Last Stop Bubbles A Purple Sidestory
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He put his fork onto the empty dessert plate and handed her a small bundle of cloth.
“Here,” he said, “put this on.”
“What’s this?” she asked, looking down at the red fabric, noticing the subtle pattern worked into it. She shook it out, and it spilled over her hand; a padded strip of silk, about three feet long and three inches wide. Mystified, she looked up at him. He was smiling a secret smile that she had not seen on him before.
“Put it on,” he repeated. At her blank look, he added, “It’s a blindfold.”
“A blindfold? Really?” she asked, not sure whether she was amused or intrigued.
“A blindfold. Really,” he replied, smiling a smile more like the one she knew. “I want tonight to be a little different. I have a surprise for you.”
“And it needs a blindfold?” she asked, now certain she was amused and intrigued. “Okay.” She reached up and carefully spread the fabric across her eyes, tying it firmly behind her. She heard him stand up, then felt him check the positioning and tightness of the blindfold. She added “mildly offended” to her list of moods; did he think she would cheat at whatever game he had in mind?
They had been lovers for some time, and had explored the edges of their respective boundaries, but this was something new. She resolved to go along and see where he was taking her.
He helped her to her feet and led her down the hall toward his bedroom. This was a familiar walk to her by now, but not being able to see changed the experience. She was more aware of echoes and the texture of the carpet beneath her feet. She opened her eyes for a moment, but the blindfold was thick and broad enough that no light filtered through, so she went ahead and closed them again.
The walk seemed longer than usual, and suddenly she remembered stories of people who had gained their victims’ trust over time, only to spring some horror on them. Had he been grooming her all along? She knew the apartment was well-soundproofed; certainly, she had never heard neighbors, and she hoped they had never heard her cries during sex. She wondered what he might be planning, and adrenaline chased a small pulse of fear from the base of her spine to the base of her skull. ‘On the other hand,’ she told herself, ‘I think I know him pretty well. And I don’t want to be rude if he’s just adding a little spice to things. I mean, what are the odds he’d be some kind of murderer?’ She vacillated and had almost convinced herself to take off the blindfold when he stopped her.
His hand left her arm, and suddenly she was surrounded by soft music. She recognized the tune instantly; he had played it for her before, and when Van Morrison’s voice crooned the first verse to Moondance, she almost sang along. Just as her body started to sway to the tune, he was there again, one arm around her waist, the other taking her hand, and they danced slowly in place. She had always liked this song, and she relaxed into the music and his arms.
To his lead, they turned, then danced in place, turned, then danced in place, turned… suddenly she was flying backwards. She had no idea what was happening, but his hand was still holding hers as she landed on her back on the bed with him astride her, and she felt something encircle her wrist. There was a click, and before she could react his hand was on her other arm, pulling it away from her body. Another click, and she realized she was in a crucifixion pose; arms out to her sides. She could feel a little bit of play in the tether, so her arms could move up and down a few degrees, but that was all. The edge of the bed was under her knees, and in her mind she oriented herself. She could see how she must look; blindfolded, hair disheveled by the fall, arms outstretched, blue dress across her legs, feet on the floor… She felt the bed bounce as he shifted off her, then felt him leave it entirely.
She heard fabric rustling and wondered what he was about to do next, but as she lifted her head to speak his fingertip was across her lips. “Shhh…” he said, soothingly. His voice had been one of the first things that attracted her to him, and she relaxed slightly despite herself. “Shhh,” he said again as his finger left her mouth.
She felt his hands on her ankles, then massaging her calves. His fingers worked the muscles, moving slowly upwards. She had never been aware of tension in her calves, of all places, and she wasn’t sure she felt any being massaged away now, but it still felt good. She enjoyed it, remembering the parable of the tigers and the berries; whatever was about to come, this moment was enjoyable. She was still not sure of his ultimate intentions, but she relaxed into the sensation of his fingers working her leg muscles.
He bypassed her knees and began to work on her thighs. He kneaded top, bottom, and sides, still working slowly upwards. He touched her inner thighs very little, although that was swiftly becoming the exact place where she wanted him to touch her most. She felt little tingles of arousal when his fingers moved in that direction, and moments of disappointment when he moved away. His hands slipped under the hem of her dress, still working the flesh of her legs, and her arousal became more pronounced as she remembered other times his hands had slid up under a dress or a skirt; driving on the highway, at a concert, at a new upscale restaurant, on the subway, and any number of times in this very apartment.
She knew where he was going with this, now. She felt his hands gradually approaching the tops of her legs, and his thumbs were more often on the insides of her thighs. She lay back, relaxing, anticipating. She knew how his fingers would feel on her, and she knew she would like it; she always had.
In a sudden motion, he flipped the dress up. Again, she saw herself in her mind’s eye; bare to the waist except for the black lace underwear she had picked out for him. She knew his game now; he would explore ways to circumvent them. Would he tease her through the lace with his fingers and tongue? Would he pull them aside, or down? Would he have a vibrator to get her off while still wearing them? Or would he massage all around her vulva, until they could stand it no longer, then unlock her for raw, fast sex? Whatever his plan, she was ready to go along with it. The blindfold and shackles (padded, she noticed) seemed a bit much, but she supposed he’d wanted to add some novelty to their sex play.
His touch became less firm, more stroking than massaging. He was using his whole hand now at least part of the time, rubbing her legs, her lower stomach, her hips, her inner thighs, everywhere but her vulva; everywhere but where she wanted him to touch her now. His hands moved over her skin in random patterns, swirling, touching anywhere there was bare skin, but nowhere — suddenly both his palms were on her upper thighs and his thumbs were on her vulva. She felt pressure through the lace; he didn’t push between her lips, but rather rubbed them up and down against her clitoris, his thumbs moving in opposite directions. She had become wet as he massaged her, and her lips moved slickly against her clit. She shivered a little and let herself settle completely onto the bed. His movements continued, easing her into pleasure. No orgasm was in sight, but she was enjoying this trip; she already knew he was good with his hands, and what he was doing now just confirmed that previous experience.
His thumbs moved in a rhythm, never pressing between her lips but rather moving her own flesh against her clit. Sometimes she thought she could discern a pattern, but he changed his movements often enough that it never felt routine, never gave her time to get distracted. Sometimes she was aware of the sensation of his palms on her hips and the difference in texture between where his skin touched hers directly and where she only felt him through the lace. Those moments of awareness became briefer and fewer as the sensations from his thumbs gradually grew to eclipse other awareness.
After a while, she began to think an orgasm might be on the horizon, but then his hands moved away, sliding slowly, sensually down her legs. He caressed her thighs, then her calves, moving his hands in sweeping downward curves until he reached her ankles. She felt him remove her shoes and begin to massage her feet, working his fingers into the soles, massaging each toe carefully. She had not known he had this skill, but she was glad to discover it. She’d never had a foot massage before, but this unexpected experience was one she thought she would like to have again. Regularly. The sensation was delicious; soothing and insanely sensual but not sexual at all; a dramatic change from what had been happening just a couple of minutes ago.
She relaxed into the massage, letting herself drift in a warm bath of sensation. His hands seemed to evoke warmth everywhere in her body; hadn’t she heard something about there being parts of the foot that were connected to the rest of the body? She couldn’t remember. In fact, it was hard to remember much of anything but the feeling of his hands on her feet. She was so relaxed, she thought she might fall asleep. The drifting sensation was soothing, like floating on waves of warm water…
She realized he was no longer massaging her feet. She lay still, feeling the afterglow of the massage. Idly, she wondered where he would touch her next, but it didn’t seem terribly important. She wondered why he’d felt the need to incorporate handcuffs into the experience. Then there were swift clicks, and her ankles were bound, as locked in place as her hands.
Suddenly, before she could start to analyze this change, there was a touch on her inner thigh. It wasn’t his hand, nor his tongue, nor … what was it? Something flat, longer than it was wide. She could not identify it. And why was it so cold? Was it a metal ruler? A spoon? What was he going to do now? Was it a speculum? Did he intend some kind of weird medical roleplay?
She realized with a thrill of fear that it was a large kitchen knife, the same kind he had used to prepare dinner. Suddenly, all her previous uncertainty came rushing back, with added force because now she was completely bound. The knife lay on her thigh, over her femoral artery. If he wanted to kill her, she would be dead in under two minutes, she knew. What was he doing? She wanted to struggle, but knew that the restraints would hold her. Moreover, if he did not intend to hurt her (but then why the knife?), struggling might cause an accident. She held very still, every nerve vibrating like a piano string.
She felt the knife move. He was pulling it away, outward along the flesh of her thigh, sliding the flat of it over her skin. He slid it along the outside of her hip, upwards, the point trailing, leaving the faintest of scratching sensations. She felt the point bump over the side of her underwear, then stop. He held it there a moment, then she felt him lift the waistband and slice the elastic. A moment of indignation overcame her, but then he was slicing the other side of the waistband and pulling the fabric away. She was nude from the waist down, wondering frantically what he would do next. Should she speak? Should she ask? Should she plead, or demand, or … she didn’t know. She lay still, so still, so uncertain, still so tense.
All at once, she felt his fingers on her vulva, parting her lips. She was startled; this was such a departure from the implied threat of a moment ago that she was stunned when she felt the familiar touch of his tongue on her clitoris. Her mind whirled. She was completely lost, her emotions whipsawed every moment since she had donned the blindfold. Where was he going with this? Would he do what he had done so many times before, bring her to orgasm with tongue and fingers? Or was this just another step in some devious plot? Where would it end? She remembered watching slasher movies in her teens; surely that wouldn’t happen to her here, today, with this man who she had thought she might be falling in love, who had certainly been a talented and sensitive lover every time they had gone to bed (twice in the shower and once in the park, her pedantic mind reminded her). Surely, nothing like those movies would happen to her today. But that knife…
She felt his tongue curl around her clitoris, making small circles in the way she loved. He rested his tongue on the little nub, still for a moment, then went back to circling. He moved his head as he licked, so there were subtle differences to how his tongue touched her. She could not tell whether to let the sensation flow; did she dare? She tried to think of something else, of how she might get out of the handcuffs, but she knew there would be no way until he unlocked her. His tongue moved deeper inside her, then pulled back out and returned to her clitoris. He circled it again. And again. And again. He pressed a little more firmly, still moving his tongue in circles on her center of pleasure.
She felt his fingers move her lips away from her clit, tightening the skin of it. The sensation was a little different, sharper, as his tongue circled, circled. She had a momentary vision of herself, arms outstretched, lips parted, vulnerable, his head between her legs. She’d seen herself that way in the mirror one time, except that time her hands had been on his head, guiding him, stroking his hair. This time, she had no control, no input. Whatever was happening, she was a purely passive participant.
His tongue moved away from her clit, exploring her outer lips. He suddenly kissed the inside of her thigh, the one that had not felt the knife blade a minute ago, then his tongue descended on her clit again. He was licking it, not circling it this time. The movement of his tongue settled into a steady rhythm, up and down, up and down. He knew how she liked to be licked, and he had done just this many times before. She didn’t want to feel the delight that her body demanded she feel from this steady, practiced licking, but it was there nevertheless, insistent. She could resist, she thought, but to what end? She tried to pull her mind away, but couldn’t find another focus. There was nothing that held her attention more than the restraints on her extremities and the tongue on her clit … oh, the tongue on her clit. There it was again, pushing firmly against her, flat now, stroking not just the clit but the surrounding skin, expanding the sensation. His rhythm remained the same; steady, implacable, but the touch was different now that his tongue was flattened out and as he moved his head to approach the same spot from different angles.
She could feel the orgasm starting to build in her body, wanted or not. There was a sensation that was unmistakable, that moment when it became inevitable, and she knew she was building to that point. She shifted her hips slightly, and his tongue was gone.
She explored her awareness. Where was he? She could not feel his touch anywhere. There was no movement of the bed to hint at his location. She listened hard, but could not even hear him breathing. Where was he? What was he doing? Her vulva felt cool now that his mouth was no longer on her. No, wait. There was a stream of cool air on her; he was blowing on her the way you would blow out a small candle. The ribbon of coolness was oddly pleasant. She didn’t like extremes of temperature, but this was somehow different, desirable. She let him flow the air over her vulva for a moment, then shifted her hips and took a breath to speak. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say, but before anything came out his fingers were on her mouth.
“Shh,” he said. “Shh,” again. He spoke very softly: “Don’t speak. If you’re in pain or anything, shake your head now. Otherwise, nod. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Good. I can get you a little water if you want. Nod if you want water.”
She nodded again, and felt a straw at her lips. She took a sip of the ice water and felt it cool a throat she did not know until that moment had become dry. She swallowed, and swallowed again, until her throat was satisfied. She opened her mouth, and the straw disappeared.
She opened her mouth to speak again, and again his fingers were on her mouth. “No,” he said softly. “No words. Do you need a gag, or can you be silent? Nod if you can be silent.” She didn’t like either of the choices, but the gag was more unnerving and took away one of the very few options she still had, so she nodded.
He stroked her thigh gently. It felt like a normal caress, but in this moment of this situation, she had no idea what it meant. The blindfold, the implied threat of the knife, the restraints, could all be terrifying, but at the same time, the sensual totality of the experience spoke of something else.
She resolved to keep thinking, to see if she could devise a way to expand her options. Maybe he was trying to challenge her, to show her how clever she could be to escape a situation like this, and the sexuality was just to distract her and make it more challenging. The idea seemed absurd, but she was in a space where ideas could float, unchallenged, and be tested for their worth in toto. Lying there reminded her of some of what she’d read about Zen and satori moments, and she wondered if that was what he was doing. He had never mentioned Zen in their conversations, but she didn’t know. Suddenly, as if at the end of a long, skilled, full-body massage, her muscles relaxed. Somehow, she knew he was not going to hurt her.
And his fingers were between her legs, parting the lips of her vulva, spreading them to expose the flesh that was still slippery. One finger probed, then two. He curled his fingers so the pads rested on her G-spot, and his thumb touched her clit. A pulse of pleasure radiated outward from that touch, and he started to move his arm. His fingers slid over her G-spot at the same time that his thumb did on her clit. The sensation was exquisite. He moved slowly at first, almost experimentally, then a little faster, until he had a smooth, steady rhythm going. Not quite the same speed as before, but no less pleasant.
Her arousal began to build again, much faster than before. She was fully relaxed, but had still not entirely “come down” from her previous arousal. Like building a house on an old foundation, it was easier for her to reach for the pleasure she knew was coming. Idly, she wondered why he had not touched her breasts at all during this entire experience; they were usually extremely sensitive to touch, and she could sometimes come just from nipple play, but they had not been any part of this evening’s activities. In fact, the only time he had touched her above the waist at all was to shackle her wrists and give her water. And to silence her; that too.
His fingers were doing what his tongue had before; maintaining a steady pace of stroking her while gradually varying angle. Sometimes he would straighten one finger, or both, or make a scissoring motion with them. Sometimes his thumb would leave her clit because his wrist bent at an angle that didn’t allow it, but it never left her, sliding over her wet, slippery outer lips. In fact, in a lucid moment, she realized her juices had run down and were wetting the bed below her. She normally lubricated well and easily, but this was unusual.
Then his angle changed again, his thumb was on her clit again, and there was nothing but the sensation from between her legs. Previously, she had felt her impending orgasm radiating out from there, from between her legs, but what started to build now felt more like something soaking into her, with something like a tingling sensation starting at her fingers and toes and moving inwards. She knew that when it met in the middle of her body, she would have an orgasm of spectacular proportions, and she started to look forward to it.
And the bastard had stopped again! His fingers rested inside her, but that was all. His thumb was not on her clit, and nothing was moving. She realized she was breathing hard from anticipation. Had he noticed that and stopped? Was he going to deny her orgasm indefinitely? What was he trying to do? Maybe if she could keep him from knowing she was about to come, he would keep going until she did. Assuming he started up again, of course; he’d been so unpredictable, she had no idea what he was planning next. In fact, she was starting to feel sort of awkward and odd, lying there with two fingers inside her but nothing else happening. What was he doing now? What was this about?
She shifted a little, and that movement alone made her acutely aware of his fingers inside her and what he had been doing with them just a moment ago. She tried to move her hips, to thrust against his hand and mimic his movements of a minute ago, but his hand simply moved with her, keeping the penetration the same. She twisted, thinking to outwit him, but he moved with her easily, and nothing changed noticeably. He had his fingers inside her for some reason, but he was not going to keep going as he had been; that much was clear. Nor was he going to let her take any action to get herself off. Again, she wondered what he had in mind, what he was trying to do.
She felt him shift on the bed, and his fingers moved a little inside her. He drew them out and then slid three inside where there had been two. The fullness seemed to extend beyond her vagina, as though with those three fingers he had somehow filled her entire body. She enjoyed the sensation for a moment, then he started to thrust the three fingers into and out of her much more quickly than before. It felt almost like a good, hard fuck, only she’d never had a cock as big as his three fingers together. She wasn’t sure if she liked it, but she certainly didn’t dislike it. This was new to them; he had not put three fingers in her like this before.
She started to relax into the rhythm, and then his tongue was on her clit. He was licking her vigorously, almost as vigorously as he was thrusting his fingers into her, and she knew that she would come quickly now. The trick, she thought, would be to come without warning him, or he’d stop again. She forced herself to lie still, and to keep her breathing as even as possible. He flicked his tongue over her clit firmly and quickly, with equal pressure up and down. A lot of guys applied pressure on the upward lick and then just moved their tongues back down slackly, but he was carefully applying pressure in both directions, and she felt the pressure of an orgasm building inside her quickly. She lay still, focusing inward, focusing on the sensations, letting the pressure grow without giving any sign. He continued to lick in a steady rhythm, no change of angle or pressure, although his wrist did change now and then so the feeling inside of her changed with it.
She felt herself moving up the crest of the wave that was the building orgasm, and willed herself to stay still, to breathe smoothly, while the wave grew and grew.
Suddenly, his hand was still, and for a split second she feared she had given some sign she was approaching orgasm, but then his mouth was on her, not just his tongue; he was sucking her clit and the soft flesh around it into his mouth. His tongue did not stop, and the addition of suction to the sensation made the wave crest suddenly, unexpectedly. She screamed and arched her back involuntarily, thrusting her hips up against his face. He did not move away, although he slowed his licking gradually as she gasped repeatedly while a chain of orgasms burst through her, until his tongue rested still upon her clit, and his fingers rested inside her. The only movement in the room, the only sound, was of her sobbing breaths as she descended from the peak of her orgasm.
Suddenly, his fingers and mouth withdrew, and she wondered what was next. Then there was a warm, wet washcloth cleaning her off, gently laving her sensitive flesh. He followed that with the softest towel she had ever felt, also warmed, gently patting her dry. Still, he did not speak, so neither did she.
He laid another towel over her, and then she felt him lifting her head and untying the blindfold. Light washed into her eyes, but not blinding light; there were a couple of candles by the top of the bed that provided soft illumination. How long had they been there, anyway? She had no idea; it might as well have been years. She looked at him and noticed three things in rapid succession. He was nude, he was extremely erect, and he was smiling at her with a tenderness and fondness that almost took her breath away. He moved toward her, and she expected him to unshackle her or, possibly, to put his erection in her mouth. She noticed it was gleaming from base to tip, and wondered what he had put on it and how it would taste.
He stopped by her hand and reached down, but he did not release her wrist. Instead, he folded her hands around his erection. She felt the lubricant on him and gripped his hardness, knowing the kind of pressure he liked, as he started to thrust. He looked at her, then the ceiling, then came. He had been so aroused that it had not taken thirty seconds, and he sprayed harder than she had ever seen him do before. She could not see from her angle, but she suspected he would need to wipe down the wall next to the headboard. He shuddered, groaned, and collapsed to the floor, as though his knees would no longer support him. He sat there, gasping, leaning against the bed, and she felt him unlock her wrist and hand her the key.
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