He was gazing at her, smiling, when her deep brown eyes met his. They stared at each other for ten long seconds, talking without words. Their eyes reminded each other the box, acknowledged the silent meaning of the disappearance of the box, inviting each other to a tumble deeper into the curious rabbit hole. She returned his smile with a shy half smile herself, her face filled with excitement and anxiousness as to what might be awaiting her.
He ended the silent conversation they were having with their eyes with a long blink and led the way to the bedroom. She followed him, her heart already racing with the excitement of the unknown, remembering the intensity of the last time she saw the box. Her senses were already sharpened. She was well aware of the pleasant feeling of the silky carpet under her naked feet, the soft moonlight coming inside the window in the corridor as they walked through it, the sudden breeze from the half open window brushing her hair over her naked shoulders, making her shiver ever slightly.
He entered the bedroom before her and sat on the white leather chaise-longue on the corner of the large room. She followed him in but stood in the middle of the room to look on the bed, to confirm whether the box was really there. There it was. In the middle of the bed, standing out on the cream duvet. She then continued walking, looking at him, and sat next to him on the chaise-longue, not needing to say anything or ask questions. She was certain he would start his game. She was certain it would be fun and wicked. She knew his complex mind full of conundrums and puzzles very well. He was a science fiction writer by day. She, like his readers around the globe, admired his capability to imagine the unimaginable and to always finish with the most impossible, twisted ending. So she did not speak. She pulled her naked feet up on the sofa kind of hugging her bent knees in front of her with her arms, her long dark blue dress covering her knees and her naked feet, and comfortably waited.
In a while he started speaking. Rather, he was telling a tale.
"Once upon a time in Africa, there was a kingdom with land crossing mountains and plains, rivers and deserts. The land was fertile so were the women; they were voluptuous and lustful. Descending from a matriarchal ancient culture where they had the freedom to be with many men of different strengths for varied and strong offspring, their poise was lascivious, their voice and looks lewd.
"With the centuries, as the females lost their power and men started to lead and control, they decided to control their women's lust as well. They developed this practice of removing their pleasure core, putting a barrier in front of their rivers so they could never reach the sea, their water creating suppressed underworld lakes with no hope of ever getting to the surface."
She listened attentively as he was talking in a theatrical way, his words carefully selected and pronounced fully, his tone a bit unnatural. He had taken part in theatre plays earlier in his career and knew how to speak with actor's intonation. She was looking at his blue eyes and his shapely hands as he spoke, admiring his handsome face and imagining his hands all over her. It had been a long time since the box appeared last, and he had kept her chaste since then, touching her and edging her but always stopping right before her release, saying something playful right before he was done with her. She did touch herself, of course, but would not go over the edge herself. It would be betraying his twisted mind, disrespect to the effort and thought he put into tantalising her in so many surprising ways. She hated denial, she craved denial. More than anything, she craved him, day and night. She yearned for his slightest touch, she fantasized about him even when he was next to her. Her body had turned into a delicate silk waiting to be entwined into the most exquisite patterns under his weaving.
As if he understood what crossed her mind, he reached towards her and pulled her across the sofa next to him, enclosed her with his long arms all around her chest and bent knees, the back of her neck facing his face. He grasped a handful of her hair and casually pulled it, sending shivers down her spine, and continued talking. As he talked his fingertips would traverse her throat, her breasts and her belly button over her dress, light casual touches, oblivious to her reactions on the surface, but he sure felt all the trembles and quiet gasps he was causing.
"There was a king in this land who had four sons and one young daughter. The king loved all his children but adored his lovely daughter. She reminded him of his late wife, the mother of his only daughter, whom he had loved truly. He cherished her, wanted to give her all, protect her from everything. When she grew up and reached adolescence, when it was time to remove her pleasure centre, time to mutilate her in the most painful and traumatising way, the king could not bear even the thought of this. Respectful to the tradition and his culture, but loathing the awful fate of his daughter, he started to search a solution.
"He talked to all his confidants, tasked all healers, sorcerers, and shamans in the capital to come up with a remedy that could change her adorable daughter's fate yet comply with the tradition and god's will. After months and months of diligent work, finally they came up with something. A very special ointment made with rare herbs from the distant corners of the country."
As he was telling the tale, his hands were softly traveling her body, slowly caressing her arms, fingertips lightly brushing the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine, ignoring her desire for more and continuing his words.
"Do you like the story?"
"Yes, I am curious."
"Well, I don't know how it really ended. Yet I do know it is a real story."
"How come?" she asked, puzzled.
"I was having one of my browsing visits in some antique shops in Mayfair. I was looking for ancient African trinkets depicting supernatural powers for a small detail in my book. Then I came across this collection of old hand writings. They were in a foreign language written with a different alphabet, but transcribed in English on the same old papers."
"What were they?"
"They were ancient medicinal formulae from the Kanem Empire in Central Africa, found and studied by a British merchant in 1899 who apparently was also a scholar in pharmacology. He transcribed the ancient writings, adding his notes about the use of the formulas, history of the empire, and his studies about the local culture. He was very interested in the practise of female genital mutilation and was one of the first to publicly write about this gruesome reality in Victorian newspapers. Do you know why I am telling you all this tonight? Here?"
"No, but knowing you, I know you'll get somewhere." She smiled.
"Well, yes my dear, I will."
But instead of explaining more, he completely stopped talking and started placing small kisses on her bare shoulders. Little kisses on her upper arms and back to the nape of her neck... She already started to forget about the tale then. Soft nibbles and bites on the very sensitive place between her neck and shoulders, followed by a startling lick on her earlobe and a whisper in her right ear: "Wait."
He stood up and dimmed the already soft lights of the floor lamp even more, giving the room a candlelit effect. The heavy teal curtains, delicate cream carpet on the floor and the nicely softened light gave the room a very warm and comfortable feeling on this cold winter night. She watched him walk to the bedside drawer on his side and reach his ropey bag. He got his ropes, natural colour jute, out of the bag, and walked back to the centre of the room holding the ropes and the bag. With a small gesture of his head he indicated she leave the chaise-longue and come near him, so she did. He gently pressed her shoulders down, signalling her to kneel on the floor, so she did.
He took her hand in his, and some massage oil. He rubbed a little oil on her hands, then just pressed his thumb on her palm, deeply, slowly, repeatedly. As her entire body was erogenous with anticipation, just this little attention was enough to excite her. Although the smallest of attention he gave her was carefully studied and mastered by him with years of experience on human sensuality.
With a length of rope, he reached her wrists first. Well-versed, she knew to hold her wrists together facing each other as he bound them in front of her.
He proceeded to her chest and thighs and knees. Just rolling the rope, flowing with the rope, pushing her a little bit to the right, pulling slightly towards himself, his hands non-accidentally touching her breasts as moving her about, a light choke on her throat while passing towards her shoulders, making a simple knot on the rope just to place it on her vulva to drive her crazy with each press as the rope was passing by.
Whilst he was tying her in a continuous rhythm, playing her intensely-aware body like a musical instrument, the room disappeared, the time stopped, everything else ceased existing for her. There was now this different reality of the two of them on the carpet, dancing in rope. In a grey shadow, inside a white cloud, her mind transferred to an altered state, acutely responsive to his touches, ignorant of even who she was. As he was playing his instrument, he would sometimes hit a high note to create a shrill. A bite on that very spot where her neck meets her shoulder, a caress on her clit over the knot, a tight pull on her hair. Each one elicited a different tone of groan from her lips, her eyes either closing more in response, or looking into his, darker and deeper, with a silent cry for release.
After a long swing of rope, of fingertips, of light and strong bites, of cries and moans and shivers, he stopped. He stood up from where he was kneeling with her on the carpet and slowly untied all of her bonds, pressing the rope on her skin as he untied each turn, letting her enjoy the sensations created by the friction as rope was pulled from her, like a snake sliding over her body. He held her hands and stood her up, pressed her body on his chest, reached down, and kissed her lips. Her yearning lips. She felt his lips on hers, closed her eyes, inhaled his scent in very deeply, and let go.
Just feeling and breathing.
Just then his hand grabbed her long thin neck. Gently yet firmly, with ever increasing pressure, he squeezed her neck. Slowly cutting the air going into her depths. Her arousal reached an indescribable pinnacle as her brain shut down all thoughts with this adrenaline rush. She completely surrendered to him, giving him the gift of that vital decision, whether she should breathe or not. She could still inhale a tiny bit of air from the tiny little space he left on her trachea. She was inhaling normally but only a very tiny bit of oxygen could reach her brain, making her dizzy. She saw a vision of herself swimming in a deep, warm, pink river, happy. All sounds in her brain completely stopped. A moment of pure pleasure, quietness. She did not want this to end. She did not want to breathe again, not to give this feeling up. She would blissfully die like this.
"Breathe," he said, letting go of her throat. She inhaled a small quick breath, coming back to the face of the earth. Her instinct to live was relieved with the arriving oxygen, but her broken sub mind grieved for the lost sensations. "Deeper" he reminded her. She took slow deep breaths and gradually floated to the surface. He held her tight and close for a minute until she completely came back, then reached for the key on her necklace.
