the shape of trust (triloquy #3)

Trust me,
you said.
Trust me,
I did.
I wore what you told me to wear
Trust me,
you said,
black lace basque with attached suspenders to black lace welt opaque holdup stockings and black lace Brazilian briefs. I wore what you told me and I stood facing the foot of the queen-sized bed and fixed my gaze on a painting, Klimt’s ‘Two Lovers’.
Trust me,
you’d said.
I closed my eyes.
‘Black’, ‘lace’, words exuding so much when spoken in whispers, sounding so much like they felt against the skin, my skin, soft, luxurious, seductive, expensive, also, revealing, more so when it’s all I wore, all you told me to wear. The door opened, I heard your footsteps on the carpet, or imagined I did sensing movement; you moving, a shift in the air, parting for you as you approached from behind, tiny perturbations brushing the bare parts of my skin before you even reached me; your breath, your voice, your words ephemeral, gone before I could piece them together, legs weak, still standing, just. Shiver, tremble, I try not to move;
trust me,
you said.
II opened my eyes, the couple in the painting watched back, daring me to join them. Breath, back of my neck, my shoulders, tops of my arms, hands laid so softly on my waist, I felt them through the basque, the lace, the black. Down to my hips, I feel them through the lace, the black. Barely touching but holding me firm, confident, locked into place, frozen in time. Tips of fingers move over my tummy, the stocking elastic, through the lace, the black, drawing parallel lines up to my breasts, circling over the lace, the black, knowingly.
Trust me,
you said,
Close your eyes,
you said.
Soft as silk a silken scarf covers my eyes, pulled around the back of my head and tied, once then twice, its folds erasing all sight except for faint light permeating the pink, all else indistinct. Blindfolded.
Trust me.
I’d made a choice, no going back, I’d made a choice. Tips of fingers once again slither all over my curves careful not to leave anywhere untouched; the lace, the black. Turned to face the face I can’t see, lowered onto the edge of the foot of the bed in my lace and black. He’s so close yet distant yet maybe not there at all. Footsteps on carpet retreat, I’m left with the ghost of his touch, door opens, door closes. Silence. Door opens, door closes again. Silence. Breathing.
Trust me.
The words so simple, so pure, so present.
Someone is kneeling in front of me where I sit on the edge of the foot of the bed. Breathing, controlled, deep, edgy, tense. A stranger, I can tell, I sense. Hands on my arms move up and down, down to my fingers: should I take them in mine? They’re elusive and leave mine wanting, grasping thin air. Fingers trace symbols around my neck, lifting my chin, into my cleavage, my skin comes alive, fingering curves over the lace, the black, so thin the material stretched, so tight, so perfect a fit.  A fragile squeeze of my breast, down my waist, kneading as though moulding me into a shape, down to my hips where I sit legs closed. The touch, the play, this silent script along the suspender elastic, testing, teasing, slipping beneath, under the tops of my stockings, over my stockings, the lace, the black.
Trust me,
he’d said.
Hands form entreating my legs, the front of my thighs, up and then down. A breathing, stronger, deeper, excited: mine or his? Blindfolded. Legs urged to part. I resist. He persists. I surrender. He insists. I shuddered, I took a deep breath to ready myself as though for a dive. Fingers, hands, exploring my thighs through the stockings, the lace, the black. Over my knees up in between, fingers, hands, track and trace the edge of my panties, wondering, wanting, without words he said all that was needed said. Wider now, vulnerable, I tried to see through his eyes as mine were hidden, masked in silk. A sense of lips close to mine, they touch, barely, almost a kiss, almost but not; an urge, a desire. Don’t shatter the spell. Don’t shatter the spell. Surreptitiously fingers slip into my sex through the lace, the black, my hips reply in sympathy, moving in time to his touch.
Trust me,
he’d said.
Unclipped, one suspender; unclipped, another; unclipped, the third; unclipped the last. One stocking rolled it down slowly, slowly, silkily from one leg coming away with practised ease. Now the other, rolled slowly, slowly until legs were bare, his hands stealthily up, up, open me further, inside and out, touching me there, my inner thigh, my arms braced to the bed behind, heat rushes to my sex, his hand rubbing, rubbing, the lace, the black, urged inwards, the other hand swam over my breast. Feeling his eyes burning right through while only the thinnest of light seeps through the blindfold.
Trust me,
he’d said.
I did.
I do!
I had too.
I cum to this stranger’s touch that continues to please, to tease, to summon me out of myself. I cum, biting my lip, squeezing my legs on a hand that fails to stop instead pulling me further onto its grip and into another; I cum. A heat intense, my lust relents slumping down to my elbows reflexively lifting my knees until they collapse. My strings have been cut. Footsteps on carpet, door opens, door closes. I stare at the ceiling, or at least where I know it to be on the other side of the blindfold, the pink, which still I didn’t remove; not yet, not yet. Silence, but for my breath, hand rests between my thighs, solace, soothing, savouring the aftermath. The lace, the black, I still feel his hand underneath mine making me, making me, making me.
I did.
I did.

© Emmaleela