HIS PERFECT DARKNESS - CHAPTER 1
Inara
The best thing about blindfolds is that every other sense is heightened. The silk swathes my face from eyebrow to cheek. No matter how I twist and turn, I see nothing but darkness.
There’s a flare of panic, but then I sink into stillness. I rest my head against the leather padded cross and give myself over to the inevitable. My world narrows to the clink of the handcuffs above my head. The whisper of my satin nightie brushing against leather. The hum of the heating unit on the wall. And in the distance, the sound so quiet it may only be imagined, soft footfalls in the hall beyond the closed door.
My arms are bound to the arms of the St. Andrew’s Cross. I shift my weight from foot to foot, fidgeting as much as I can before the scene begins. My long hair is pinned well out of the way in a tight ballerina bun, leaving my neck and back bare. I’m wearing a black babydoll with spaghetti straps and a lacy hem that barely covers my ass. It’s as close to naked as I can stand.
The club assistant helped me with set up, secured me to the cross, blindfolded me, and left. I’ve only been alone for a few minutes, but it feels like hours. I’ve been itching for this scene for a long time. The need runs under my skin, pulsing, swelling, making it impossible to think or breathe. My recent move across the country just made it worse.
So a little impatience now is warranted.
At least I’m only a few minutes out from getting the pain I need. The pain I crave. I only hope it’s enough to relieve the pain that lives inside me.
My skin prickles as the door behind me opens with an exhale that sends air wafting over my back. My scene partner has entered the room. There’s no way for me to know this, blindfolded as I am, but I sense they’re taller than average. Their presence is powerful, weighty. Every molecule of air shifts to their side of the room.
“Hello.” A male voice, smooth and deep. The fine hairs on my nape rise, and prickles spread down my arms. “Are you Swallow?” He uses my submissive pseudonym.
“Yes.” I don’t call him sir. He’s not my Dom. He’s a stranger to me. I’d filled out a request for a scene, specifying the details, and the club has found a matching scene partner for me, someone who will top me.
Our interaction will be nice and anonymous, just the way I like it.
There’s a pause, and I feel each individual goosebump on my back as my scene partner paces closer. He is tall. His breath comes from somewhere over my head.
There’s a slight click, like ice in a glass. But that’s impossible. There’s no eating or drinking allowed in the private room, not unless you’re indulging in food fetish play.
“You’ve requested a scene as follows: you enter the room after I’m already tied to the cross. You start with the flogger. Lightly at first to warm me up. After twenty minutes, you may continue or switch to a paddle. You continue until you hear my safe word.”
He’s reading out my request word for word. His voice is soft and lulling. Soothing. Beautiful. The butterflies in my stomach grow drowsy.
“‘You do not touch me.’” He stops, as if he’s trying to understand what he’s just read. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” Unusual but correct. As sexy as this stranger sounds, as much as I crave connection of strong fingers on mine, both rough and gentle, I set my course long ago. No touching during kink. No matter how much I want it.
No matter how much I crave it.
“It’s also listed on your hard limits,” he says. “Skin to skin contact.”
I shift from foot to foot, impatient to get on with things. “That’s right.”
Another pause. Is he thinking how weird I am? Second guessing signing up to top me? There’s no way to know, but I’m relieved when he moves on.
“What’s your safe word?” He knows it already; it’s on the request form.
“Elyria.”
“Elyria,” he repeats, drawing out each syllable. And then, “This is what you want?”
“Yes.”
He comes closer. I turn my head slightly, as if I could see him, but the blindfold lets nothing in, no light, no shadow.
“Why handcuffs?”
“I prefer them.” They’re padded, obviously designed for kink, but they’re as familiar to me as the real police department issued ones. The way they’re designed, I know I can raise my hand and stride the metal hinge against the cross in such a way the cuffs will instantly pop open.
That makes me feel safe. Although I do wonder what would it be like to be tied up with rope? To feel the hemp around my wrists, holding me more snugly than the cuffs ever could. It would be nice, if I had a partner I could trust.
“Have you ever tried rope?”
My breath catches. It’s as if he pulled the words out of my head.
“No.”
“Maybe next time.” That velvet smooth voice washes over me, like a physical touch.
But did he really just say ‘next time’?
“I wonder…” He’s doing something behind me, and as curious as I am to watch it, it heightens the power exchange. I can’t watch him. I’m at his mercy, bound to a cross. “If this is what you really want.”
The fuck? I bite down the rude response. “What do you mean?”
“It’s obvious you want to give up control. But with this scene description, you’ve laid out every detail. You’re still in control.”
I’m too angry to form a response quickly.
“Have you ever wondered what it’d be like to let go? Let someone else take over.”
“Let me guess.” My voice is razor sharp with sarcasm. “Out of all the Tops I’ve been with, you’re the one I should trust. The one who will make all my dreams come true. Excuse my skepticism, but I don't need some wannabe dom telling me what I want.”
“Fair enough.” He sounds like he’s smiling. A wannabe dom would be spitting defenses, but he’s not insulted. He’s amused.
And he’s right behind me. His body is so much larger than mine, and it hits me how truly powerless I am in this scene. “I’m just postulating that what you really want is to let go. Not tonight, but sometime. Take a leap into the unknown. It might be more satisfying.”
Something stirs the hair pinned to the back of my head, and I tense.
“No touch,” I remind him.
“No touch,” he murmurs in that beautiful voice. My head dips back as he tugs on my blindfold. Gentle but firm, making sure the cloth stays put. “I’m just checking.” He has to be mere inches away. I get a hit of his subtle cologne. Not cloying, not overwhelming. Something expensive–and familiar. “Can you flex your fingers for me?”
I do. He’s checking my circulation. Like a good Top.
“Good girl.”
The praise hits me right in my core, warmth spreading through my center. I don't want to like it, but I do.
He paces away, heading toward the wall of implements to the right of the cross. There, on display, is everything a Top might need. Skeins of red and black rope in different lengths and weights. Floggers in varying sizes. Paddles made of silicon or polished wood.
He makes his selection and returns to me. There’s a pause as long as seven of my heartbeats. Is he studying my back, cataloging the expanses of bare skin where he will make his mark?
He snaps the flogger to the right of me. The sound cracks, and I snap to attention like I’ve been hit. He knows what he’s doing. This is going to hurt.
“All right, little bird.” He has the smooth tones of a devil at a crossroads, offering me a deal. “Let us begin.”
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