But now I did.
We turn to each other with the same crooked, tight-lipped smiles.
“So, that was your favourite show?”
“Mmm,” I reply. “I’d forgotten about that part.”
We sit in silence.
Then I say to him, “What do you think goes through someone’s mind at a time like that?”
He thinks, brow furrowed, then shakes his head.
More silence.
“So what do you want to do now?” I ask.
He shakes his head again. “I don’t know. I’m in a weird mood.”
I’m well aware that interesting things happen when he is in a weird mood.
I give him a sidelong glance. “Do you want to blindfold me?” I can’t remember the last time we’d made love without it.
He looks at me curiously. “Now that would be too weird.”
“But I want you to. I guess I’m in a weird mood, too. How about it?” I poke him.
“No,” he replies sharply.
“How about ‘yes’?” I say, taking up the challenge. I’ll overcome his reluctance, make him want to do it. Before we had always glided into the game together, willingly, but I discover that this new element of conflict excites me.
He seems uneasy. “What’s with you tonight?”
“What’s with me? Who started this blindfold business anyway?”
“You didn’t take much convincing, if I remember correctly.”
This goes on for a while, until finally I ask, “Come on, what are you afraid of?”
That’s when I know I’ve won, even before he stalks off to the bedroom and returns with the blindfold balled up in his fist.
“Should I get undressed?” I ask with a coy smile. I am still expecting him to smile back, still waiting for that flicker of desire in his eyes. It’s always the last thing I see before the blindfold goes on.
But he just stares at me coldly. I’d never seen him quite like this before.
I sit up. “Well, what should I do?”
“Just get down on your fucking knees.”
He doesn’t seem to be pretending. I know I’m not pretending when I jump, when my jaw falls open in surprise. I really am afraid of him. Afraid to meet his eyes. Afraid to breathe.
I stand up and look around the living room for a place to kneel. The coffee table takes up most of the well-worn oval rug, but there is plenty of scarred hardwood floor.
“Can I get a pillow or something?” I attempt another smile.
“Shut up and kneel,” he says.
So, I kneel down and he ties the blindfold over my eyes.
The floor is hard and cold. I hear the tip-tap of his shoes as he leaves the room. I am alone. At first my mind is racing as I wonder what he could be doing. But then, as I wait in the stillness, with the blindfold on, I begin to feel safe. This darkness is familiar, with its memory and promise of pleasure, of yielding myself to him. The very air seems to press against me, heavy and faintly moist, the boundaries of my body softening with each breath.
Suddenly I hear footsteps behind me, a faint metallic clink. My shoulders tense, the air grows thin. Something very cool and smooth settles on the right side of my neck. In the next instant I realize it is his hand. In a glove. A leather glove. It rests there for a moment, the fingers gripping my throat. The leather grows warm, sucking up the heat of my skin. Then it begins to move, stroking my neck, brushing my cheek. I sigh.
“Do you like this?” His voice sounds far away.
I hesitate, afraid to get the answer wrong. “Yes.”
“Then enjoy it while you can. Because after tonight I’ll never touch you again.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean, this is the last time.” His hand slips away.
“I don’t understand. You’re leaving me?”
“Don’t worry, when it’s all over, you won’t care.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Come on now.” His voice is low, mocking as he turns my own words against me. “What are you afraid of?”
I swallow hard.
It is fear, this tightness in my chest, the tingling where my neck curves into my shoulder, the very place a blade would strike.
But he wouldn’t really go that far, would he?
Maybe he just enjoys watching me like this, the way my breasts quiver with each gasp and my lips part in an “o” as if I’m about to come. It would be more like him to tease me with the saber, ease the cool metal up between my thighs so I’m forced to ride it, avoiding the edges with exquisite care. He might even hold it to my neck as he pushes his cock into me and whispers, The last time, the last time, the words alone awakening hot tendrils of pleasure deep inside my cunt. And the ending would be sweet: no slow, grey withering, but a flash of silver behind my eyelids, a crimson flush rolling across my skin, a princess suspended in the prime of her beauty.
“This is part of the game, right?” My voice is pleading, hopeful.
At first he doesn’t reply. I hear the floorboards creak, another clink of metal. Footsteps circle around to my left and stop somewhere in front of me. Then he snorts, a soft hiss of air. “Don’t you see I’m tired of playing your sick games?”
My games?
For a moment I am aware of nothing but a coldness spreading up through my chest, down my arms, settling in my fingers as a dull, distant ache.
But suddenly I do see it, hovering against the blindfold: the image of myself as he really sees me now, as he must have seen me all along. A body – exposed and vulnerable – but not beautiful, not beloved.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I cry out, half choking on the words as I collapse to the floor, chest sagging onto my knees. I don’t want to cry, not in front of him, not now, so I press my palms over my eyes, but the tears come anyway, stinging as they rise, spilling over into the silk.
Hands grasp my shoulders. I twist away instinctively, but they hold me fast, and I begin to feel, through the cloth of my shirt, the warmth of skin, a gentleness in his fingers. Then he pulls me up, murmuring something I can’t hear through my own sobs. I struggle to my feet and bury my face in his shoulder. He strokes my back, swaying.
As I cling to him, I say less in accusation than wonder, “You were torturing me. Do you see that?”
“Isn’t it what you wanted?” he whispers.
“No. I don’t think so. I don’t know,” I say. In truth, I don’t think I’d ever really been aware of what I was asking him to do.
“Believe me, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.” His arms tighten around me, squeezing me with a force just short of actual pain.
It is the blindfold that suddenly seems unbearably tight.
“Take it off now. Please?” I could pull it off myself – it has always been a voluntary bondage – but I want him to do it. I want him to break the spell.
His hands fumble at the knot. Then he pulls the scarf free and lets it fall to the floor.
I look up and see that his eyes are wet, too, like wounds. I lean towards him. He closes his eyes, and so do I, an unthinking act that all lovers do. In that simple darkness we find each other’s lips. I want at this moment nothing more than the exquisitely ordinary comfort of his lips against mine.
It is enough.