The Ultimate Erotica Collection: 3 Books in 1 - Destined to Play, The Silver Chain, Run to You. Primula Bond
I don’t argue.
His hand slides down to the small of my back, gently pushing me forward until I am fully immersed, floating in the water. It feels amazing. For some reason, I have the sense that he is cleansing my body, preparing it for a greater purpose. Images flood my mind of the baptisms and christenings I have attended and the symbolism that embodies the ritual of purifying water. The silence surrounding us combined with the buoyancy of the liquid in which I’m floating, solidify these images in my brain. The water lapping at the edges is the only sound amplified. It is as if we have been placed in some form of magical aqua cocoon. Once again, I can’t help but wonder where we could possibly be.
It feels wonderful to be floating. I try to soak up the experience as I feel Jeremy floating serenely beside me in this strange pool. I envision him from above, a floating circular version of da Vinci’s Vitruvian man. Beautiful. The temperature of the water seems to be in perfect unison with the temperature of the room, creating a surreal womb-like effect. We alternate between different pools: a very hot one, which is shocking to enter and initially makes me feel light-headed, but feels sublime when my body adjusts to the heat, and a cold one, which invigorates and cleanses, making my heartbeat faster and pump blood rapidly through my veins, letting me know I’m well and truly alive. My circulation is pounding with the fluctuating temperatures and my skin greedily soaks up the minerals. I feel like I’m somehow restoring my vital balance. I’m quietly pleased we aren’t talking as the silence helps replenish my peace of mind and facilitates calm after the wild ride I have been on since meeting Jeremy for an ‘innocent’ drink.
It feels like an eternity ago. My intuition slyly suggests that that version of myself withered away when I accepted my blindness and I should acknowledge I am in the process of being ritualistically reborn. I don’t allow myself to dwell on it further.
On leaving the pools I am wrapped in a towel. What skin I have left is alive and sensitive, and this becomes even more apparent as I am laid face down on my belly. I am adjusted a little as is the towelled bench I am lying on. As strong hands begin to knead my shoulder blades and various parts of my back, I am thrilled to verify I’m on a massage table. Jeremy has certainly planned the last few hours to perfection — aside from the ‘missing in action’ orgasm.
The towel is whisked away from my body, as the strong scent of orange and honey penetrates my nostrils. I raise my head slightly from its position to confirm the sweet citrus odour. My head is eased back as my hair is scooped up from the nape of my neck and bunched up away from my body. A sticky substance is dolloped on the small of my back before the hands return and the massage begins in earnest. The gooey ointment smoothly discovers my extremities as the skilful hands ensure I’m thoroughly embalmed in the intoxicating yet sticky combination.
I allow my mind to wander, not wanting to focus on anything in particular. I know in myself that the more I consider my situation, the more stressed my body will become — not a good thing when strong hands such as these are dissolving tense muscle tissue upon contact. I try to focus on my breathing … it works for a while. My mind seeks to further unravel the need for Jeremy to have me blind and questionless this weekend. His logic makes partial sense, and I can’t deny that I have certainly experienced sensory overload. As for emotions, I don’t know whether I am coming or going … I should be relaxing and letting go, I love a good massage and this is glorious. This feels so good, I am becoming as soft and gooey as the ointment as it sinks into the pores of my skin. What is holding me back? I can’t help but sense there is still something more to all this that Jeremy isn’t telling me. It’s not normal to put relationships at risk like this for a bit of frivolous and, at times, terrifying fantasy, is it? Even if it is with Jeremy … even if I feel more sexually alive and sensual than I have in my entire life … Is our relationship about more than this weekend?
My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by reality as a number of arms lift me up, turn me over and place me back on the towelled bench. More orange and honey arrives on my belly as smaller hands work my stomach, chest and breasts. I jolt when they slide over my nipples and instantly attempt to normalise my breathing. It’s only a massage, I convince myself. The hands establish their rhythm with my breath and the kneading continues, as do my thoughts.
Jeremy was right. I have too many questions; they seem to be multiplying exponentially in my brain like a viral disease. My body relinquishes all pretence of flesh and bone as the insistent palms morph me into soft clay. What could I do now, anyway? Would I once again be prevented from leaving? I don’t even know where I am. My breath becomes shallow as I consider both the consequences of being here and the reality of trying to escape. Is that what I really want? Deep down I know I don’t want to leave, I’m just scared of exploring what he has planned for me, as I always am — at first. Damn him for doing this to me; for forcing me to reach for a conclusion that seems impossible. Am I honestly this weak? All the values I have clung to so desperately in life, those that have given me stability and meaning and worth. And I am throwing them out the window for one careless, fanciful weekend? Is that all it will be? Or is this truly valuable research?
My mind implodes with the weight of my moral dilemmas until only numbness remains. My body becomes limp, there is no resistance left. I am a mere jellyfish awaiting the next current to reveal my future path. Exhausted mentally and emotionally, and now physically pliable, just as he wants me to be, I’m sure, I allow the blackness to surround my mind and let the futile desperation in my thoughts dissipate.
Flashes of memories flitter within my dreamlike state. Happy memories: my babies, birthday parties, smiling faces, my son telling me he loves me eight hundred million, billion, zillion times more than the universe, and my daughter explaining why she will live with me forever and ever and that is why she must marry me and only me. The memories of my children flood through my subconscious one after the other. Simple times, uncomplicated times, but why does Robert appear somewhat forlorn, disengaged, in these visions of our family unit? I hadn’t noticed before. These pictures make up so much of who I am, minute by minute, day by day. Yet, why does it feel like there is still something missing? Why does his body language reflect that something is also missing for him?
My internal arguments and debates are spiralling out of control. Jeremy has talked before about the possibility of me exploring my secret, dark fantasy, the one that provided the basis for my thesis all those years ago, the one I have never truly acknowledged as my own, except very briefly to him. Am I brave enough? I could never go there with anyone but Jeremy, and he is handing this experience to me on a personal and professional platter. What if I say no when it is exactly what I have always longed to experience, just to know and understand once and for all? Is fantasy just fantasy and should it be left that way, or is there a need and desire to act on it, to experience it first-hand? My mind seems a little fuzzy, meandering, and no longer able to accommodate the complexity of my thoughts as I surrender to the masseur’s magic hands.
The sound of rolling wheels restores me to full consciousness and it is only then that I realise I am moving; lying down, but moving nonetheless. I struggle and attempt to raise my jellylike limbs off the table. They are so relaxed and heavy from the massage it’s almost impossible. I try again.
‘Please lie still, we won’t be long.’
‘What? Where are we going?’ My voice sounds raspy and the words can barely leave my mouth.
I realise I must have dozed off … for minutes? hours? Surely not? We come to a stop.
‘Madame. You are awake, may I help you?’ A female voice speaks to me.
‘Ah … yes, thank you.’ My natural politeness kicks in.
‘Can you tell me how long have I been asleep?’ Hands raise me gently to a sitting position. A robe, not the same one as before — this is more velvety and feels heavier — is placed over my shoulders. I notice it has no arms, or at least my arms are not threaded through any sleeves. It feels smooth against the silkiness of my skin, with no remnants of the massage oil’s stickiness.
No answer. Has everyone I encounter been told not to answer my questions?
‘Would madame like some tea?’
Oh,