Blindfolded

How did she get here? Blindfolded, naked except for six-inch black heels and handcuffed. The anxiety spread through her like a wave of shadow. When it reached the warmth in her hips, memory transmuted it into excitement. She was here because she chose to be. She took a breath. The smell of rubber, leather and dampness was the perfume of sex, her own or someone else? Crowd sounds.

Her best girlfriend couldn't imagine anyone trusting another enough to play a game like this. Occasionally she worried too, then she'd feel his hands, look into his eyes, hear his voice, and she would melt. When she was seen with him, her other girlfriends and even strangers looked at them quizzically. Her smile said she was happy, and that confused them because she was gorgeous and he was soft, kind, but rather plain, maybe a little too loud. The girls wanted to know what it was about him; she'd always answer enigmatically. She liked the mystery. She wanted to keep him as secret as the games they played.

She jumped. She'd got lost in her thoughts. He liked that; he'd leave her alone for a while, then randomly touch her. She would never know what kind of sensation he'd touch with next – gentleness, sharpness, pain, deeply massaging a pressure point, a warm breath blowing at the back of her neck. This time, it seemed as if someone had accidentally bumped into her.

She could hear the voices of the party around her. It intensified the weird feelings she had about being naked in what sounded like a crowded party without knowing where she was or who was there. She hoped he wouldn't spoil it by taking the blindfold off before they got home. She didn't want to know. She felt safe in the darkness, as if her not seeing them meant they couldn't see her, or at least recognise her. Some voices sounded familiar, but she didn't want to know. He was so amazing. When they first arrived, he played her into a heightened sensitivity that let her feel people's presence as they walked past without touching her.

Occasionally she'd hear people start to talk about her as if she was an object to admire, then they'd suddenly stop. She knew he was there, protecting her, controlling the game, because she would recognise the low buzz of his voice, even with the music and the loud conversations all around her. It gave her the feeling of comfort, the feeling that everything happening was under his control.

After what seemed like an eternity, she heard and felt him whisper. The hot breath and the gentle touch of his lips distracted her so much she almost didn't hear what he said. But then the words penetrated, as if they'd reached down and taken control of the muscles inside her and started them pulsing. Her back tensed, projecting her breasts forward. He didn't touch her, yet she could feel him like a trickle running down her back. She knew from previous experiences that his hand was about two or three centimetres from her. It was more powerful than a touch because it felt like it was inside her.

She'd read his writing, she'd read other stuff about healing and energy and spirit, and it had seemed like a fantasy, romantic clap-trap, that she wished was real. Her powerful sceptical intellect, her doubtful inner protector, had thought it a nice idea but… then he'd seem to prove it to her, but… it could have been delusion, some kind of hypnosis, but… it didn't matter. The intensity of the experiences cut off her wandering, dissociated mind with full-bodied experiences that made even her masturbation pale.

Did he realise how hard it was to give herself the way she did? He seemed to. He made her re-affirm it to the point where it was sometimes distracting. It made him human, those moments of insecurity, or was it just humility, or was it part of the game; because the more she heard herself committing, the further she would be willing to go. The more aware she was of her control, her choice, the more trust she felt in herself, the greater the release she could allow.

She was rolling her hips in a way that intensified the pulses she was doing inside. If he'd let her think about the fact that she had an audience, she'd have realised how erotic this sitting belly dance was. The music and voices fell away. Had they stopped to watch her? Or was it that cone of silence he seemed to be able to create by getting her so focused on her body and him together?

"Stand up." She couldn't ignore anything he said at this point. Standing took away the sense of support, of hiding that sitting gave her. The cooling nakedness of her backside and legs, the imbalance of trusting her body to keep her upright without eyesight as a reference, the fact that he'd said to flex her internal muscles so that it felt like she was being lifted by her "cunt" through her spine all leapt her to a much deeper state, a higher state of intensity. Even the fact that he used that word, so crude, so forbidden, so intense, it entered her almost physically. It made her wonder if he was going to fuck her… here in public. She liked the idea – porn star. But he didn't do that much. He'd taken her all these places because the games didn't let her take the familiar route to pleasure. It was part of his control.

He asked a lot of her, more concentration than she'd ever given anything, but he made it easy because she didn't want to miss out on what would happen next. It was basic behaviourism. If she paid attention, the rewards were serious.

It wasn't an orgasm; it was more and yet less. There wasn't really a word or words to describe it, maybe poetry? Orgasm was an active event: muscles tensing on the outside and inside, and inside, a kind of wave of emptiness that sometimes seemed like liquid rainbows. This experience had the internal aspects of orgasm that filled her up, so that nothing outside existed. It was both passive and active. She followed him, yet was always in charge, actively participating and creating more than in the simplicity of orgasm. She knew orgasms. She made them. She'd discovered them for herself. This was something he'd shown her, yet she had control but didn't feel it.

Free will. A serious philosophical problem she couldn't think about right then. And when she did later, it was like trying to stretch her brain past its natural limits. When he talked about it, it made sense, and yet he'd stop, confused, searching... words, concepts, metaphors. He would bow his head in frustration. He'd talk about the way surfers can't control a wave but can do a lot with it.

He told her to move her feet wider, and tilt her hips so that her privates were facing towards the front. She knew this position; he used it a lot. She settled herself for a familiar experience. He would touch her gently at first with his hands and some other soft stuff – feathers maybe, or suede, fur, silk – then the intensity would build 'til it was painful, but not pain like the people thought, rather the pain of too much pleasure. When you build up that internal aspect of orgasm without letting it free, all kinds of things happen. New things, old emotions and sensations took on new meanings.

Suddenly he went in an unexpected direction. He ordered her to kneel. Again, keeping her balance was a challenge. He said: "Not good enough."

He came over to her and whispered: "Be graceful… feel your back, then use your cunt again… stand up!"

This time she stood up gracefully.

"Kneel down!" She was confused about how flexing her internal muscles could help her kneel gracefully, especially with the heels she was wearing. She stumbled. She wanted so much to get it right. She felt a pang of anger because he was forcing her to do something so stupid. He ordered her to do it again. This time, her anger got her up and got her down. He repeated this a few times until she was proud of doing it right, and she felt herself releasing to him again. This simple action, requiring so much concentration, had her inside herself again, feeling the internal muscles sending pulses up through her; it had turned from an irritating nothing into an erotic ballet. He seemed to know when she didn't flex them and would remind her.

As the excitement built, it was becoming so simple it felt like a force outside herself was lifting her. Then something touched her from behind. The sensation exploded through her. It was not where his voice was coming from. Distracted, she fell forward into his arms. He held her in a tight embrace. She felt large breasts and a large body, the texture of a leather corset, hugging her from behind, and the hand covered in the disguise of rubber entering her. She moaned. She released into the embrace almost like a faint. Suddenly, tears and a howling moan came from nowhere. Normally there's a geography to feelings, a place of origin and a pathway, but this came out of her like a lost child finally finding her parents. They held her. She emptied herself into them.

They held her for a long time after she'd stopped making any sounds, after her breathing had calmed, after she had settled, until she asked for them to release her. She asked him if she could take off the blindfold. He said it was up to her. She looked around, embarrassed, makeup smeared, eyes red.

"Can we go home?" She said quietly. He uncuffed her, put her overcoat around her shoulders and headed for the door. As they reached it, a man came up.

"Did you have fun?" He asked cheerfully.

She smiled lamely. He spoke for them. Thanked the man for the party, asking him to pass on their best wishes to his wife. As he went to open the door, she hesitated. She was going into the street naked. They looked at each other in silence for a moment. He opened the door, and they walked out into a suburban area with a lot of forest around and through it. She grabbed the overcoat, wrapped it tightly around her, and hugged close to him.

In the car, he said she could take off her shoes. And reached over the back seat for some satiny silk pyjamas, hung them over the seat and her shoulder. She took them and hugged them, enjoying the texture, the softness. At first she used them like a pillow against the window, needing her own space away from him. About halfway home, she leant over to him; he put his arm around her, and she said, "Wow!" She looked up at him, and they kissed gently.

Talking would be for tomorrow.