Antoine Bargel - "Further Ado"

 

She was an old friend from high-school, whom I had not seen in about 15 years. She had known that I was in love with her, back then, but nothing had ever happened between us. We had gone to separate colleges, then, as young professionals, had reconnected on LinkedIn. Now, 30-something and both recently divorced, we had made a date for her to visit me in my country house, a few hours away from the city where we had grown up.

After dinner under the cherry tree – it was the end of summer and the nights were still warm – we had talked about our love lives and sexuality. During the conversation, I started noticing that she was attracted to me, now; probably eager, as I was, to feel sexually alive again after the loss of a long-time partner. The ever longer moments when she would sustain eye contact with a smile confirmed what I had hoped, which was that she, like I, had agreed to this private reunion with lustful ideas in mind. I remembered how, as a teenager, moments of eye contact such as these used to create in me a sensation of vertigo, even in the constrained environment of a classroom, during which I felt myself plunging through space toward her, so intensely that I forgot everything else, until she turned away. The years which had passed at least had made me, I now observed, a more stable person.

Yet they had also allowed me to experience my limitations as a sexual being. Not wanting to repeat the mistakes of my past, I decided to show some maturity and lay my cards on the table.

“You know, outside of the two people that I had those long term relationships with since high-school – when I was a virgin, as I'm sure you knew then or have figured out by now,” this eliciting a small smile from her, “I was never able to have a sexual relationship just for the pleasure of it. When I'm in serious love, I'm intense and liberated; but outside of that, when I flirted with people and we ended up naked, I was always too uncomfortable to go beyond basic preliminaries. I would either not be able to perform, or make a stupid move or comment that radically broke the mood: one way or another, it's never really worked out for me and I'm convinced by now that it is a part of who I am. Love is godly, love is pure, and I can do that. Simple human sexuality, though, seems out of my reach. So at this point, I would rather spare myself and others the embarrassment – regardless of how much desire I may feel while the encounter is only an imagined, anticipated possibility...

“But there is one way that I've been able, a couple of times, to feel sexually liberated without being in a relationship, and that was when some form of kinky ritual was observed.”

This time, she smiled widely.

“Yeah? Like what?” she interjected.

“Well, it's sort of cheapening to tell precise stories of this kind of things, but for instance –” I looked at her and marked a brief pause for maximal effect, “for instance, have you ever been tied up?”

“No!” she exclaimed with a burst of laughter. Then she stopped and thought about it. “No, but what does it do?”

“Well, what I have in mind is for one of the partners to be tied up to the feet of the bed, with knotted scarves for example, by one's wrists and ankles. Laying on one's back, able to wriggle but unable to move away or set oneself free, entirely at the mercy of the other partner who can caress and kiss and stroke at his or her complete discretion... What it does is mostly to the one who is tied up: you feel vulnerable. Although you trust the other, you have given up control of your body and, technically, your life. The other could do anything to you, and that triggers something instinctive, primal, in the form of disturbingly intense arousal.”

“When you describe it like that...” she said and left her sentence unfinished.

I drank a sip of wine, looking at her above my glass. She returned my stare without batting a lash, then reached for hew own glass.

“Would you like to try it?” I said – which made me feel psychologically naked and vulnerable already and, as such, excited, while also proud of my new strategy: talking to women, telling the truth about myself. How could I have guessed, as a teenage boy, that it was so simple? And yet impossible until I knew enough about myself.

She finished swallowing her wine and smiled again. She had beautiful teeth.

“I might...” she said. “But you get tied up first.”

While she was in the bathroom, I undressed and prepared a selection of scarves and silk ties for her to choose from, then lay on the bed. She came back, still dressed in her jean shorts and wide purple t-shirt, underneath which a black lace bra had imprinted a teasing tracery all evening long. She took off her black leather lace-up heels.

“You know how to make a good, solid knot?” I inquired boyishly.

“Yep. This girly's sailed before.” she said and knelt on the bed, picking a scarf and getting to work on my left wrist.

After I was all tied up, she stood and unhurriedly removed her t-shirt, jean shorts and, excruciatingly, bra. She had large, white breasts with dark pink circles around her pointy nipples. I was salivating. She walked to the foot of the bed and faced me, standing over my parted limbs. Staring at me all the while, she removed her black, triangular underwear, bending one knee and then the other, while my eyes darted frantically up and down. She had a fuzzy, dark bush that matched her black hair, which she presently untied and loosened unto her shoulders.

Then, casually, she touched my big toes with both hands, lingered a second, then slowly moved up to my shins with the tip of her fingers, progressively bending over the bed. As she continued higher, she brought her knees on the mattress in-between my strapped ankles, and her torso began hovering above me, her nipples teasing my upper thighs while her long, dark hair brushed my stomach and chest. I was madly erect already.

Her face came close to mine and I felt faint under the spell of her dark brown eyes. I tried to escape their grasp by looking at the beauty mark above the left corner of her mouth, the intricate design of her ears, the softest line around the edge of her cheekbones, but came back ever to be consumed by the two black suns with their matching halos of lashes.

“This is fun.” she whispered.

“Yeah...” I answered in a raspy voice.

She saw how excited I was and smiled, then broke off and sat on the bed next to me.

“So... What are we going to do with you...” she said musingly. Then she seemed to think of something, jumped up and added: “Wait just a second!”

She left the room and I heard her move around the house, opening and closing cupboards and drawers as she went.

When she returned, she had one hand behind her back and set something down by the bed, where I could not see.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

I heard a silky ruffle, then felt her tie something around my head, covering my eyes.

“Now, don't cheat.”

I could not see, could not move, could not feel her anywhere. I heard her step around the bed, then nothing. A long silence, in which I heard only the sound of my breathing heavily, and felt the warm tug of my erection, the rest of my cold skin exposed to the unknown.

Then I heard her move and felt, by my belly button, a light stroke, unnerving and slightly ticklish, like the tip of a feather. It made a few curves on my stomach, then ascended to my chest, brushing the hair and swirling sideways to my nipples, which hurt sharply when touched, stimulating all the more the blood flow that pumped frantically through my quivering cock. Then the stroke traversed my armpits, slowly probing the hairy, sweaty hallows then rising along my biceps, sending wave after wave of nervous shivers down my spine.

I was in a trance, twitching, moaning, pulsating with every muscle, every inch of sensitive skin. I felt her weight rocking the mattress, then, suddenly, at the center of my body, warmth enveloping me, beginning at the tip and descending progressively until reaching the root and, at the same time, her buttocks came to rest on my hips.

I think that I moaned for a long time, but she gave me no rest and began riding me, at first imperceptibly slow then accelerating, and I felt a now familiar stroke run on my neck and cheek, on my forehead and down my nose, on my lips, back down to my throat and into the small notch between my clavicles where it stopped for an instant, then went down my chest again, while she kept quickening the movement of her hips, the friction of her pubic bone on mine, the swallowing of my incandescent cock into her grand, volcanic vulva.

I heard a high-pitched, guttural cry, then suddenly she ripped off the scarf that covered my eyes. She was a Medusa leaning above me, her hair flowing darker than the night from all around her head, falling down, enveloping my face, enclosing us in a tunnel of musky, undulating animalness of which she was the mistress. Her dark eyes were bolted deep into mine, as deep as my cock inside her body. She saw that I was fascinated, smiled with all her shiny white teeth and slowly lifted her shoulders up, still grinding me at the hips, until she sat on me vertically and I glimpsed in her hand, where that ticklish, caressing stroke had last been, on the left side of my ribcage, a knife.

A long, silver kitchen knife.

While my mind struggled to understand, my body went burning all over with adrenalin. But before I could move or utter a sound, I saw her raise her arm beside her head, and stab with all her might toward my face.

I came, and came, and came, while the pillow next to my cheek exploded in a cloud of white feathers.

I came some more.

The rest of my body was petrified, tensed and arched back in the posture of the deadly stabbed man that I almost became, that I briefly thought I was. I exhaled the last of my breath, then felt a violent shiver all over as life started flowing through me again.

Slowly, I turned my head and looked at her, who had let go of the knife and brought her hands behind her head, stretching her magnificent chest forward. She was still making small, swiveling movements with her sex, inside which mine showed no sign of receding.

“You're crazy...” I muttered.

She lowered her eyes to meet mine and smiled, then rose up and brought her lips to my mouth, making me drink the warm confession of my own humanity.

 

Antoine Bargel is a writer and literary translator who works and publishes in France and in the United States. This is his second story in Viewfinder, make sure to check out "Third Date First" if you haven't already! More information on his past and upcoming work is available at www.antoinebargel.com

Also, please check out Mr. Bargel's previous story from Viewfinder. You can go to it from this link right here: "Third Date First"