Senses Inspired by Deathless

Under the blindfold you hear the brûlée snap under the spoon. The clink of the metal on the glass, and again the subtle pressure of the spoon on your lips. The custard is rich and thick, with the shard of sugar a perfect textural counterpoint. Your tongue slides the flavor around over and over before you swallow.

The wineglass touches your lips and you sip, a viscus Canadian ice wine, sweet and flavorful, deep red, full of after notes.

The evening has gone this way. You saw the repast as you sat in the chair, catalogued what you could while I wound the straps round and round your calves, binding each to a leg of the chair. Then your forearms, again the straps almost tight enough to block circulation, certainly tight enough to hold you immobile. Then the straps around your chest, pulling you to perfect posture against the old oak, feeling the carvings on the hardwood chair back pressed into your spine. Then the blindfold.

Then the food. One slow mouthful at a time of caviar. The buttery brine of the eggs, salty and delicate popping against your tongue. Then a sip of the wine, Blanc de Noir, to match the taste. Three spoonfuls, then four. Then no more.

A light sorbet to cleanse the palate. Just a spoonful.

Then the kale, creamed and just a touch bitter, rich beyond belief, with shards of bacon in it. A light white wine between each sip.

With each sorbet you feel your mind racing, your heart pounding about what might come next. What had you seen?

The roasted marrow on toast, with a deep blood red, extremely dry.

The cool lemon clears your tongue but not your mind. You can feel the pulse, but it seems bound as you are the blood has only one place to go.

The unagi, grilled and perfectly smooth, with a saki.

The lemon. You moan with pleasure at it now. Even that delicate touch feels like it’s everywhere you would wish to be touched.

The duck confit, rich beyond rich, with the effervescence of champagne to brighten it up.

It’s indescribable. The want for what is next.

Every decadence in the world, four spoonfuls of each, just enough to taste, until you are replete, sated and spent, with the fourth spoonful of brûlée in you.

You feel your hands tingle back to life as the straps are unwound, then your feet, which you don’t trust to hold you.

I lift you, still blindfolded, and place you in your bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets caressing you. When the blindfold come off the room is pitch dark.

I whisper in your ear “would you like to move from taste to touch?”

I roll you onto your stomach. You hear and feel me move but in the darkness. Then then my hands, coated in warm oil, start massaging your right foot, working in deep strokes to release any tension.

Then your calf, the strong pressure undoing the strap marks on your leg. Long, slow, deep strokes, finding every knot of tension. Then up further to your thigh, taught and strong from your exercise regimen, being worked over with my fingers pressing deep into the muscles, each stroke going a little higher until my fingers just touch the glorious curve of your backside, within a hairs breath of the heat that’s been growing in you since the first course.

Rather than indulge you I move to your left leg and start over, first the ball of your foot, the arch, the heel, the perfect Victorian turn of your ankle, and up your calf. The work of the straps is again undone, with the muscles underneath restored to fill vigor and then lulled into relaxation. Then your thigh, up and up, stroke by long torturous stroke, while you start to moan at the release of stress in one area and the growth in another.

My fingers just brush your fresh aches, and then are gone. You hear me move and lift your left hand. Fingers and palm and wrist are prized free of their tension, loosened and relaxed before my fingers move to your forearms.

First they trace the strap markings, running along the indentations of your imprisonment before caressing them out, making them never were. Then up your arm to your shoulder, shaking the arm to prove it is limp with relaxation.

Then around your body to the right hand, repeating the process, undoing the binding marks. Aside from the comfortable satiation throughout you there is no longer a mark of your confinement, save your memory of acquiescence.

My hands move to your shoulders and my strong fingers slowly work deep into your muscles. Every knot of tension is found and removed. Your spine is traced from the base of your skull to again just the slightest rise of your backside. You moan and grunt as I work out everything, fingers deep into you, leaving behind the most comfortable of aches.

I roll you over and with light hands trace from the edge of your scalp down your face, your jawline, your chin, your neck. Your shoulder blades.

Your breasts. High and perfect. Nipples taught with anticipation, being every so lightly touched with the flat of my palm, down my fingers to their tips. Tracing the upward curve of your rise, then back down, across the flat expanse of your midriff, then the curves of where your legs meet your hips.

You are panting now, but otherwise silent. You are aching but know not to beg. You will be asked, and fulfilled. But there is a heat in you now that must nearly sear the sheets.

“Touch,” I whisper. “Would you like hearing?”

I lay beside you. My hand rests between your hips, not touching where you want to be touched but just a simple weight. You’re throbbing. Aching. I place my mouth to your ear and begin. My breath tickling your ear, my voice inside your mind.

I tell you, in detail, of the day we were abroad, broke at the end of the trip. Visiting the parks was free. People watching was free. Sex was free. I helped you that morning into your loose skirt, each step swinging to outline your derriere. Into the low cut blouse, perfect for summer heat. And we walked the parks to see people. And be seen by them.

You turned every man’s head. They twisted to follow you, and your stride went from comfortable to confident to brazen until your glorious display made one biker nearly fall off the trail. I touched you here, there, stealing kiss.

You can see the scene, sketched from my voice. Your ache is getting deeper.

I whisper of pulling you to a picnic table, our sandwiches before us as a cover for me sliding my hand up your leg, across the thin cotton of your panties.

You twitch in real life, trying to move up to my fingers to no avail. The heat and need is growing.

My voice reminds you of the never-was day when you stood and wiggled your hips and slid those panties to the ground. Broke in a foreign country on a public park bench. Such risk. Such need. You were hot. Wanted. You could sit on that table and have had any man in the park between those legs.

They all wanted you and you reveled in it.

I tell of my hand sliding under that skirt in the northern sun, in view of anyone who cared to look. How I split you open and started to touch you. The slow long strokes at first to pull as much of wetness to your clit before I started.

Just a touch at first until your breathing picked up steam, your pupils began to dilate. Your hands gripped the slats of the table, your nails digging into them.

As I talk I feel your hands clutching the mattress, desperate to touch yourself. Desperate not to. Your body is on fire. Your breath is picking up. You can feel the climax coming with nothing but my hand on your abdomen, my voice in your ear.

The park was cool but you were sweating, you could feel one drop trickle down your forehead as your vision blurred. I tell you of my fingers in you, the people in the park watching or not, who cares just do it….

The orgasm, I tell you, in that foreign park, where arrest might come, was total. You shuddered, muscles locked, and it took everything you had to not scream. You soaked my hand then, and your skirt. And the bench.

On the bed you moan. Your body shudders against my palm.

I put my ear close to your mouth and hear you whisper “more.”

I bend your leg at the knee, pull your arm down and you feel the straps re-wound, binding your wrist and ankle. In a moment I have the other side finished as well.

Then two more straps around your thighs at your knees. One, two three loops tied off and pulled to the side of the bed. You are as open as you can be, unable to stop anyone from taking.

You feel me settle between your knees, my fingers start trailing along your inner thighs, right to the hollows in your legs where they meet your hips.

Your labia are swollen and my fingers find them, teasing and tempting, sliding along the outside edges and then inside, the lowest edge to your high hard nub. Again and again as the soft orgasm of earlier builds and washes over you. There is no shattering but just waves of pleasure and longing.

My fingers explore all of you, sliding around your edges or into you or paying close attention to one spot or another. There are forces gathering and you bite your lip to keep quiet and just accept.

Another cresting, another tide of twitching and moaning. Then I move and you feel my breath on your pussy. My tongue darts out. Tastes. Inhales. Worships.

And the real process of pleasuring you begins.

The tickle of my breath on you, body heat on body heat, is excruciating afte4 our evening. Every sense catered to, explored, fulfilled. Every dream of being taken as a form of worship,

of being touched and teased and talked to and tantalized comes down to now. The feel of my lips around your clit, my tongue touching it and the long process of making you climax longer and more intensely than you ever have. The world reduced to its most primal. To the giving and receiving of pleasure.

You don’t know how long you’re there. There’s nothing but to dig your nails into your ankles as the climaxes flow over you. Over and over each made to live its full existence inside you. Grabbing your breath. Clenching your muscles. Making your scream when you can’t stop yourself any more.

The tide goes out and you have a second or two of my licking and nibbling and nuzzling your inner thigh before I am back for another.