First posted December 2009
We book our second seduction – Herbert’s turn – for Saturday afternoon.
I am away with work on the Friday night, and so I have plenty of time to wonder what on earth he will plan – and indeed whether he will manage to plan it at all – while I struggle to entertain a group of people I don’t know, all of whom are apparently a bit shocked that the restaurant of a four-star hotel doesn’t serve food in gutbuster portions.
My residential finishes at lunchtime on Saturday, and I text Herbert:
Home in about 45. Shall we get some lunch?
His reply pings straight back:
Wow. I experience what I think might be termed an erotic frisson. I push back the pernicious thought that it had better be quick, as I’m starving.
Driving home, I mentally rehearse an advance apology for the state of my bikini line (my waxing lady can’t wax, allegedly, when her car is broken down), and wonder if I can sneak into the bathroom to floss my teeth before it all kicks off.
I am really quite nervous by the time I open the front door. The house, it seems, is completely quiet. There is a note in the middle of the hall floor that says, Chocolate Cake (this is the code word we use for our seductions for the purpose of putting then in our diaries). I put down my bags and open it up.
Go up to the bedroom and undress. There is a scarf on the bed – put it on as a blindfold, and lie down. It should be nice & warm in there.
When you’re ready, I will come in. I won’t talk to you. I will tie up your hands with the dressing gown cord, and then I will stimulate you. If you don’t feel comfortable at any point, just say.
Well. I first think, oh fuck, and then I feel slightly delighted. Boy, has he called my bluff. I can immediately see that this all relates directly to a conversation we had a couple of weeks ago, in which I said that sometimes I want to just take whatever pleasure he’s giving me, and not have to worry about returning it. I am also trying hard not to giggle at the specification of a dressing gown cord rather than, say, something less mundane. Silken rope, maybe? No, a dressing gown cord. Let’s not overreach, eh?
Herbert, then, must be sitting in the spare room waiting for me. This, in itself, is somehow quite exciting. I take off my clothes and fold them up on the chest of drawers, and then sit down on the bed. My paisley scarf is draped across the pillow. I tie it around my eyes, and then lie back, wondering how much he can tell from listening through the walls.
He’s obviously listening very carefully; I don’t have to wait long. He comes in and I giggle, just slightly. I think I want to send a signal out to him that I’m pleased rather than terrified. He resists saying hello as I expect him to. Instead, I hear him come towards me. He gently picks up my right hand, kisses it, and then ties the cord around my wrist. He is being, I realise, deliberately reassuring – the cord is a soft, familiar thing, not tied too tight, entirely escapable. He does the same to the other side.
Already, my senses are working in an entirely different way to usual. Without sight and without being able to actively touch, the world feels more spacious somehow; I am conscious of the pauses between Herbert’s touches, not knowing what will happen next. My sense of smell is activated too; I catch a scent of something unfamiliar on him, and wonder if he’s worn aftershave just to fool me (he usually approaches aftershave as if it’s some kind of affront to his status as a natural man). I think, on reflection, that this wasn’t the case. I think I was just encountering everything differently.
Later that afternoon, he told me that he wondered if I would question whether it was him at all, but in fact the effect was the opposite – I realised how many ways I knew him other than sight and sound. It was odd to not be able to move, adjust or touch back; I felt everything much more intensely than usual, and I quite enjoyed the thought that I was handing over my body to Herbert, surrendering all control over what he did or saw. With the blindfold on, I felt more anonymous, too, more able to accept what was given to me. I was able to gasp and moan – in fact, this was more necessary than usual, being our only means of communication.
Interestingly, though, despite it all being intensely pleasurable, I struggled to orgasm until he finally untied me and I could move around a little more. I think H was more bothered by this than I was (he was driven to bringing the electric toothbrush into the equation at one point, until it began to bleep frantically in defence of its depleted batteries, as if saying, Get off! You’re not supposed to do that with me!). For me, being finally untied felt like the wonderful opening of the floodgates, especially seeing as he had refrained from kissing me until that moment. I can honestly say that that first kiss was one of the most delicious kisses we’ve ever shared.