h2>Dating : Blind(folded) Date
Because all I can see is the black silk wrapped around my eyes, I don’t know what you look like.
“Hi, Melody,” you say.
“Hi, Brent,” I say.
Because all I can see is the black silk wrapped around my eyes, I don’t know what you look like. You sound handsome with your deep, British-accented voice. But for all I know, your face can be covered with scales, and you can have a Joker-like smile.
When my friend told me that you wanted me to be blindfolded on our first date, I snorted. As if I was going to meet a male stranger while being deprived of one of my most essential senses.
Then I saw my ex’s Instagram post. In a week, he’s going to become the husband of the woman he dumped me for — my sister. I forgave my sister because I can forgive her for anything, but I still RSVPed “no” for the wedding. I haven’t forgiven my ex for his betrayal. Besides, I’m not one for emotional masochism.
In need of a distraction, I went to my friend and asked about you. After she assured me that you weren’t going to strangle me in your basement, I decided to meet you.
You bring something to my lips. I bite into something soft and juicy, sweet with a hint of tartness. A chocolate-covered strawberry. Some of the fruit’s juices run down my chin. A shiver of pleasure makes its way down my spine as you lick my chin clean.
“Do you like that?” you ask.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Next, you feed me something that’s a mix of sweet and bitter. A piece of dark chocolate cake. It’s moist and rich. I want another bite, but the next thing you bring to my mouth is a glass. I sip its contents — dry Chardonnay.
“Are you a vegetarian?” you ask.
I want to laugh and say, Oh, I love to eat meat. But the innuendo might lead you to think that I want your cock in my mouth and I don’t want that. Not yet anyway. So I simply shake my head no.
You lift a piece of cold meat to my lips. It’s red tuna sashimi. It tastes fresh, expensive, not like the stuff they serve in my company’s cafeteria.
For the next hour, you continue feeding me delicious things. We don’t ask each other questions. I feel like I should ask you, What do you do for a living? or How do you like Manhattan? or What kind of books do you like to read? You know, all the usual, boring questions that are supposed to help us get to know each other. But to be honest, I don’t care about the answers to those questions, and I don’t think you do either.
Once my stomach is content, you ask, “May I touch you?”
My ex never asked me for permission to touch me. He just kissed me or grabbed my breast or squeezed my ass, and if I didn’t push him away, that was good enough for him.
“Yes,” I say.
You unbutton my blouse, exposing my bare skin to your air conditioning. Tonight, I decided to wear my red lace bra. I wonder if you like it, if you think it’s sexy.
I catch my breath when you slide a finger under the lace and stroke my nipple. You massage it until it’s hard under your fingertip.
“May I go down on you?”
My pussy throbs between my legs. My ex gave me oral sex a few times, but he always did such a half-assed job of it. I have a feeling you won’t though, so I tell you, “Yes.”
You slide my skirt and panties down my legs. You place a hand between my thighs, opening me up. A moan leaves my throat when you rub your thumb over my clit. Soon, my wet heat coats your fingertips.
Then I feel your mouth on my clit. I groan, clutching my chair as you lick and taste my cunt. Then you start thrusting your tongue into my pussy, and my cries of delight begin filling your apartment. I push my hips toward you, willing you to fuck me deep with your tongue. You grab my waist, tasting every inch of me and bringing me ever closer to an orgasm.
I scream your name as I come into your mouth. I hear you drinking my juices like they’re fine chardonnay.
“May I see you tomorrow night?” you ask.
Though I can’t see you, I can hear, touch, feel you.
And that’s enough for me.
“Yes,” I say.