B is for Blindfolds (and Bondage)

My current bag of tricks is unassuming and tame these days. We didn’t use any, but a girl can dream, right? I can close my eyes and keep them close, if I’m told to do so. I can keep my hands folded above my head, if I’m told to do so. But the presence of fabric, metal, leather, or rope are not just a restraint, but a physical proof of what we do or, in my case, what I want us to do. 

Some I hide in the carry-on, under a pile of packing peanuts, some lay in plain sight, like my beloved hairbrush or my fluffy sleeping mask in the shape of a sheep’s face with tiny ears on top. Or the wide leather bracelets I picked at the floating market in Pattaya, with metal rings all around, so handful to hook with carabiner clips. Or the collar I wear from time to time, a solid leather strip with a ring in the centre, so easy to attach to a leash with another clip. Except it’s not a leash, but an extra leather over the shoulder strip from my handbag. All reminders of old times.

Aldous, of course, needed no substitutes. A leash was a leash. A collar was a collar. And for sure, anything hitting my ass was of a proper provenance. Every tiny thing was from a specialty store, the one that delivers at any time of day or night within an hour, its merchandise wrapped in discreet packaging and delivered in plain black paper bags, like an haute couture boutique in no need of advertising. I will mention Aldous a lot here. What we had was sick and wrong. I long for that sick and wrong back into my life, and I will find the right way to do it.

Except sometimes, he will doll me up in all my old ballet clothes: the famous blue skirt, the golden Venetian mask with the eyeholes taped over, the pointe shoes, and will use extra ribbons to tie my wrists. The full outfit, as he saw me first, along with the entire country, but now on pointe, bent over, the skirt hiked up with nothing under. Aldous loved the theatrics. Can’t blame him, who wouldn’t in his position? When he threatened to have me all to himself, he meant every word.

When I think of Nick, I see a different scene in my mind. To show him how by taking away the vision and limiting his mobility, not only heightens the other senses, that’s a well-known fact. But to tune out the outside world, focus in the here and now, create the new bond. That’s something mild enough for him to try. 

One of my scarves covering his eyes, no picking. Wrists tied behind his back with another scarf, not too tight, just to keep them in place. His erection pushing against the stretchy fabric of his black boxer briefs. He sits on the back of his heels on the Persian rug in the middle of the room, as I circle around him in a flowy robe. Grazing his stubble with the back of my hand, running his length with my fingertips, touching his bare chest with the silk sleeve, opening the robe to envelop him in the heat and the scent of me mixed with the lavender of a recent bath. He stopped darting from side to side, choked on oh so familiar to me sensory overload. Nostrils widened, his breathing, quick and shallow before, slows down. He’s giving up. I step in front of him and stay there still, letting him bury his face against the flesh of my thigh. He sinks his teeth and sucks it all in. 

“Animal!” I yelp. “My wolf,” I whisper.

Blindly bound to me.