down. I need to reapply your eye drops.’ I’m lowered to a hard bench; it feels like a narrow, marble plank. I lie down in the full knowledge that I am accepting his conditions of this weekend, without the resistance that has been causing me so much nervous tension and anxiety.
‘Thank you.’ His words are heartfelt.
Once again, he methodically goes through the procedure of ensuring my continued blindness. This time, I accept my fate calmly, but instinctively, I can’t help but try to open my eyes. They are so heavily weighted, my lids won’t separate at all.
I lie still awaiting the full effect of the drops and ointment for the second time. Jeremy slides my robe to either side of my body letting it fall off my shoulders and encourages my arms to rest above my head. I know he likes me in this position, with unfettered access to my body. He slowly and methodically shifts my legs either side of the bench, leaving me open to him. It is as if his softness and intensity are attempting to compensate for his act of ensuring my continued blindness. My pulse quickens in anticipation. He lightly kisses my nipples and gently takes them in his teeth and rolls his tongue around their tip until I imagine they look like the statue’s. Oh, he is good at this. My brain clouds over. Goosebumps take over my body at his touch. His mouth continues painstakingly along my belly, his focus thoughtful, intense. My body ripples in response to his delicate caress … my skin is highly sensitive, alive and tingling due to the harsh scrubbing a short time ago. My desire for him is so acute it is as though it has been years, not hours, since we last connected sexually. I’m aware of his closeness as he lowers himself between my thighs. I am so highly aroused I could be floating on the ceiling. He blows lightly, gently and silently into me. The sensation is exquisite. Nothing touching me but his breath, until his lips join in slowly, considerately, then eventually his tongue joins the rhythm he is creating through my body. It is excruciatingly divine. I feel the rush of blood flowing and pumping through my body, swelling in anticipation as if I have never desired him more.
And then, just like that, he stops. I’m left in torment, unfulfilled, unreleased. I sense his face close to mine so I reach out and pull him toward me, kissing his lips, desperate for him. ‘What are you doing to me? Please, don’t leave me like this. I need you, I want you, please.’ My mind is spinning, my heart pumping.
‘All in good time, sweetheart. I need you more wanton than you have ever been.’
‘Wanton? God, that is so not fair.’ I actually think I’m pouting; how childish.
‘I know it’s not fair, GG, but it will be worth the wait, I promise.’
How the hell does he have the strength to impose this sort of control? And why don’t I?
His arms lift me to a standing position. My legs are quivering like jelly against the unreleased constriction of my swollen sex, and he takes both my hands and slowly, slowly edges us a few steps forward until I regain my balance. I feel warm water dancing around my feet as his forefinger crosses my lips, cautioning me to silence and preventing any more questions escaping from my mouth.
I’m now naked before him, and hopefully only him, not even a blindfold or sunglasses to hide behind, just my closed eyelids, sealed shut. He guides me down a ramp and silky liquid encompasses more of my body with each step we take. His arms lift me up and further deposit me into the liquid, which saturates my skin; I feel like a baby being given a warm and loving bath. Something about it feels serenely relaxing, yet there is an undercurrent of apprehension, foreboding. I push the latter feeling away.
‘Let’s just take some time to relax, unwind and soak up the experience.’
I don’t argue.
His hand slides down to the small of my back, gently pushing me forward until I am fully immersed, floating in the water. It feels amazing. For some reason, I have the sense that he is cleansing my body, preparing it for a greater purpose. Images flood my mind of the baptisms and christenings I have attended and the symbolism that embodies the ritual of purifying water. The silence surrounding us combined with the buoyancy of the liquid in which I’m floating, solidify these images in my brain. The water lapping at the edges is the only sound amplified. It is as if we have been placed in some form of magical aqua cocoon. Once again, I can’t help but wonder where we could possibly be.
It feels wonderful to be floating. I try to soak up the experience as I feel Jeremy floating serenely beside me in this strange pool. I envision him from above, a floating circular version of da Vinci’s Vitruvian man. Beautiful. The temperature of the water seems to be in perfect unison with the temperature of the room, creating a surreal womb-like effect. We alternate between different pools: a very hot one, which is shocking to enter and initially makes me feel light-headed, but feels sublime when my body adjusts to the heat, and a cold one, which invigorates and cleanses, making my heartbeat faster and pump blood rapidly through my veins, letting me know I’m well and truly alive. My circulation is pounding with the fluctuating temperatures and my skin greedily soaks up the minerals. I feel like I’m somehow restoring my vital balance. I’m quietly pleased we aren’t talking as the silence helps replenish my peace of mind and facilitates calm after the wild ride I have been on since meeting Jeremy for an ‘innocent’ drink.
It feels like an eternity ago. My intuition slyly suggests that that version of myself withered away when I accepted my blindness and I should acknowledge I am in the process of being ritualistically reborn. I don’t allow myself to dwell on it further.
On leaving the pools I am wrapped in a towel. What skin I have left is alive and sensitive, and this becomes even more apparent as I am laid face down on my belly. I am adjusted a little as is the towelled bench I am lying on. As strong hands begin to knead my shoulder blades and various parts of my back, I am thrilled to verify I’m on a massage table. Jeremy has certainly planned the last few hours to perfection — aside from the ‘missing in action’ orgasm.
The towel is whisked away from my body, as the strong scent of orange and honey penetrates my nostrils. I raise my head slightly from its position to confirm the sweet citrus odour. My head is eased back as my hair is scooped up from the nape of my neck and bunched up away from my body. A sticky substance is dolloped on the small of my back before the hands return and the massage begins in earnest. The gooey ointment smoothly discovers my extremities as the skilful hands ensure I’m thoroughly embalmed in the intoxicating yet sticky combination.
I allow my mind to wander, not wanting to focus on anything in particular. I know in myself that the more I consider my situation, the more stressed my body will become — not a good thing when strong hands such as these are dissolving tense muscle tissue upon contact. I try to focus on my breathing … it works for a while. My mind seeks to further unravel the need for Jeremy to have me blind and questionless this weekend. His logic makes partial sense, and I can’t deny that I have certainly experienced sensory overload. As for emotions, I don’t know whether I am coming or going … I should be relaxing and letting go, I love a good massage and this is glorious. This feels so good, I am becoming as soft and gooey as the ointment as it sinks into the pores of my skin. What is holding me back? I can’t help but sense there is still something more to all this that Jeremy isn’t telling me. It’s not normal to put relationships at risk like this for a bit of frivolous and, at times, terrifying fantasy, is it? Even if it is with Jeremy … even if I feel more sexually alive and sensual than I have in my entire life … Is our relationship about more than this weekend?
My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by reality as a number of arms lift me up, turn me over and place me back on the towelled bench. More orange and honey arrives on my belly as smaller hands work my stomach, chest and breasts. I jolt when they slide over my nipples and instantly attempt to normalise my breathing. It’s only a massage, I convince myself. The hands establish their rhythm with my breath and the
