"Trust me," you say.
And in my mind, I consider the implications of your directive. Though you graciously, and intentionally, make it sound like a request, we both know it is not. I can either do it or...
In the beginning, it's a place of apprehension: on my knees, looking up...one decision made up of thousands.
So much power.
And it starts with me. This offering. I can hand you as much of myself as I'm willing, and you will take it, confidently.
I'm a strong woman in so many ways, and yet, in this, I am weak. Fear shines through my pores as if a glowing ball of light were sitting in my stomach. It vibrates and heats my skin, spreading a shy blush across my most vulnerable places.
But then you touch me. Your hand gentle, reaching around the base of my skull, gripping my hair, pulling me up from the seat I've made of my heels. You guide me between your knees and close them around me, holding me just solidly enough to make it clear that you could...if you chose. Physically, I could do nothing to stop you.
But you won't. You want me to come to you.
And that's why it works. Like an addict, I cannot say no. So easily swayed to that which my essence craves, sometimes even beyond my intellectual understanding. This is not logic. This is primitive.
You lean over me, your breath on my cheek, your whisper in my ear.
"I'll show you how."
Your words drip into my ear, honeyed balm to my anxious soul.
I release my held breath, and you release me to secure the blindfold.
You stand in front of me, so close, my face brushes against your jeans, and I can smell you. Your desire for me is strong enough I can taste it in the close space between my face and your jean-covered thighs.
You lean down, place your hand beneath my chin and lightly pull up. Without thought, my body knows how to respond, and I rise.
Your fingers brush lightly over my nipples, bringing them to attention like a snake charmer. You reach your fingers under the base of my t-shirt and begin pulling it up. I raise my arms above my head, and you pull the shirt over them. I hear it drop softly on the floor and feel the tiny whiff of air across my bare feet as it lands.
I am one step closer.
Your fingers graze the flesh on my stomach, causing me to breath in sharply. I reach out, instinctively, but you take my wrists in one hand, holding them above my head. I don't need to be told to keep them there.
You rest your hands on either side of my waist, bringing your lips to the side of my neck. I feel your tongue slide across my skin, calling goosebumps to the surface. Once again, my body responds to your wordless commands, and I bite my lip to hold back the tiny cry that tries to escape.
The letting go is so hard. So hard, when all day, the world tells me I can't.
Besides, I've been restricted. My hands remain where you have placed them. Because I will do anything for those special words of praise.
You walk behind me, reach your hands around to unbutton my jeans and unzip them, and pull them down. I step out of them.
Not quite naked before you, blindfolded an clothed in nothing but simple lingerie and anticipation, I hear you step away.
I wonder how long you will leave me to stand here. Waiting.
You set my hands at my sides, unclasp my bra, and slide it off of me, letting it rest, I'm assuming, next to the discarded jeans and t-shirt. Then the panties. Gone.
And there I stand, so utterly exposed and on display, feeling the heavy heat of your gaze. I resist the urge to cover myself, but it's hard to know what to do with my hands. But, you put that consideration to rest by taking one of them in your own, leading me, pulling me with you.
You guide me to the bed, positioning me face down, and I feel the mattress compress with the weight of your body, as you move over me. Your knees press against my waist, and you lower yourself. I feel the heat of your skin before you touch me, and then the tell-tale pulse of your shaft as it settles between my thighs, not quite touching anything of import, simply resting as if it had the right to the space and belonged there.
I can hear your hands rubbing together, something slick between them. You place them both at the small of my back, leaning into me, forcing the breath out of me, forcing the resistance out. Your thumbs press into the sides of my spine and begin a slow travel upward.
And I melt into the sheets, my earlier trepidation dissipating.
You can feel it. You know it's happened. That moment when "Trust me" shifts from being a politely veiled demand to a newly followed directive.
Or at least it is on its way.
Each touch from your hands etches the words into my skin. And each breath out of my lungs lets them further in. In synchrony, the agreement is being forged.
So artful, this nearly wordless dance. So subtly, this agreement is made.
(I wanted to try my hand at some second-person narrative.)