my breast. And you linger, holding my breast, firmly, until you squeeze it much harder than I would have, or than I expected, and my breath is sharp in my mouth. And you withdraw your touch in silence.
The pattern repeats with variations. A finger pushing between my lips, inspecting my teeth, tongue and gums. A hand massaging a breast. A firm grip on my hair. Tenderness followed by touch with real weight behind it, on my face, on my body. And from nowhere, your hand cups between my legs and you kiss me and I don’t want to pull away but something instinctively tries to, so you wrap your other arm around me and hold me to you, whispering, “keep your hands together”.
And then silence, auditory and physical silence as you remove your touch, your body, from mine. And I wait again. Sometimes I think I can hear your presence, or feel it. I can feel myself, and the absence of your touch, acutely.
“Hello?”, I ask, eventually, to silence. I giggle a little. To silence.
“Keep your hands together”.
Then your fingers are beneath my chin, and tracing my clavicle, and freeing the top button on the front of my dress. And my cycle of tensing and relaxing gets stuck on tense. I almost forget to be acutely conscious of my eyelids.
You withdraw your touch, for what seems like forever, again.
Until you unbutton a second. And withdraw. And then a third. In complete silence, and after each, you pull my dress open as far as it permits, and you wait in silence. And I can feel my face flush.
My dress unbuttons to the waist. I’ve never needed to undo it entirely. You take the virginity of its lowest buttons and pull it wide open, pushing the shoulders back and down so they feel that they’re pining my upper arms back. And you withdraw, and I can feel the air or your eyes or both on my skin, and my reddening face, and this stupid blindfold pinching my ear and pulling on my hair. Was it doing that earlier!?
And after 5 seconds, or 5 minutes, or 5 hours, you pull my dress up, bunching it at my waist. And I’m thinking this is not flattering.
And you pull my tights half way down my thighs, and I’m thinking this is not flattering, and the blood rushing in my head might burst my eardrums at any moment.
And nothing for 5 minutes, or 5 hours, or 5 days. And perhaps I do start to sink into myself, into the moment where nothing else exists other than me, and this carpet/rug, and the silence, and you, in the dark nothingness somewhere beyond my eyelashes. And my knowing that the inevitable is inevitable.
But it doesn’t happen, and it doesn’t happen, and it doesn’t happen, until it does, and then your hands are on my hips and in an instant my knickers join my tights part way down my legs and I feel that I might die.
“Keep your bands together.”
I do. At this point the pressure between them might be keeping me together.
A finger traces the skin of my stomach and my muscles clench involuntarily. Another separates my lips again, and simultaneously you kiss me.
Then nothing, forever.
I’m ashamed yet I want you, and more than that I want you to want me, to not reject me. You’ve seen me with my knickers down and you’ve withdrawn. What’s wrong with me? Why aren’t you touching me? Why…?
Until you do, and your hands are on my chest, roughly, and suddenly my bra is digging into the underside of my boobs and my face is a furnace door. And this is not flattering. I dressed carefully, and this is so far from flattering. Is this happening? Is this my Friday night? I thought of my afternoon in work, and I thought of my flatmate, whose dinner I turned down to begin the walk to a promising third date that led me to this point, and now my knickers are down and my bra is not how I left it and I can’t see you or understand how all of these worlds can exist in parallel.
And the void is punctuated only by your fingers touching my nipples, so briefly, a touch, a flick, a pull, a real pull and release, a stroke, and then nothing.
After 5 hours, or 5 days, or 5 weeks, something touches my inner thigh. Something cold, hard, impersonal, strokes and taps up and down and bounces between my two legs. “Separate your feet further”, you say, and I do (because nothing else exists but this any longer), my legs straining against the fabric above my knees. The hard, impersonal, long, thin object tries to assist, and then it nestles in the crease at the top of my leg.
“Do you know what this is?”
“No.”
I feel friction as you pull it away, and it taps my legs again. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t know.”
It slides across my bum and it taps, and taps, and taps, gently but with increasing weight.
“Somehow, I think you’re going to become very familiar”.
And I feel it gently touch my pussy, and then nothing, and everything in the outside world besides the carpet and the elastic around my legs collapses into the darkness once again.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/v3fpxl/blindfold_mf