On freedom, falling and flying (or: How to face a demon head on)

Jacqueline

She opens the door. Their eyes meet. Hold each other for a few seconds. Without a word, he walks past her into the living room. She slowly closes the door behind him. He walks to the fireplace, bends down his lanky body, holding his hand palms out to the fire to thaw them. She moves closer. To him. To the fire. Still no words. Only the sensual sounds of the music in the background filling the room. That and, upon his entry, an electrical current that is almost tangible in its raw aliveness; a strange, unfamiliar presence, the warm air thick with suspense, with anticipation. Two figures etched against the flickering patterns of light and shadow on the walls, against the deep glow of the fireplace: he kneeling, a silent, aloof, crouched figure; she, waiting, watching, tense, unmoving.

Suddenly he gets up. Walks straight to her. Takes her brusquely by the shoulders, melding her against him, and starts kissing her, opening her lips, driving his tongue inside her mouth, bruising her lips with his unexpected passion, taking her by complete surprise. As suddenly as he had started, he disengages. Walks to the drinks cabinet, pours them both a drink - not asking her. He hands her a glass, walks to one of the deep easy chairs next to the fire, sits down, his own glass balanced on his knee, legs wide open, easily.

   "Undress," he speaks at last. "Slowly, very slowly. While I watch."

She stands riveted, her eyes imploring, questioning, looking for an escape, a reprieve, hoping he might not be serious.

He just nods, gets up, cranks up the volume of the beautiful bluesy jazz until it fills the entire space, and resumes his place in the chair, peering intently at her over his glass.

   "Undress. Now," he says again and leans back in the chair, taking a slow sip from his drink.

A non-negotiable brusqueness, a sudden coarseness in his voice belies the studied carelessness of his posture. And finally jolts her out of her part reverie, part paralysis.

She closes her eyes and starts moving her body with the music, slowly, as if in a dreamlike trance. Dances, feeling every bit as if she was slowly drifting down a moving stream … Expressing with her head, arms, hands the complex sensual message of the music, of this bizarre situation, of her fear, of her being held voluntarily captive by him, of her allowing the situation to be thus, of floating into the shadows, towards …

She starts undressing, all the while dancing with eyes closed, first removing her thick black jersey, letting it fall on the floor, then her bra, allowing her firm round breasts to catch the warm light of the fire, then her boots, her pants, finally her panties … When she is naked, she stops dancing, opens her eyes, meets his dark gaze. He has finished his drink.

   "Get on that chair. Please." Instructing her, not asking her.

She fights a momentary desperate urge to flee, run, escape. Then obeys.

When she is standing, shivering, on the chair, she realises that she has never felt as exposed, as naked, as alone, as utterly vulnerable, in her entire life. Also, never as sexual, as utterly and totally defined as a sexual object waiting to be possessed, waiting to be taken …

His eyes do not leave her for a moment as he peers intently at her body, shadowy curves in the half-light, at her full breasts swelling in the half light as she inhales and exhales, at her waist, at the gentle curves of her hips, her long legs standing slightly apart, her body straight, tense, waiting. For him.

Only the music and the spattering sounds of the fire filling the space, the moment. Both waiting …

At last he starts walking towards her. Stops when he is standing in front of her. His face expressionless, his eyes dark pools, holding hers like a little buck caught in the spotlight of a hunter. Then starts walking around her, taking in her body from every angle.

Eventually he stops in front of the chair. His hands hanging down his side. Motionless.

   "What would you like me to do with you? First?" he finally asks her.

She shudders, a wave of panic sweeping over her. He sees her twitches, leans forward and starts gently stroking her bare feet standing on the chair, touching each of her toes in turn …

The unexpectedness of his tenderness once again catches her by surprise, makes her head spin with a sudden flow of blood rushing to her temples. She closes her eyes, has a vivid experience of falling, of hurtling down a ravine.

She realises that he has stopped stroking her feet.

   "Keep your eyes closed," he instructs. She hears a rustling of material.

   "Please bend forward. Carefully, don't fall," he orders. She obeys. She is not altogether surprised when she feels him wrap a silky scarf over her eyes, fastening it tightly behind her head. When he has finished, she stands upright again.

She realises that her nakedness, her self-exposure, her total lack of control is now complete. And with this awareness, another awareness. That the fear has left her. That she has surrendered herself to him, to the moment, to her own darkest needs. To be, to do, to take, to feel, to be done to - whatever might happen. Eve in the garden, walking into the darkness and not trying to stop herself.

   "Touch yourself." His voice sounds as if it came from far away.

She pauses. Then starts touching herself, stroking her arms, moving to her breasts, cupping them in her hands, caressing her nipples, feeling them hard and attentive under her hands, moving to her stomach, feeling the soft skin, knowing how it curves. Her hands move lower, to her thighs, she keeps stroking the top of her thighs with her fingertips. Then stops. She knows what he is waiting for. But she will not.

The silence is consuming. The music has died. She hears him put a new CD on, hears his quiet footsteps moving back to her.

Then she feels his hands between her legs, gently but firmly prising her legs apart. She closes her eyes - even though there is no need for it behind the blindfold. She knows there is no turning back …

He takes one hand, gently pulling her forward, urging her to come down from her perch above him. She grips his hand hard, bending her body so that she can balance while she feels for the floor with one foot. Almost panicking for a moment, wanting to throw herself forward into his arms, to have her arms around his neck. Knowing he would not permit that, that he would not like it … yet. Her foot touches the floor and she breathes out, unaware that she'd been holding her breath. He takes his hand away. Then she is standing, alone in her darkness. The music moves. She is still. Long moments pass; minutes. She could cry out for him; does not. Pride? A shiver passes up her spine, quivers her shoulders, sweeps through the fine hair at her nape, sets her scalp briefly afire. Her ears search for him - she doesn't know where he is now. Time slows down. She hears the clink of a glass to her right, where she keeps her drinks.

Then her wrists are roughly seized, placed together. She feels … rope, coarse, hairy rope. A vision of crudely-dressed, tattooed seamen sitting on a rusting deck, working lengths of rope with hardened hands (such strong, wanting hands) flashes through her mind. She is naked, blind, bound.

Recoiling, she steps back as a fiercely cold drop of liquid rolls down from below her chin. The rope pulls her back to where she stood before. It snatches cruelly, there is no urging in it. Her mind flares rebelliously against the treatment for a moment, only to be absorbed by her attention to the drops of fluid following one upon the other now between her breasts on their way to her belly. The first drops fall into the cavity of her belly-button, lodge there until a small pool develops, over-runs the rim, down … A finger dams the flow at the top of the line of her pubic hair. She feels the finger at her lips, smells the brandy first, opens her mouth, leaning forward to take his finger greedily in, sucking the alcohol, sucking his finger.

   "I have asked you what you would like me to do to you. Before I do what I want to … Tell me now." His voice is near her ear.

She swallows. Knows she has to find her voice. Her mind … If she could only see his eyes, his face …

   "You liked my finger, I noticed. Would you like to feel it in your pussy too?"

It being the least dangerous option she can think of at that precise moment, all she can do is nod.

She hears him move to the centre of the lounge. She can hear him pushing the coffee table towards the wall. Then he takes her by the shoulders, forcefully lowers her down on the rug, stretching her bound arms over her head. She instinctively closes her legs, but recognises the utter absurdity of this reflex at the same moment that he pushes her legs wide apart. He then places his hands under her knees and pulls them up so that the soles of her feet rest on the rug. She is totally exposed, feels the stickiness as the cool air brushes her lower lips. She feels as though she is going out of her mind - both in apprehension (if I could only see his eyes …, her mind repeats feverishly) and in anticipation.

Then, electrically, she feels his tongue find her clitoris, teasing out the small button of pleasure. Her muscles vibrate, her centre softens in pleasure. Without warning, he slides two fingers deep inside her.

She cannot stop the groan of shock, of delight escaping her lips. She arches her back, involuntarily pushing up her hips, craving more of the sensations his probing fingers inside her and the warm wetness of his tongue swirling around that smallest, hottest button of delight cause to flood her. The fact that she cannot see is, if anything, accentuating the intensity of the sensations she is experiencing - hearing his breathing, feeling the texture of his tongue, the pressure of his knees - the coarse texture of his pants scratching the soft inside of her thighs, spreading her legs wider, the rhythmic penetration of his fingers. She relinquishes all control, starts moving her body up and down in percussive answer to his fingers inside her, wanting more, harder, faster.

   "You tell me exactly what you want, baby. I want you to have all the pleasure you can bear now. Because after this, I will have mine." His mouth is close to her face now.

Thoughts crash in her mind. She wants to tell him that she wants him naked on top of her. That she wants him inside her, the fullness of his hard, pulsating penis driving into her, not his fingers. But she is already so near the top of the cliff. There is no way she wants the rhythm to stop for a breathing second. The mind-numbing pleasure of the rhythm - the in, out of his fingers, sliding into her hot wet pussy. Her muscles start to contract faster and faster. It feels so mind-numbingly good!!

She feels the wave coming, rushing up to consume her whole. Sensing it too, he increases the intensity and pressure of his fingers (she has no idea how many … were there three now?) She grabs his hand with her bound pair, tries to force his fingers in deeper, yet at the very moment the wave strikes her. She holds on to his hand as to a lifeline while wave after wave comes crushing over her, spilling into every pore and cell of her being. She does not want to let it slip out of her, to leave her. She feels his head on her stomach as he waits with her for the tremors to subside, for her to resume normal breathing again. It is a moment of exquisite togetherness, of understanding. And with the warm glow of satisfaction filling her body, the certain knowledge that there is more to come, limits to find, a Pandora's box of fantasies yet to open, to be taken out - one by one.

   "And now, angel, my turn," his voice breathing close to her ears. "Will you do exactly what I want?"

She nods her head slowly. She has to see him, see his eyes, read his mind … She realises that what has just happened, his gift to her, has lulled her into a false sense of safety.

   "I want you to say that, tell me!…" An order.

   "You may do with me as you please. Use me for your pleasure. Whatever you wish," she hears herself speak for the first time. At the same moment that he pulls her upright, she has three distinct feelings flooding her mind and body: a feeling of standing on top of a waterfall and readying herself for the dive over; a throbbing sensation in the pit of her stomach; and a new rush of wetness flooding her …

Then she feels the blindfold being removed from her eyes. And the bounds from her wrists. He was setting her free!

For what feels like an eternity she meets his eyes, held captive in a way that his ropes were not able to do, allowing him to see into her soul, allowing him to peel off the layers, more naked than in her living memory. Then she sees his eyes soften, the merest shadow of a smile appear at the corners of his lips.

And she nods. Almost imperceptibly, more with her eyes than with her head. And in that moment, she acknowledges her wish that he should possess her. More fully than any man has ever done.

He picks up his shirt, wraps it around her, protectively, trying to keep her from shivering. "I believe we must now finish what we've started," he says, almost sadly.

Together they walk to her bedroom. Her hand in his.

   "Please lie on the bed," he instructs her. At the same time, he pulls some of her silk scarves from a hook on the wall. Then he suddenly tightens his grip on her shoulders and forces her down on to the bed. On to her stomach. Takes hold of her arms, spreading them to the sides, tying them expertly to the steel bars of her bed's headrest.

The unexpectedness of his move, the certainty of his actions, shock her. She fights the urge to stop him, to beg him to free her, to stop this dark game. "Please. I have had enough," she begs him without expressing the plea in words.

Without talking to her or making any further eye contact, he takes hold of her legs, spreading them widely. Then gently, expertly ties each to the foot of the bed, adjusting the pressure of her scarves to achieve the optimal stretch.

When he has finished, he looks at her. Lying spread-eagled on the bed. Confirming the acts of submission and control in the most extreme physical statement possible.

Straining her head to look at him, feeling the pressure of the scarves pulling at her wrists, at her ankles, she is suddenly overwhelmed by an old buried memory. By a searing need to face her demons head on. To face her fears, to give them a new name, a new face. To voluntarily surrender herself, to embrace the ultimate control by giving it away voluntarily. Completely. To this man, to his penis. Her choice ... hers alone.

   "Tell me now what you want done to you." He is still standing as if glued to the spot. His penis erect. His eyes questioning her, challenging her. Her eyes remain fixed on the straining penis. Sucking her forward.

   "I want you to take me. From behind, yes. Conquer me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me!" she cries now.

He joins her on the bed. Positions his body over hers, balancing his weight on his hands and knees.

   "Have you ever …?" he asks.

   "No," she admits.

   "Tell me, little one. What are you most afraid of?"

His question momentarily takes her breath away.

   "That you will say you love me." She blurts out the first thing that comes into her mind. Realises, the moment she says it, the utter bizarreness of it.

Her answer shocks him as much as it has surprised her. For a moment he is speechless. Then he understands.

   "So you want me to fuck you. Hard. Drive it into you. Punish you. No gentleness. No ambiguity. No false mixed messages. Just fuck you with everything I have ... You need it to be like that?"

She does not answer him. Her eyes do.

Without a further word, he raises her body, moving some cushions underneath her to raise her buttocks. Then, with a small sigh, he raises his body, positions his rock hard penis over her, and then plunges it into her. As he enters her, a small cry escapes her lips despite her best efforts not to reveal her pain and anguish. Her eyes close against a blinding white light as he penetrates her violently. Stabbing her with his penis. Again and again and again. As if he realises that, in taking her like this, he is freeing something inside her. That in showing her no mercy, no gentleness, he is rescuing her. That in hurting her physically, he is healing her soul ...

His breath labours with the effort he is putting into his fucking of her. As he nears the edge, feels the rush of his climax thundering closer and closer in his ears, he starts groaning harder and harder as he penetrates her more and more intensely.

And then, at last, it is over. She feels him shuddering, his body jerking uncontrollably; feels his warm seed spurting into her. When he is done and drained, he collapses on her - exhausted to his core, no physical or emotional strength left.

With the last ounces of energy left in him he reaches over her head, unties her wrists. Then gathers her into his arms, cradling her, stroking her face and hair, murmuring soft words she cannot understand.

Her breaking up is quite inevitable. She cries silently, holding him as if he were her lifeline in the stormy sea of emotions spilling over her.

When she is done, she has one need left. To taste him.

   "Please. Untie my ankles," she whispers.

   "I am sorry. I completely forgot. Forgive me." He removes his dead weight from her, unties her legs. Collapses again on the cushions next to her.

Smiling gently at him, her face still wet from her tears, she starts kissing him - his chest, his stomach, his hairs. She breathes in his strong masculine odour. She runs her tongue through his damp hair to the base of the now limp penis. She opens her mouth and takes his penis in. She tastes herself on his penis. Tastes him. The intermingling of their juices. Their tears. Their hopes. Their fears. The sap of their lives. She keeps on sucking his penis - gently, lovingly, wanting to give him pleasure. She wants to please him. More than anything else.

She is stunned when she feels his penis come alive again in her mouth. She feels his hand on the back of her head. Pushing her down. She knows what is coming. She takes a deep breath. She allows him to push her head down. She opens her mouth wider and feels his penis being shoved deeper. Then she feels her mouth fill with sperm. She swallows it, quenching her thirst.

She feels absolutely full and fulfilled as she hears the sound of his pleasure and ecstasy.

She climbs back into his arms and, locked in the most intimate of human togetherness, they fall asleep. Seeing, naked, unbound.

Wings folded up in a neat little heap.



LitNet: 09 March 2005

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