(image used under a Creative Commons license)
I love blindfolds. In a seeming dichotomy, they let me slip into a place removed from the scene that’s going on, and yet be engaged in it on an even more intimate level by touch, scent & sound.
Usually, I have no fear of “what’s going to happen” when I am blindfolded. In a way I feel safer, cocooned in a blindfold.
One night at our local play party, the ex blindfolded me. He frequently did so when we played, knowing it allows me to wander away from the crowd around us into that special drifty headspace. This time, he blindfolded me at the door, before we got inside the playspace, before I had a chance to greet my friends, to check out who was there, to feel…comfortable.
This was something new.
He told me not to speak to anyone. He led me in, mute and blind, and made his way through the room, stopping to chat with this or that person, being greeted, telling people when they made to greet me that I was invisible. Isn’t that what we believe when we are children? If I can’t see you, you can’t see me. Finally he sat me down at a table, arranged me just so (legs open, hands on my thighs.) Admonishing me again not to speak, he left my side. I don’t know how long he was gone, but it seemed forever. I was alone, blind and mute and exposed. I felt the wetness quivering between my legs. I strained to hear and make out the voices of my friends in the cacophony of sound that is a FLOG party. I felt people near me, felt the brush of cloth against my arm or leg occasionally, caught the scent of candles and leather and latex…perfume.
I did not feel invisible whatsoever. I felt…in a spotlight. On center stage. I felt everyone looking at me. But still, I felt safe, contained and anonymous inside my cocoon.
He came back, touched my hand, adjusted the blindfold, his hands warm and familiar. Then, without a word, he grabbed a handful of my hair and drug me to my feet. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure it was him. The hand felt…wrong. Too large, too hard, too forceful. But it had to be him, right? I’d felt his hand caress me, felt his male body near mine…
And I was not happily drifting anymore but a little uncertain, off balance. Nervous. Why couldn’t I know by his feel or scent if it was him? Baby seals know their mothers out of thousands of other seals just by their smell right from birth–how could I not know my husband of 12 years?
I was led, or more accurately, propelled, up to the front of the room. I knew it was the front because I could hear the sounds of play going on around me more clearly now. The slap of a flogger on flesh, a moan, a whimper. He turned me around and pushed me back against a piece of equipment. It’s funny the places your mind goes when you can’t see. I struggled desperately to figure out which piece of equipment it was that I was on…concluded finally that it was the hangman’s gallows. He tied my hands straight up over my head then, leaving my ankles free. And then, in total silence…he allowed people to come up and touch me. Pinches, slaps, caresses, the flutter of fingers over my throbbing, wet pussy. I moaned and writhed, trying to stay silent.
And then…a slap in the face.
I was snapped out of my safe space and suddenly, everything was menacing, frightening. I went from happy drifty again to terrified. I had no idea who had slapped me. Or if it would happen again. And for the next however-much-time-it-lasted I never knew when it would happen again. Hands, warm, cold, small, large…spanking, slapping thighs gently or hard, but never true impact play…softly caressing. Until the face slap. I would know just before it happened because suddenly my chin would be grabbed and held and before I could draw a breath, the slap would land…a sharp stinging slap or a small one. And different hands, always different hands. Sometimes my chin would be grabbed and I would whimper, jerk in the person’s hand, anticipating the blow–only to have it never land. I would be released.
The entire scene was played out in silence, mine and theirs. I never knew who all had touched and slapped me up there. He brought me down and took the blindfold off, but never told me who he had allowed to use me that way. And they never said.
I often masturbate to a blindfold fantasy as well. In it I am blindfolded and laying on my side. Various men fuck me from behind, never touching me anywhere but there, their cock/my cunt. Anonymously thrusting into me until they come. Sometimes, when A is in just this position, I close my eyes and then I have the fantasy in reality: I see and feel him thrusting into me…an anonymous “him”, a cock in my hole. Just that imagery is enough to send me over the edge.
Raw, anonymous, blind.
This post was inspired by this post I found over at A Trollop with a Laptop. Thanks for the inspiration, Alison!