I've always wanted Lover to fuck me in public — while I'm blindfolded. Every time I'm out for a hike in a wooded area, I look at a down tree and imagine him bringing me to that place early on a crisp fall morning. He'll just stop walking and turn around with a scarf or tie in his hand waiting for me to give my permission and to trust him to look out for my best interests.
For a control freak, that's the ultimate challenge — to let go. I've never done it with anyone else but him. He alone is allowed to cross into that part of my head to fulfill fantasy after fantasy.
I focus my attention onto the blindfold at his hip. My heart starts beating rapidly as he looks and listens for other walkers coming down the path. His senses are the only thing that will keep us out of jail and keep our love life secret. He removes a black backpack from his shoulders and places it next to the tree. I see the movement, but I'm still staring at the material in his hand, except that now I'm practically drooling.
He approaches me, kisses my lips lightly and whispers in my ear. It's not a compliment or a word of appreciation or even a command. Instead, as he ties the blindfold into place, he reveals a bit of his own vulnerability by telling me how he feels about me. He whispers some words in English and some words in his native tongue.
I hear a twig snap in the distance and move my head toward it suddenly panicked.
"Ssshhh," he whispers. "Just relax."
I can hear him moving around me, but I have no idea what he's doing besides rearranging brown, crinkly leaves beneath our feet. I wait for him to undress me, but instead, he starts to describe our surroundings. I listen carefully thinking maybe he'll give me some kind of instruction. Instead, I hear more leaves rustling like someone approaching from the path.
"Oh good," he says from several feet away. "Stand still."
I try to use my ears, but the next sensory experience is cool metal near the inside of my right ankle under my yoga pants. I get nervous and step away.
"Stand still, please," he says again — still from several feet away. It's definitely a command and not a request. I turn my head in his direction.
I hear the lip of scissors cutting through my pant material. Someone else is there.
I can feel a burn in my chest. I don't want to have someone else. I just want him. I can taste the adrenaline in my mouth as the fight or flight kicks in.
He must have seen the alarm in my face, because he tells the person to stop cutting when he or she gets to my inner thigh. He steps forward and puts his hands on my shoulders.
"Trust me," he says kissing my left ear. He reveals more personal feelings, quickly and quietly. He kisses my cheek and my forehead. "Just let me watch for a while, okay?"
I nod. I'm not happy, but I'm not unhappy. I'm very scared.
He moves back to his original perch, and the cutter continues clipping away until the scissors are dangerously close to my vagina. Then they go up the other leg so that the pants are only held together by a bit of material in the middle. The cutter exhales loudly and moves around to my front. The scissors make contact with the top of my round neck t-shirt and start to work their way from my right armpit, lower than my breasts and back up to my left armpit. A hand, quickly removes the unattached cloth.
"The bra please, Helper," Lover asks. His tone is one of satisfaction.
