The instant the blindfold falls, I’m gone. No longer me, no longer who you think I am. Tha

The instant the blindfold falls, I’m gone. No longer me, no longer who you think I am. That person is disappeared, leaving you in the room with… well.

You’re left alone with my fingertips, running down your collarbones, tracing those delicate indents before finding their way down towards your breasts, up the swell and… finger and thumb pinch your nipple. You gasp. 

You’re left alone with my voice, whispering in your ear, down your stomach, against your sex. Words that sound like nothing, but you’re not listening, because you’re just feeling. Every one spoken to your spine, your ears bypassed and ignored. 

You’re left alone with my breath, too, the constant companion to each little phrase, washing a legato along your skin, each hair waking and standing straight to pay attention. It’s a tease, really, a sensation that’s not quite a sensation. It makes you writhe. Squirm.

I enjoy the anonymity. For all of my posturing, all of my grand ego, sometimes it’s nice to be nothing but a few anthropomorphised sensations, nothing but fingers, lips, hands. Nothing but those things that make you gasp and moan, squirm, arch your back. The things that make you react, when you can do nothing else. 

It’s akin to exquisite. And it’s wonderfully simple.