Fall weather had arrived and it was finally cold outside. It was Sunday, the football day, pro football day, Pittsburgh Steelers day. They both looked forward to all the games, sometimes with gleeful anticipation, sometimes with simple dread. This was a mixed emotion Sunday, one when she dreaded the game but looked forwarded to what was to come afterwards.
She watched her boyfriend and wondered what might be going through his mind. He did grin mischievously from time to time, and she did catch him looking at her rather intensely while she prepared their bowls of chili for lunch.
The game came on and they reminded each other not to expect too much. They agreed that the Steelers sucked this year. Bad, no, worse than bad, embarrassing. But they were still the Steelers and they both were still fans and they both hoped and believed that things would get better. They had to, to get much better, or people would get hurt.
The first interception came late in the first quarter. Again, they both knew, it's happening again. Her boyfriend groaned and got up to get another beer. She watched him leave the room and let her mind drift to what was to come. What had he planned, she wondered, what could it be? How would it all happen? He had made assurances, but it remained, she realized, that the whole thing was really her idea, her fantasy. She reminded herself how lucky she was to have him, to have someone so understanding, so supportive, so comfortable with himself and her as she is.
Half-time drifted by with a hurried pace of game up-dates and stupid studio jokes. Who writes this shit for those guys, her boyfriend laughed? She smiled and tried to listen, but she couldn't concentrate. Her pussy was tingling in anticipation. Fuck football today, she told herself.
The Steelers were behind by fourteen points mid-way through the third quarter, so she reached across the sofa and rubbed his cock lightly through his jeans. He looked at her and smiled, not moving her hand, not stopping her, but not really responding either. Thinking about later, he asked her. She nodded and took her hand away, embarrassed with herself that she had such a hard time waiting for something she didn't really know how to picture.
The game went on as others: the Steelers fell behind and couldn't run and had to pass and threw interceptions and got beat badly. They both watched the post-game show silently, sullenly, pissed. Her boyfriend shook his head as a few players talked about how the team could turn the season around. She wasn't listening. She was thinking about what he had told her to wear for later.
"Time to get ready, don't you think?" he asked her as he turned off the television and clicked on the stereo.
"Yes." Her answer was almost a whisper as she got up and headed for the bedroom.
The short black leather skirt was on the bed waiting. The soft white sweater lay beside it.
She took a deep breath and stepped into the shower. The hot water caressed her and warmed her. The urge to touch herself crept up from deep in her belly but she fought it and didn't. Her nipples shrank and begged to be touched, but she ignored them too. Damn, she told herself, damn.
The leather skirt went on over her bare ass. No panties, he had said. The sweater lightly scratched her nipples; no bra either. Only the black heels followed. Three items, no jewelry. Three items of dress and some nice perfume. She was ready.
Her boyfriend only smiled and reached for his coat when she came into the den. They walked through the kitchen and into the garage without speaking. He opened the car door for her and closed it after she settled into the leather seat. She watched him walk around the front of the car, watched him smile and hold her eyes. He knows me well, she told herself, he knows I'm excited and he's enjoying it, enjoying every minute of it. He opened his door and eased into the car before he spoke.
"Still want this?" he asked, smiling.
She only nodded yes for an answer.
He pulled a black scarf from his coat pocket and leaned toward her to cover her eyes.
"You'll need to go and return in darkness," he told her. "You'll not know where or with whom you'll be. You will speak when spoken to and touch when told to. But my promises stand. You will not be hurt or abused or humiliated. You will be totally safe, safe from harm or illness, I've checked. Your pleasure will be the focus of everyone you come in contact with for the next while.
"Trust me?" he asked.
"Yes," was all she said as she took a deep breath and settled into the blackness of the blindfold.
The garage door opened, the car started, and her boyfriend backed out. She slid down lower into the seat hoping that no neighbors saw them leaving with her head partially wrapped in a black scarf. She heard him chuckle and knew it was for her but she didn't care. The top of her head was even with the top of the car door, she thought. It took her a moment to realize that in scooting down, her skirt had scooted up. No panties and a short skirt riding high meant exposure but she liked the idea. She liked the thought of him seeing her, seeing her freshly shaped pubic hair, the soft skin of her upper thigh, the pout of the hood over her clit. She wondered if he would touch her, but he didn't. They rode along without speaking, listening to music, a new jazz CD he had bought, something about playing the blues, but it was jazz, a sax, good music.
It was as if he had read her mind when he said, "It's John Coltrane's "Blue Trane" album, re-mastered. I hope you like it."
She did, but she didn't speak. She just rode and listened and tried not to be too obvious about moving inside the skirt and over the smooth surface of the leather car seat.
They rode for some time, not an hour but almost, she thought. Inside the blindfold she had no real sense of direction. After all, she realized, they could be anywhere. He could be driving in circles and taking her back home. She had thought of that, that he might just take her back to their house, so she had scented the place with some candles she would recognize. Smart, she smiled to herself. But when he slowed and turned, the sound of the garage door that opened was definitely not theirs. No, not theirs. Someone else's.
The car stopped and his door opened immediately. She heard him walk around the car, his shoes on the concrete floor, until he had opened her door. He didn't speak, he just took her hand and guided her out of the car. He moved her around the corner of the car and across the floor until they came to a stop. Steps, he said, so she lifted one foot at a time as he steadied her. A door at the top of the stairs opened and they both moved inside. The house didn't smell of her new candles but she did catch the scent of incense. And there was music playing, the same music, she realized immediately, the same music that was in the car: John Coltrane's music. They moved down what she sensed to be a hallway, slowly, carefully. He was sensitive to her being comfortable, keeping her balance. They stopped in a room, her boyfriend's hands still on her shoulders for reassurance and support.
"Nice," a male voice said.
"Yes," said another.
