Free Deep Desires by Charlotte Stein

me – which is when I realise. It’s not an invisible hand he’s got, hovering over him. It’s his own hand. It’s his own hand, holding him back.
    And when it slackens, just a little, oh, it’s like the sun coming out in the middle of winter. It’s the first time I’ve ever orgasmed to words that are barely sexy at all.
    ‘Tomorrow, I promise,’ he says, and in answer I come, and come, and come.

 
    He’s a liar, though. He’s a filthy liar, leading me on. I thought he meant that tomorrow would bring him, at my door. But instead there’s another gift, which I can’t quite bring myself to like. I can’t bring myself to like it until I open it, and after I have I feel bad for ever doubting him. How could I have thought he wouldn’t keep his promise? He’s done nothing but be absolutely and intensely honest with me about everything, from how hot he likes his baths to what brand of mayonnaise he likes on his sandwiches.
    And if there’s one big thing he’s kind of holding back, well, that’s OK. At least he gives me his word, and holds to that. He holds to it after half an hour of mystery and me wondering what on earth this thing is.
    It’s a box like before. This one is smooth, corner-less, white, though I get the impression he made this one too, somehow. He melted it and moulded it until he came up with something just as initially frustrating, and just as magical when I finally understand.
    It’s not as obvious as the toy he sent me, in one way, because with that I knew what he wanted me to do. I knew he wanted me to wear it and walk around as though nothing was happening, my arousal a secret only I could know. But although the function of
this
item is clear, the meaning is not.
    It’s just a blindfold. What does a blindfold have to do with his promise? He didn’t say,
Tomorrow, I’ll send you something to cover your eyes
. He said,
Tomorrow I’ll be with you
. I mean, that was what he meant, wasn’t it? I’ve spent all day in that wretched store, wriggling on the spot, in anticipation of what might be waiting for me.
    This just doesn’t seem right at all.
    And then I see the key. I see the note, in his curlicue handwriting, like Cyrillic script without the Russian.
    Let yourself in. Wear my gift. Wait for me
.
    I can only come to one conclusion. And the conclusion turns me into a giddy, trembling wreck. My heart tries to escape out of my chest, then settles down, then goes for the exit all over again. For five long minutes, I don’t know what to do with myself, and it doesn’t get any better when I reread the note and fully consider what it means.
    He wants me to go to his apartment. He wants me to go
inside
his apartment – maybe when he’s not there. After all, he’s left me a key. That implies he won’t be around when I let myself in to what has now become a mystical cave of wonders in my head.
    I’ll get to see the table, and the carpet that I vaguely remember as a kind of rough green pile. There’s a kitchen just off his bedroom-slash-living-room, and now I’ll get to do more than just kind of see it from afar on a crackling video tape. I’ll get to explore it, as though somehow it’s going to be way, way different to mine.
    Even though I know it won’t be. Everything’s the same in The Courtyard.
    It just doesn’t feel it when it’s him.
    That’s why I’m shaking, before I’ve even gotten to his door. I’ve got the gift clutched in my hand, half of me unsure of what the instructions were now. Did he say wear it first, and then go in? And, if he did, how on earth am I supposed to fit the key in the lock? I’ll still be stood here when he returns, hands fondling all over the goddamn door for the keyhole.
    Which decides it for me. I have to go in, and
then
wear this strip of red lace, despite how achingly intrusive that seems. It’s like breaking the seal on an airtight bag. I open the door and almost hear something hissing or shushing, and then the undisturbed air of his